Still go sinning, blundering, on;
Thankless with its waste of grace,
Wearied with the little done.
Then I murmur’d: “O my King!
What are all my acts of will?
Each best effort can but bring
Failure and confusion still!
“This poor heart, which ought to burn,
Smoulders feebly; yet may dare
Offer Thine one last return—