I thought to bring gold to my Maker
by Janet Mary Zylstra
So I piled it up in my hands,
But I slipped on my way to the altar
And the gold fell and mixed with the sand.
I thought to bring gifts to my Master,
So I loaded them into a sack,
But the weight that I bore on my shoulder
Eventually crippled my back.
So I crept to the feet of my Saviour
Bringing only myself and my shame,
Yet He raised me with love and with gladness
And gave me Himself and His Name.