Monday, February 13, 2012


My soul, an empty birdfeeder,
Attracts no winged thing,
Without the seed among cedar,
The forest seldom sings.
On Sabbath morn come fill anew
This empty heart of mine;
With suet cakes and seeds to woo,
The feathered life divine.
“God’s little theologians”* come
To teach my soul your story;
No anxious cares within this home,
When filled with heaven’s glory.

*Martin Luther’s affectionate term for birds
D. Robinson 3.18.11