Love's Longing
Lo! I would give my utter self to thee:—
As God was not content to give the rose
The every tint wherewith its bright heart glows,
Nor to bestow its whiteness on the sea,
Nor robe of summer verdure on the tree,
Nor on the mountain-steep its awful snows,
Nor on the night its fathomless repose
Wherethrough the stars' wings sweep eternally;—
As God was not content to give to these
Sweet gifts and many—to the flower its bloom,—
Its tender moss-wreath to the granite tomb,—
Its voice of silver to the singing breeze—
But must do more; must the world's ransom be,
Hanging upon the Cross of Calvary.
As God was not content to give the rose
The every tint wherewith its bright heart glows,
Nor to bestow its whiteness on the sea,
Nor robe of summer verdure on the tree,
Nor on the mountain-steep its awful snows,
Nor on the night its fathomless repose
Wherethrough the stars' wings sweep eternally;—
As God was not content to give to these
Sweet gifts and many—to the flower its bloom,—
Its tender moss-wreath to the granite tomb,—
Its voice of silver to the singing breeze—
But must do more; must the world's ransom be,
Hanging upon the Cross of Calvary.
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