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.