The saints are quick to give their hearts away
At every gentle prodding from above,
And bear the scars that visit mortal clay
That dares to venture near God’s burning love.
So grateful for the price that has been paid
To change mankind’s infernal destiny,
They joyously accept the holy trade
Of earth’s delights for treasures heavenly.
But what of us, O Lord? But what of us,
Who have our hearts on passing pleasures set;
Whose independent, lonely calculus
Includes scant reckoning of any debt?
O Lord, make saints of less than saintly stuff,
And make us find your love and grace enough.