A little tube of ink -- a simple thing,
a pipe with viscous fluid flowing through,
mechanical device of purest kind,
no hope, no fear, or thought, or concern or care,
like water all still, unmoving and calm,
it strives not for greater nor higher, nor can.
Yet grasp the pen, and take it in your hand,
set it to paper, at an angle held,
and by it you may write a poem wise,
thought turned to symbol in deep black and white,
beyond what a pen by its own work may make,
beyond what it by its own means may mean.
As the water by moon will rise and fall
in grip of action of a higher force,
the pen taken in hand will fall and rise,
and, beyond its own power, shall words write.
So too you and I, by a sevenfold grace,
though human shall do the labors of God,
though limited, shall be infinite things,
though foolish, shall express divinest thoughts,
move like the sea with the force of the tide,
the pens of God writing heavenly truth.