You Give Me Your Quill
Sinner that I am O God,
Still You give me Your quill
To write the words that are on my heart
When the evening is still.
You touch me in the gentlest way,
And you tear my heart within me.
You fill me with wondrous praise,
And prayers come out from in me.
No talent do I have for this,
Never before having written,
And yet the words flow
In staccato and stride
From the heart that is in me.
I know not where this will lead,
Nor care I after it is written,
I only know it must come out,
Or it will explode deep in me.
Wondrous You are, my glorious God,
Setting Your own path,
Taking from the deep smelly clay,
And fashioning whatever you want.
Foul as I am, my Master of Love,
Form me as you see fit,
For whatever I am, after You are done,
Is far more than I could have been.
There is no examining Your purpose.
It is revealed only to You,
But I yield to the Master’s hands
As He wonderfully molds this clay.
I do not delight in the furnace,
But I know it must be.
For the clay without the heat is useless,
And a vessel it will never be.
I surrender to You completely,
O Great Craftsman that you are,
For when does the clay determine
The shape of the vessel
Or the use for which it’s made.
Only the Artist has that command,
Based on the needs of the day.
Thank You, my Father, for molding me,
And setting me to Your task.
I pray only that I serve You well,
And do everything You ask.