A Sunday-poem by Amy Carmichael:


We cannot bring Thee praise like golden noon-light
  Shining on earth's green floor;
Our song is more like silver of the moon-light,
  But we adore.

We cannot bring Thee, O Belovèd, ever,
  Pure song of woodland bird;
And yet we know the song of Thy least lover
  In love is heard.

O blessèd be the love that nothing spurneth;
  We sing, Love doth enfold
Our little song in love; our silver turneth
  To fine spun-gold.

2 thoughts on ““Spun-gold”

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