The labors of my weary hands, the longings of my heart, the needs of day and night's demands: I bring all this, O God. The harvest of the months and years, the cycles of the weeks, the bitter fruit and honeyed tears: I lay them at your feet. I pray you, bless what I have giv'n, though it is not enough, and all that's missing here forgive, in mercy and in love. For all my littleness, O Lord, you took to be your own and wrote the letters of your Word in flesh and blood and bone. Then take the little I have brought with grace no offer buys; your greatness shall become my lot and portion beyond price. That all the harvest of myself, though but a grain of wheat, sits on the table you have spread, part of your endless feast.
Wheat growing in a field. By User:Bluemoose – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=333105
Kate Bluett 