I see how quickly the essence is lost,
bereaved of hallowed love, by love of one
whose treasure trinkets ply at selfish cost,
and never give return, where lies are spun.

If such in name would vow and think to rise,
to profess love before her altar’s shrine,
still would it be the ego in hard disguise,
in pretty dress, but smelling like the swine.

For who may rise to love a higher light
than heart that honors the giving in man;
above those pleasures of luxurious delight
that may turn love into a selfish span.

No thing is great, but that it greatly gives
and giving is the house where godliness lives.