My hands, my heart contain no offering;
Thy name I would not bless
With lips untouched by altar-fire; I bring
Only my weariness.
These are the children, frequent in Thy home;
Grant, Lord, to each his share;
Then turn, and merely gaze on me, who come
To lay my spirit bare.
II
Yet one more step—no flight
The weary soul can bear—
Into a whiter light,
Into a hush more rare.
Take me, I am all Thine,
Thine now, not seeking Thee,—
Hid in the secret shrine,
Lost in the shoreless sea.
Grant to the prostrate soul
Prostration new and sweet,
Make weak the weak, control
Thy creature at Thy feet.
Passive I lie: shine down,
Pierce through the will with straight
Swift beams, one after one,
Divide, disintegrate,
Free me from self,—resume
My place, and be Thou there;
Yet also keep me. Come
Thou Saviour and Thou Slayer!
III
Nothing remains to say to Thee, O Lord,
I am confessed,
All my lips’ empty crying Thou hast heard,
My unrest, my rest.
Why wait I any longer? Thou dost stay,
And therefore, Lord, I would not go away.