Classic Poem

In marts of wealth, in gilded halls,
At power's exalted shrine,
With solemn voice, Jehovah calls,
" This wealth, this power, is mine "

Grateful, whate'er you need, enjoy,
Of all the bounteous store;
The rest, 't is God's command, employ
To bless His suffering poor.

Give freely, like the fruitful seed;
Give, like the sun and rain, —
Claiming no merit for the deed,
Nor asking aught again.

Those words of love, a rich reward
For every gift shall be, —
" Ye gave it unto Christ the Lord,
Ye gave it unto me. "