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“Empty Hands” by Martha Nicholson

One by one He took them from me, All the things I valued most;

Until I was empty-handed, Every glittering toy was lost.

And I walked earth’s highways, grieving, In my rage and poverty,

Till I heard His voice inviting, “Lift your empty hands to me.”

So I held my hands toward Heaven And He filled them with a store

Of His own transcendent riches Until they could hold no more.

And at last I comprehend, With my stupid mind and dull,

That God pours not His riches Into hands already full.

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