Reflections beneath the Limber Pine

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.