Of some fine mind that naught but gold attracts;
Some may not count these iron-filings waste;
Like magnets, to which gold will not adhere,
May they find ore in this to bless and cheer.
In this plain pitcher, Lord, Thy blessing pour,
That from it men their raging thirst may slake,
And when exhausted is the scanty store,
Then let the earthen vessel quickly break;
Its end is gained if Thou art glorified,
And men have learned to love the Christ who died.