Do you look upon me as an unused pen
Or an instrument prepared and poised to write
The words and works that speak of such a life
Made pleasing and productive in your sight?

Or am I still a stone that holds within
The unspilled waters of the unstruck spring,
The unloosed letters of the stopped-up ink:
A well-filled well that hoards its saving drink?

Make me with each line ready to again
Pour forth upon the page before me set
The blood which you yourself lovingly let,
And to birth words as you, the Word, beget.

Pray, do not leave me an unquickened quill
But, by your hand, wield me to write your will.

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