Fine flour in my open hands, a quiet offering laid,
soft as the work of morning fields, crushed where the threshers played.
Oil poured like a blessing, slow and bright as dawn,
frankincense rising, a fragrant prayer drawn on.

A handful lifted, a portion given, smoke that remembers name,
salt of covenant scattered, faithfulness without shame.
From first harvest’s roasted heads to bread unspoiled and plain,
we bring the humble gifts of labor, asking God to bless their grain.

Not for show, nor for the altar’s praise alone,
but for the heart that yields its best, and makes the offering known.
May what we give be seasoned, steady, true, an honest, holy art;
a simple, fragrant token of the worship of the heart.