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By Wilfrid Scawen Blunt

How shall I build my temple to the Lord,

Unworthy I, who am thus foul of heart?

How shall I worship who no traitor word

Know but of love to play a suppliant’s part?

How shall I pray, whose soul is as a mart,

For thoughts unclean, whose tongue is as a sword

Even for those it loves, to wound and smart?

Behold how little I can help Thee, Lord.

The Temple I would build should be all white,

Each stone the record of a blameless day;

The souls that entered there should walk in light,

Clothed in high chastity and wisely gay.

Lord, here is darkness. Yet this heart unwise,

Bruised in Thy service, take in sacrifice.