by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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-authorized 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."
Last updated January 14, 2019