An Empty Quiver Poem by James Stovall

No arrows will sing from my bow;
The LORD grants His treasures at will.
My brothers have fletchers to fashion them so;
Their quivers grow heavy, mine still.

No fletcher to bless me with grace;
Unworthy, I sit and I wait.
I'll grow into age with no place,
A chair is the seal of my fate.

Back corner, the pew at the rear,
Where none will take notice of me;
I'll trouble none else with my tear,
Yet envy my brothers I see.

Their numbers increase by the day,
While I wither, barren, alone.
No arrow to mark me will stay,
No blessing to claim as my own.

So weary of crying in pain,
Bent double, my spirit is weak.
Again I awake to the same:
Tear-stained are the sheets that I keep.