If I were a pen
And my will the ink
By which the nib was painted
And the letters linked,
I'd  tell my heart, "Be willing
To yield the gentle spilling
Of all your hopeful filling 
On needy scrolls distilling
By giving this lone stem
Of wood carved to a pen
Into the Hand that men
Call God's will guiding them."

If I were a pot
And my will the tea
Of which the spout was emptied
And the body gleaned,
I'd tell myself, "Be poured out
Down through this gentle pour-spout
And never dashing without 
The teacup lip—ah, don't doubt!
Your lovely liquid drink
Will be of sweetness... think:
A tender sip the brink
And taste the final link."

If I were a creek
And my will the rocks
Where freezing cascades shudder
And icy water shocks,
I'd let myself be moulded,
My rights and reasons scolded
Until my frame was folded
And all my faith emboldened 
Beneath those frigid waves
Where falls crash into caves,
And polish dreams and graves,
And gems of beauty saves. 

                                             If I were a pen...

Photo Credit: Al Free Photo