Classic Poem

My songs were surely fated
To come as comes a star,
That flares predestinated
Across the dim Afar.
As God the star created,
My songs His making are.

Harp am I for His playing —
His touch a great reward! —
His loving fingers straying,
Strike from me chord on chord,
In harmony betraying
Some Beauty of the Lord.

Not mine the music's merit,
Not mine or praise or blame,
Save as the sons inherit
A father's noble name,
For from a Greater Spirit
My song like echo came.