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, makes damp 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 endeavour, Coldness and doubt and palsied lack: Such as I have I send thee!—perfect Giver, Send thou thy lightning back.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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