Is thy cruse of comfort failing?
Rise and share it with a friend,
And through all the years of famine
It shall serve thee to the end.
Love divine will fill thy storehouse,
Or thy handful still renew;
Scanty fare for one will often
Make a royal feast for two.
For the heart grows rich in giving;
All its wealth is living grain;
Seeds—which mildew in the garner—
Scattered, fill with gold the plain.
Is thy burden hard and heavy?
Do thy steps drag wearily?
Help to lift thy brother’s burden—
God will bear both it and thee.
Numb and weary, on the mountains,
Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow?
Chafe that frozen form beside thee,
And together both shall glow.
Art thou stricken in life’s battle?
Many wounded ‘round thee moan;
Lavish on their wounds thy balsam,
And that balm shall heal thine own.
From the periodical, Gems of Truth