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.