On Recovering From Sickness Poem by Caroline Oliphant

I thought to join the heavenly choir,
To strike a harp of light;
While this forgotten, tuneless lyre
Rested 'mid shades of night.

I thought to dwell in heav'nly bowers,
Where angels have their seat,
And wreathe immortal amaranth flowers,
To cast at Jesus' feet.

Alas! this jarring, broken lute
Alone remains to me!
In vain I sweep its chords so mute;
They wake no melody.

No fragrant crown from Eden's bow'rs
Is giv'n into my hand;
Only a wreath of with'ring flowers,
Cull'd in this desert land.

With pity, Lord, my off'ring view,
Although for thee unmeet;
'Tis all enthroned saints can do,
To lay it at Thy feet.

From silence my mute lyre release,
And tune its chords to love;
Breathe o'er its numbers, breathe Thy
peace
,-
Echo of
joy
above.