Trust in Him

Saturday, June 5, 2010

A Cup Almost Full (Poem)


No greater mystery is there to solve,
Than a cup all but full.
An emptiness not quite dry,
A satisfaction incomplete.

Who runs to a stream and takes a sip,
Ceasing before the throat is wet?
What kind of root lives in moist earth,
And withers dry and coarse?

As a bird on the wing views no horizon,
So is a person who drinks not his fill.
Just like the deer who frolics not from fear,
So is a person who embraces not a gift.

One picks the fruit of a bush of many berries,
He leaves the bush with only one.
A tree freely gives of its surplus branches,
But clings to what is green.

No greater mystery is there to solve,
Than a cup all but full.
An emptiness not quite dry,
A satisfaction incomplete.

What kind of cup pours out its contents,
But parts not from a single drop?
What kind of man gives everything,
But clings to one small thread?

A thimble fills from an abundant spring,
But retains a bubble of air.
A man can freely accept all things,
But empty not himself.

The golden chalice filled to the brim,
There is no room for air.
When emptiness has replaced all things,
There is fullness of another kind.

No greater mystery is there to solve,
Than a cup all but full.
An emptiness not quite dry,
A satisfaction incomplete.

A man who drinks from God's abundance,
Can cease any moment he wishes.
One cannot fill with immortal God's existence,
And retain his mortal failings.

A good act bears continuous fruit,
Unless the good is stiffened.
One cannot truly give anything,
And keep some for himself.

The pitcher will pour and only awaits,
The closing of our hearts.
Our cups may fill and overrun,
Or remain almost, not full.

No greater mystery is there to solve,
Than a cup all but full.
An emptiness not quite dry,
A satisfaction incomplete.

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