Lord, here I hold within my trembling hand,
This will of mine—a thing which seemeth small;
And only Thou, O Christ, canst understand
How, when I yield Thee this, I yield mine all.
It hath been wet with tears, and stained with sighs,
Clenched in my grasp till beauty hath it none;
Now, from Thy footstool where it prostrate lies
The prayer ascendeth, Let Thy will be done.
- from The Hidden Life of Prayer