’Twill but be like the tinkling brass, the cymbal’s hollow sound.
And though all knowledge we possessed, all mysteries could prove,
Had faith to bid the rugged mount to yonder sea remove,
If charity dwell not within, the all-inspiring power,
We are but cyphers in the scale, the beings of an hour.
And though our goods we freely give to meet the sufferer’s need,
And yield our bodies to the stake, the fiery flame to feed;
If charity prompt not these acts, so fair to human sight,
It profits nothing in His eyes who reads the heart aright.
For charity is but the name for every heavenly grace;