'WHAT gift hast thou for Me,
The Crucified for thee?'
No worthy thing:
Nor song, nor praise, nor tears,
From all these many years,
Jesus, my King.

'In ways thy feet have sought,
In that thy hands have wrought,
Whatso for Me?'
Ah, in those dreary walks,
Behold the flowerless stalks,
The fruitless tree!

'Thy heart hath love, at least—
I crave thy love.' O Priest,
It were not meet From bitter wells to slake
Thy thirst. Touch thou, and make
Its waters sweet.

'Thy soul — that it may live!'
Is it then mine to give?
O Saviour, cease!
Like to a troubled sea,
My spirit is in me:
Lord, speak it peace.

"Unto thy Friend, thy King,
Hast then no offering,
No gift to give?'
For all Thy love, Thy care,
Only one little prayer:
Saviour, forgive!