I thought to bring gold to my Maker <br />So I piled it up in my hands, <br />But I slipped on my way to the altar <br />And the gold fell and mixed with the sand. <br /> <br />I thought to bring gifts to my Master, <br />So I loaded them into a sack, <br />But the weight that I bore on my shoulder <br />Eventually crippled my back. <br /> <br />So I crept to the feet of my Saviour <br />Bringing only myself and my shame, <br />Yet He raised me with love and with gladness <br />And gave me Himself and His Name.<br /><br />Janet Mary Zylstra<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gift-22/
