The Carriers of the Glory
From the desperate, crying out of the Upper Room, where the mighty rushing winds were blown,
To humble altars built of prayer before the burning throne,
A lineage of Glory carriers walked, with holy eyes ablaze,
Refusing every shadow of the world’s lukewarm embrace.
Young Evan Roberts cried aloud to bend the stubborn heart,
While William Seymour laid his head upon the crates to watch the glory start.
In Azusa’s humble, weathered room, the barriers fell away,
As heaven opened over earth to turn the night into day.
Old Smith Wigglesworth stood unashamed, with words of iron trust,
Demanding death and sickness bow and crumble into dust.
While George Müller prayed in secret rooms, with empty shelves and plates,
And saw the hand of Providence unlock the heavy gates.
From Oral Roberts in his canvas tent, with a mic in his hand,
To Charles Spurgeon in the basement boiler room, interceding for the land,
They carried one prevailing cry, one fierce and single flame:
To host the weight of Kabod and exalt the Savior’s name.
Where Steve Hill wept for broken men, and called them to repent,
John Kilpatrick held the altar floor as holy fires were sent—
While Lindell lifted up the sound that bowed the heavy room,
And sang until the glory broke and scattered every gloom.
They showed the world a shepherd’s heart and an evangelist’s plea,
To set the lost and bound ones free for all eternity.
Not by the force of human might, nor plans of clever men,
But by the Holy Spirit’s sudden rush that strikes the earth again.
They set their faces like a flint, determined to abide,
Until the glory filled the house and swept away the pride.
So let the Upper Room resound across the global plain,
Till every heart becomes a temple where holy fires reign.
From distant lands to every shore, where’er His wind is blown,
He’s searching for a faithful house to make His glory known.
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