A Sunday-poem . . .
A Sunday-poem by Amy Carmichael:
Spun-gold 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.