VAIN we number every duty, Number all our prayers and tears, Still the spirit lacketh beauty, Still it droops with many fears. Soul of Love, O boundless Giver, Who didst all thyself impart, And thy blood, a flowing river, Told how large the loving heart; Now we see how poor the offering We have on thine altar cast, And we bless thee for the suffering Which hath taught us love at last. We may feel an inward gladness For the truth and goodness won, But far deeper is the sadness For the good we leave undone. |