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.
Janet Mary Zylstra
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gift-22/
