My Joy, my Life, my Crown!
My heart was meaning all the day,
Somewhat it fain would say;
And still it runneth, muttering up and down.
With only this. My Joy, my Life, my Crown!

Yet slight not these few words;
If truly said, they may take part
Among the best in art.
The fineness, which a hymn or psalm affords,
Is, when the soul unto the lines accords.

He, who craves all the mind.
And all the soul, and strength, and time,
If the words only rhyme,
Justly complains that somewhat is behind
To make his verse, or write a hymn in kind.

Whereas, if the heart be moved,
Although the verse be somewhat scant,
God doth supply the want.
As when the heart says, sighing to be approved,
“Oh, could I love!” and stops: God writeth, Loved.