Reflections beneath the Limber Pine

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    Soft as silence is the rustling
    Of the ancient pine at morn;
    And I know it was of sapling size
    The day that Christ was born.
    Far below are waters still
    And pastures spreading green,
    Consumed by joy my soul’s restored
    By God’s own pastoral scene.
    My brimming cup is running o’er,
    An angel portion mine;
    And yet it haunteth me to lose
    The overflow divine.
    O greedy heart and miser’s mind,
    A bigger cup you crave
    That you may have and hold and hoard
    And lose it at the grave.
    Then like the dawn above the tree,
    The joyful answer there—
    I must not hoard the overflow
    But with my brother share.
    Not bigger cups but bigger hearts;
    O may I strive to be
    More like the Babe the Father gave
    When sapling size this tree.