My alms (old poetry)

A beggar, Lord, I am
my empty cup-
downcast shadow in a faceless crowd.
You shower upon me
your gifts of mercy,
grace,
and yet-
your gift is no gesture
and you give fully what you can.
My small alms cup overflows.

I see a man.
I walk in my robes of satin,
gold,
the very finest.
For what you have provided is

overabundant.

From my cup,
One alms for him-

a gesture.
He smiles- a gesture-
for Lord, you don't understand
why I can not
give you all of my alms.