Classic Poem

O Master of the fount of symphonies,
Who drinkest in the music of the skies,
Enshrined in song alway,
My spirit's harp is tuneless and unstrung,
And broken words cling to my faltering tongue:
Hear me and help, I pray.

Lay Thou Thy hand of gentlest love Divine
Upon these jarr'd and loosen'd chords of mine.
And tune them to Thy will.
As likes Thee, deal with this poor instrument;
Thine is the counsel, mine but the consent;
I would be only still.

Thou wilt not pain this frail heart overmuch;
I know Thy thoughtful tenderness of touch,
Thy power to read me through:
I only ask Thee, dearest Lord, when once
The quivering strings are true in their response,
To keep them ever true.

Then let my life from morn to evensong
On earth the melodies of heaven prolong,
In trouble or in calm:
I ask no more, if Thy most gracious Ear
Discern in accents tremulous or clear
One low melodious psalm.