Oh, would that I, my own name rejecting,
Be called upon to serve You ever more.
Such toil, indeed, is beyond my reck’ning;
The most arduous tasks, they be not chores,
For the sweat of labour, it does turn sweet.
I, Thy bidding, do only all my days,
And though my muscles ache, I am not weak;
Thou dost grant me life by Thy merest gaze.
Dwelling at Your side, waiting at Your feet,
Would fill my measure, making life complete.
(Don’t bother looking here for Sonnet I. I wrote it, lost it, and have only been able to recall the first line. So, I’m reserving a spot should I ever find or remember it.)
