Thoughts from God's Offering Plate

On Sundays they pass me down the rows,

Sometimes it takes awhile for me to empty.

Calloused hands, pointed nails, and tiny fingers reach in,

inquiring eyes watch the scene unfold.

Requests hang over the edge of my tray,

unnoticed, some slip off and fall to the floor, forgotten.

My procession concluded for the week,

a deacon sets me aside.

I want to listen to sanctuary speak and song,

but murmurs from my tray interfere.

Rather than plead for sacred silence,

I listen to what the offerings offered.

I heard of pain: physical, financial, and emotional,

personal pleas from hurting hearts.

After years on the job I understand,

God’s offering plate is not to fill, but to empty.

While on earth the God-man Jesus emptied Himself, for us.

While on earth do we empty ourselves, for others?