My friend Jennifer sent me this beautiful poem by Sir Thomas Browne. It spoke to me deeply:

If thou coulds’t empty all thyself of self,
Like to a shell dishabited,
Then might He find thee on the ocean shelf
And say, “This is not dead,”
And fill thee with Himself instead.
But thou are very replete with very thou
And hast such shrewd activity
That when He comes He says, “This is enow
Unto itself – ’twere better let it be,
It is so small and full, there is no room for me.”

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