“Empty Hands” by Martha Nicholson
One by one He took them from me, All the things I valued most;
Until I was empty-handed, Every glittering toy was lost.
And I walked earth’s highways, grieving, In my rage and poverty,
Till I heard His voice inviting, “Lift your empty hands to me.”
So I held my hands toward Heaven And He filled them with a store
Of His own transcendent riches Until they could hold no more.
And at last I comprehend, With my stupid mind and dull,
That God pours not His riches Into hands already full.