Janet Mary Zylstra
The Gift - Poem by Janet Mary Zylstra
I thought to bring gold to my Maker
So I piled it up in my hands,
But I slipped on my way to the altar
And the gold fell and mixed with the sand.
I thought to bring gifts to my Master,
So I loaded them into a sack,
But the weight that I bore on my shoulder
Eventually crippled my back.
So I crept to the feet of my Saviour
Bringing only myself and my shame,
Yet He raised me with love and with gladness
And gave me Himself and His Name.
Comments about The Gift by Janet Mary Zylstra
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Read poems about / on: love
Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
Mary Elizabeth Frye
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You