Freshman year, we were put through the poetry grindstone. Our first job: write a Shakespearean sonnet.
He grasps at that which he can clearly see
And wonders when it shifts like nothingness —
Forgetting first to stoop on bended knee
And now recoiling, blank, and thanking less.
Not knowing how to love the ebb and flow,
He freezes up and grows a cynic’s frown,
Believing it is better not to sow
Than sow and have the floods his labors drown.
But Christian, do not with your God be vexed,
For empty fingers shall not grasp the wind;
He gave the first, He will bestow the next
And still forbids that we on that depend.
So hold His gift upon an open palm
And wait to praise Him with a single alm.