The Christian Year. John Keble

though in poor and humble guise

       Thou here didst sojourn, cottage-born?

       Yet from Thy glory in the skies

       Our earthly gold Thou dost not scorn.

       For Love delights to bring her best,

       And where Love is, that offering evermore is blest.

      Love on the Saviour’s dying head

       Her spikenard drops unblamed may pour,

       May mount His cross, and wrap Him dead

       In spices from the golden shore;

       Risen, may embalm His sacred name

       With all a Painter’s art, and all a Minstrel’s flame.

      Worthless and lost our offerings seem,

       Drops in the ocean of His praise;

       But Mercy with her genial beam

       Is ripening them to pearly blaze,

       To sparkle in His crown above,

       Who welcomes here a child’s as there an angel’s love.