I want to be a spendthrift, Lord,
a spendthrift of my time and strength,
giving instead of withholding,
sowing instead of wanting to reap.
Don’t let me be a miser, Master,
cuddling myself to myself,
careful of every effort,
counting each step,
hoarding my physical resources
For the demands of a tomorrow that might never come.
Make me a glad spendthrift, Lord:
joyously giving my love and care,
opening the sluice-gates of my small reserves,
pouring out what little I have to give
without measure or stint,
without anxious debate,
and trust You for tomorrow.
Don’t let me shelter myself in a glass case,
fearful lest the light of day should fade me,
dreading that the hand of time should touch me,
shrinking from effort that might drain me,
saving myself up… for what?
To look nice in my coffin?
Let me give what I have to give…
View original post 53 more words