I do not understand the living water.
I cannot comprehend what lot I play.
I struggle, stagnant, sorry day by day,
And meekly pray my life might please my Father.
I know my soul’s seen ransom: I’m his daughter.
Yet my influence is but molded clay.
His light must sparkle, dance inside each day,
Instead it stales; and dies; this living water.
Live not upright, instead I must pour out!
The living water thrives when it is spilled.
His life, his light I’m giv’n to write about –
I write: my tarnish is restored to gild.
In silence naught but usefulness goes out.
In pouring – suddenly room to be filled.
