It is not the lad's own fishes, Nor the lad's own barley cakes That the loving Saviour blesses And with vast enrichment breaks. Likely 'twas his mother gave them From her poor, precarious hoard, And he only chanced to save them And to give them to the Lord. Mine or thine, -- who cares who buys it? Out of books or out of head? -- If the Saviour magnifies it, And the multitude are fed! |