How quick we are to counsel,
How slow to pray and intercede;
How soon the child compassion dies
When the monster pride we feed.
Outside ourselves we have our favorites,
Inside those that we dare disdain;
The entertainment of our selfish tongue,
The plea of some poor other’s pain.
Oh, for a heart that longs to listen,
Oh, for a mouth that loathes to speak,
Oh, for a thousand poems I never write,
Oh, for just one lost soul reached.
- Written by Abel Prudhomme, 10/11/2016