Once fearful I buried my small coin
and quenched the song within my heart,
but songs unsung are a bitter weight,
and gifts change to dust when left apart.
Once too bold I shouted my own tune,
for coins will spend for good or ill,
until I saw how tarnished they grew --
those few worthless coins outside His will.
Fearful still, I've opened wide this purse
for the coins you give us must be spent.
I cast them upon the wind and pray
you will bless with grace my poor intent.