Vessel

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.