Now gracious plenty rules the board,
And in the purse is gold;
By multitudes in glad accord
Thy giving is extolled.
Ah, suffer me to thank Thee, Lord,
For what thou dost withhold!
I thank Thee that howe'er we climb
There yet is something higher;
That though through all our reach of time
We to the stars aspire,
Still, still beyond us burns sublime
The pure sidereal fire!
I thank Thee for the unexplained,
The hope that lies before,
The victory that is not gained,—
O Father, more and more
I thank Thee for the unattained,
The good we hunger for!
I thank Thee for the voice that sings
To inner depths of being;
For all the spread and sweep of wings,
From earthly bondage freeing;
For mystery—the dream of things
Beyond our power of seeing!