Original (inglés)

p. 1THE EMPTY BOWL I held the golden vessel of my soul And prayed that God would fill it from on high. Day after day the importuning cry Grew stronger—grew, a heaven-accusing dole Because no sacred waters laved my bowl. ‘So full the fountain, Lord, wouldst Thou deny The little needed for a soul’s supply? I ask but this small portion of Thy whole.’ Then from the vast invisible Somewhere, A voice, as one love-authorised by Him, Spake, and the tumult of my heart was stilled. ‘Who wants