You don’t remember all the things I’ve done;
You never catch the careful words I choose;
Your present will not admit my patient efforts —
It’s a labour of love I offer to you.
Unselfishness — does that hold the space between us?
A helplessness, a nothing-left-to-prove?
A silent more eloquent than any passion?
…It’s a labour of love I offer to you…
…It’s a gift of love.
Take this hand and you will hold its stories;
Beat, the heart, and find the tell-tale true;
Take this gift: receipt will give it value —
It’s a labour of love I offer to you,
It’s a gift of love.