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
