Thy love should fill our hearts, like dew
That fills the flowers by night;
Who, in that gentle rain renew
The waste of morning's light.
Thus doth life's hurry and its glare
Dry up within our heart
The holier thoughts that are thy share,
The spirit's better part.
And yet we turn not to thy love,
We seek not to recall
The hopes that lift our souls above
Their low and earthly thrall.
On pleasures or on wealth intent,
Careless we hurry on,
And vainly precious hours are spent
Before we think them gone.
Their joy and sorrow, sin and strife,
Close round us like a bond,
Which so enslaves to present life,
We never look beyond.
O Lord, if every thought were thine,
How little would they be
Acceptable before thy shrine,
Unworthy heaven and thee.
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8
CHRIST CROWNED WITH THORNS.
