Lord, I have laid my heart upon thy altar,
But cannot get the wood to burn:
It hardly flares ere it begins to falter,
And to the dark return.
Old sap, or night-fallen dew, has damped the fuel;
In vain my breath would flame provoke;
Yet see--at every poor attempt's renewal,
To thee ascends the smoke.
'Tis all I have--smoke, failure, foiled endeavor
Coldness and doubt and palsied lack:
Such as I have I send thee. Perfect Giver
Send thou thy lightning back.