The Thank-Offering

    My Lily snatches not my gift;
        Glad is she to be fed,
    But to her mouth she will not lift
        The piece of broken bread,
    Till on my lips, unerring, swift,
        The morsel she has laid.

    This is her grace before her food,
        This her libation poured;
    Even thus his offering, Aaron good
        Heaved up to thank the Lord,
    When for the people all he stood,
        And with a cake adored.

    So, Father, every gift of thine
        I offer at thy knee;
    Else take I not the love divine
        With which it comes to me;
    Not else the offered grace is mine
        Of sharing life with thee.

    Yea, all my being I would bring,
        Yielding it utterly,
    Not yet a full-possessed thing
        Till heaved again to thee:
    Away, my self! away, and cling
        To him that makes thee be!