THE EMPTY BOWL

I held the golden vessel of my soul

And prayed that God would fill it from on high.

Day after day the importuning cry

Grew stronger — grew, a heaven-accusing dole

Because no sacred waters laved my bowl.

‘ So full the fountain, Lord, wouldst Thou deny

The little needed for a soul's supply?

I ask but this small portion of Thy whole.’

Then from the vast invisible Somewhere,

A voice, as one love-authorised by Him,

Spake, and the tumult of my heart was stilled.

‘ Who wants the waters must the bowl prepare;

Pour out the self, that chokes it to the brim,

But emptied vessels, from the source are filled.’