But, hopeless yet, I stared into the night.
I could not see, nor think, beyond myself.
Why talk of crowns in my disastrous plight--
A broken vessel, wasting on a shelf!

What else was there to do but sit forlorn?
Where was the buoyant health I once had known?
Had ever mortal carried such a thorn?
Why must I suffer -- useless, and alone?

Again the Master whispered softly, "Son,
Will you not trust My love, believe My Word?
Will I not finish that I have begun?
Will you not take My hand, and be assured?

Dear Child, I've been compelled to make you wait,
Lest, hasting on, you build on shifting sand.
That cross, with your consent, I'll make a gate,
Through which we'll walk together, hand-in-hand."

Arrested by His gentle loving tone,
I turned, to view His elegance and grace,
But lo! A cross much greater than my own,
And, 'neath a crown of thorns, that smiling face.

I saw, upon that battered face, repose,
And, radiating out, a peace so sweet,
I shook away my shroud of gloom, and rose
To cast this broken vessel at His feet.

I begged forgiveness for my selfish ways,
That I had dared, His loving hand, to spurn.
I then surrendered all my future days,
That, even yet, this feeble lamp might burn.

He took this broken vessel to His breast
And, with the touch that all the blood-washed know,
He filled it with the Comforter, then blessed
Till it, with Heavenly joy, did overflow.

I'm happy now, in service with my King,
Securely bound with His protecting cord.
Though broken yet, I've given Him everything.
Not cast away, just BROKEN FOR THE LORD!