Classic Poem

Thine, Lord, are the blossoms of forest and field,
And the loveliest gems which the gardens yield,
The heath of the uplands, the ferns of the glen,
And the flowers that gladden the dwellings of men.

Thy wisdom and love hid the seed in the earth,
And watch'd o'er its growth from its secret birth,
Once mantled with snows from the wintry blast,
Till the call of the springtide was heard at last.

Thine, Lord, were the dews and the showers of heaven,
So eagerly long'd for, so lovingly given;
The breath of the morning, the sunshine of noon,
The sweetness of May, and the glory of June.

Thou dwellest in beauty no tongue can express,
The beauty and glory of Holiness;
But the flowers are glimpses of Thee and Thine,
And in them bright gleams of Thy goodness shine.

We meet in Thy temple to worship and pray;
But we think of Thy suffering children to-day;
Grant, Lord, that these gifts of Thy bounty may shed
The glow of Thy smiles on their weary bed.

We offer Thee, Lord, in these fruits and flowers
No fabric of man's, no fashion of ours;
But Thy need in Thy needy ones here we see,
And now of Thine own have we given Thee.