Better than I thou Lord dost know The heart beneath this crust of earth, The trammels of the fleshly birth, The clay which crowds and binds us so. This strong-weak body from my soul Importunate its will demands; And scarce the service of my hands Can its infirmities control. Thou knowest all the wingéd thought Which panting, bound, would fly to Thee. Accept the worship that would be, And which in wishing, still is wrought. |