For radiant health I praise not when I pray,
Nor for routine of toil well-pleasing every way,
Though these gifts, Lord, more priceless grow each day.
Not for congenial comrades, garnered store
Of worldly wealth, nor vision that sees o'er
Such sordid mass, mind's plumed eagles soar.
Not even, Lord, for love that eases stress
Of storm, contention, hope's unconquerableness,
Nor faith's abiding peace, nor works that bless.
But this, dear Lord, stir inner depths divine,
That day by day, though slowly! line on line
My will begins--begins--to merge in thine.
--Charles L. Story.