Would it not be a foolish thing
To die of thirst, with this clear spring
Of living water at my feet?
To starve when there is bread and meat
And drink before me on the board,
A table spread by my dear Lord?
And would we think he had much sense
Who hoarded only copper pence,
When at his feet and all around
Were diamonds sparkling on the ground?
The Lord I love went on ahead
To make a home for me. He said
He would come back again, and He,
Oh, gracious love, He wrote to me!
He knew I was so weak and blind
And foolish that I could not find
The road alone. He told me things
That all earth’s wise men and its kings
Have never guessed. Yet I foreknow,
If I but read His Word. And, oh,
Such depths of love on every sheet!
My soul is trembling at His feet.
What would He think of me
If when I saw Him I should say,
I was too busy every day
To read what Thou didst write to me;
I really hadn’t time for Thee?
– Martha Snell Nicholson