Gratitude

So runncth o'cr my cup, Tliat if I think thereon my heart will brcak, My cycs are full oi" tears, I cannot speak, II ut unto Thee look up. My cup hath long run o'er W'itli hlessings crowned, man y and multiplíed, And daily f rom the font of love supplied, On thankless me they pour. And these thus numberless Only that I mtLht on Thy bosom rest And in Thee be resigned to be biest, Solc I'ount of Blessedness.