Poem November 23, 1940 Issue

"Bring them hither to me"

ETHEL WASGATT DENNIS

I LIKE to think how kind the Master's face,
As he explained to that young lad of yore
How God had need of his five barley loaves
And two small fishes—all his slender store.

We read of no unwillingness to share,
No holding back a part for his own need;
The lad brought all he had unto the Christ,
And history is richer for his deed.

I wonder if the Master let him stand
Close there beside him while the marvel grew,
And watch that miracle of loaves unfold
And multiply to wondering human view.

To give in God's great service leaves no lack,
Nor can withholding bring us lasting gain.
Can we not trust the care of Him who sends
Alike on each the sunshine and the rain?

It matters not how sore may seem our need,
How few the loaves and fishes we can see;
Today another miracle is born
If we obey Christ's call, Bring them to me.

The good we have which seems so little worth
When through the blinding mists of error viewed,
Laid humbly at the feet of Christ will still
Avail to feed a hungering multitude.

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