LVIII
Much has been trusted to Thy hands;
My heart in them I planted,
And God placed sweet songs in that heart
To have men’s bliss augmented.
A strange plant is the human heart—
Not easily to nourish;
For, it is up to love alone,
If it shall die or flourish.
A strange plant is the human heart—
It needs the climate's favor
And dew and rain and best of care
To yield fruit of good flavor.
So should my heart from Thy hands sprout
In honor of the nation,
Long ages that are yet to come
Shall sing Thine adoration.