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  They waft the golden store,
The fragrant spice, the diamond's flashing ray,
The midnight glare that mocks the light of day.

  List to the breathing voice,
Thou in whose path wealth's glittering gifts are spread!
Rest the worn frame, and raise the drooping head;
  The sorrowing soul rejoice:
Wealth the uncounted, endless, shall be thine,
And peace fold o'er thy heart its wing divine.

  And thou, whose gift may be
As one lone drop upon the desert plain,
Thou shalt not find the humble offering vain:
  A blessing waits for thee.
Was not the widow's mite received by Him
Within whose sight earth's heartless glare grows dim?

  Then with your gifts of love,
Come, at the shrine of mercy to appear;
Come, and the weary, sorrowing spirit cheer;
  And to the shrine above
The gracious deed as incense shall be given,
And be your passport at the gate of heaven.