Of sad confession! Lowly be my heart,
And on its penitential altar spread
The offerings worthless, till thy grace impart
The fire from heaven, whose touch alone can shed
Life, radiance, virtue!—let that vital spark
Pierce my whole being, wilder’d else and dark!
Thine are all holy things—oh, make me thine!
So shall I, too, be pure—a living shrine
Unto that Spirit which goes forth from thee,
Strong and divinely free,