O God, make me to know that I am dust,
For oft a gust
Of praise from men Thou’st sent to me
To stir me up in praise of Thee,
And yet upon this wind I’d put my trust.
On flatt’ring breath I’d fly to lofty height—
The realms of light.
Delusion! Why can’t I recall:
The chaff will fly, the wheat will fall.
So let me be the grain and fall aright.
Lord, bring me back to ground and grant to me
And there I’ll find the Seed who died,
True Height in lowness glorified,
By whose Ascension I’ll ascend to Thee.