When from life’s feast the glory
has departed
And weariness creeps on,
When on thy lips the bread has
turned to ashes
And all the wine is gone.
Then fill the jars once more, though
but with water,
And fill them to the brim;
And to the waiting guests about thy
table
Pour out thy best — for Him.
His power only waits for thy small
effort
To add His mighty touch,
Transmuting thy poor gift to His
rich vintage,
Making thy little — much.
So shalt thou know again the joy of
service
That thou hadst thought was past,
And find the Master of the feast has
given
The best wine at the last.
A. J. Flint