Hope is the thing with feathers That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words, And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard; And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land, And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity, It asked a crumb of me.
And so ....my children brought me hope and answered the question, "with what shall I come before the Lord?" The prophet asks, "shall I come with burnt offerings.....Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams, with ten thousands rivers of oil?"