THOU standest within thy tabernacle, crowned,
Rapt from the world's vain pleasures and turmoil,
While, filled with blessing, and sweet hourly toil,
In lasting service thy meek hands are bound;
Nor on thy hands alone love's chains are wound,—
They bind thy soul, whose airier flight they foil,
And bring thee home again with fond recoil,
When thou too far wouldest leave familiar ground.

But thou who givest the nectar of thy veins
In self-surrender, what were costliest toys
Of man's creation, to the heaven-sent gains,
Which, holding spirit and flesh in equipoise,
Keep thee suspended in thy flower-soft chains,
And yield to thee alone the joy of joys!