The Little Birds of God by Annie Johnson Flint

Published June 6, 2018 |

I HEAR them at my window in the late, gray winter dawn,

The little birds of God, the farthing sparrows of His care;

They ask of me, as I of Him, His gift of daily bread.

With soft, impatient twitterings they voice their morning prayer.

The heavenly Father feedeth them, the little birds of God,

Though ’tis my hand that scattereth the food within their reach;

I do but share His bounty when I give the crumbs to them.

doubting heart and anxious heart, what lessons they can teach!

They sow not, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns,

Content if but each day shall bring the day’s supply of food;

No question whence it comes, nor if the morrow bringeth more

Small optimists in feathers, who are sure that all is good!

God seeth when they fly or fall. Am I less worth than they?

I would not fail them in their need. Is He less true than I?

I would not mock their faith in me, nor hurt them, nor betray;

I answer to their trusting call, He to His children’s cry.

When sunset tints the fading light and dusk is falling fast,

The while I draw the curtains close and stir the hearth-fire bright,

I hear their cheerful chirping, the little birds of God,

And wonder to what shelter they are fleeing for the night.

But they, as I, shall rest secure beneath the wings of Love,

Though storm and darkness sweep the sea and cover all the land.

My life and theirs, so small and frail, God’s care of both the same;

My soul a nesting bird within the hollow of His hand.