Nay, not gold
At His Crib I hold;
Base metal is mine heart, and bare my hand.
I may not canopy His Altars high
With warm blue wreaths. How cold and ashen-dry
These prayers that I had planned!
Myrrh at His Cross’ foot I lay -
All my dull worth of patience harshly strong
To plod by day or night my short life long
(Grim on God’s errands gay)
His own parched footsore way!
A.S. Cripps, 1869-1952
Fr Lee Kenyon