Morning glory, starlit sky,
Leaves in springtime, swallows’ flight,
Autumn gales, tremendous seas,
Sounds and scents of summer night;
Soaring music, towering words,
Art’s perfection, scholar’s truth,
Joy supreme of human love,
Memory’s treasure, grace of youth;
Open, Lord, are these Thy gifts,
Gifts of love to mind and sense;
Hidden is love’s agony,
Love’s endeavour, Love’s expense.
Loves that gives gives ever more,
Gives with zeal, with eager hands,
Spares not, keeps not, all outpours,
Ventures all, its all expends.
Drained is love in making full;
Bound in setting others free;
Poor in making many rich;
Weak in giving power to be.
Therefore He who Thee reveals
Hangs, O Father, on that tree
Helpless; and the nails and thorns
Tell of what Thy love must be.
Thou art God; no monarch Thou
Throned in easy state to reign;
Thou art God, Whose arms of love
Aching, spent, the world sustain.
W.H. Vanstone
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