Thou hast made me endless, such is thy pleasure. This frail vessel thou emptiest again and again, and fillest it ever with fresh life.<br><br>This little flute of a reed thou hast carried over hills and dales, and hast breathed through it melodies eternally new.<br><br>At the immortal touch of thy hands my little heart loses its limits in joy and gives birth to utterance ineffable.<br><br>Thy infinite gifts come to me only on these very small hands of mine. Ages pass, and still thou pourest, and still there is room to fill.<br><br>When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.<br><br>All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony–and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.<br><br>I know thou takest pleasure in my singing. I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.
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