Thou dost prefer the song that rises pure
On lips, that speak the words the contrite feel;
To all the hands, without the heart, procure,
And on thine altar lay with soulless zeal;
Thou dost not look to see the uplifted hands,
Not hear'st our cry, save when we do thy will;
But, when we keep, within, thy just commands,
Our praises shall thy courts with incense fill.
Ever it rises from the obedient heart,
Hangs clustering from the lips in accents sweet;
From which, who taste, unwillingly depart,
Where thorny words with show of verdure cheat;
But sit beneath the vine, and bless its shade,
And Him, who, for their wants, such rich provision made.