A poem by Joseph Horatio Chant

O Thou, who art the source of joy and light,
The great Revealer of the will Divine;
Thyself Divine, all nature owns Thy might,
And bows in homage at a beck of Thine,
Afford me light to guide my unskilled hand,
And by Thy Spirit all my thoughts command.

To Thy great name I dedicate my powers,
Yielding to Thee what Thou with blood hast bought,
Resolved that Thou shalt have my days and hours,
And for Thy sake shall every work be wrought;
O deign to use me, if it be Thy will,
And my poor heart with love and gladness fill.

If this strange impulse which I feel within
To write this book proceeds, O Lord, from Thee,
Let it not die, nor be defiled by sin,
But let the work from self and sin be free,
And prove a guide to home and bliss above,
And help to fill this warring world with love.

The Master's touch I know it sadly lacks,
And may not please the nice artistic taste
Of some fine mind that naught but gold attracts;
Some may not count these iron-filings waste;
Like magnets, to which gold will not adhere,
May they find ore in this to bless and cheer.

In this plain pitcher, Lord, Thy blessing pour,
That from it men their raging thirst may slake,
And when exhausted is the scanty store,
Then let the earthen vessel quickly break;
Its end is gained if Thou art glorified,
And men have learned to love the Christ who died.

As flowers drink in the solar rays and dew,
And in return give bloom and odors sweet,
So would I to Thy Spirit's touch prove true,
And render that return which seemeth meet;
Come, dews of grace! Great Sun, illume my heart!
That I to some sad soul may joy impart.

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