Poetry

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the flag
That flew over valley forge
Was torn in two by the gray and blue
And bled through two world wars.

I give you the flag that burned in the street
In protest, in anger and shame,
The very same flag that covered the men
Who died defending her name.

We now stand together, Americans all,
Either by choice or by birth
To honor the flag that’s flown on the moon
And changed the face of the earth.

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean. She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other.

Then someone at my side says, “There she goes!”

Gone where?

Gone from my sight ... that is all.

He that is down needs fear no fall,
He that is low, no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.—John Bunyan

Source: Pilgrim’s Progress, John Bunyan

I am home in Heaven, dear ones;
Oh, so happy and so bright!
There is perfect joy and beauty
In this everlasting light.

All pain and grief is over,
Every restless tossing passed;
I am now at peace forever,
Safely home in Heaven at last.

Did you wonder I so calmly
Trod the valley of the shade?
Oh! But Jesus’ love illumined
Every dark and fearful glade.

I am an empty pew.
I vote for the world as against God.
I deny the Bible.
I mock at the preached Word of God.
I rail at Christian fellowship.
I laugh at prayer.
I break the Fourth Commandment;
I am a witness to solemn vows broken.
I advise men to eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die.
I join my voice with every atheist and rebel against human and divine law.
I am an empty pew.
I am a grave in the midst of the congregation.
Read my epitaph and be wise.—Unkown

Too busy to read the Bible, too busy to wait and pray;
Too busy to speak out kindly, to someone who passes by the way!

Too busy working and worrying, to think of the life to come;
Too busy building earthly mansions, to plan for the Heaven above.

Too busy to help a brother, who faces trials and suffering woes;
Too busy to share his burden, “No time, I’m busy you know.”

Too busy for all that is holy, on earth beneath the sky;
Too busy to serve the Master, but not too busy to die.—Author Unknown

I got up early one morning and rushed right into the day!
I had so much to accomplish that I didn’t take time to pray.

Problems just tumbled about me, and heavier came each task.
“Why doesn’t God help me?” I wondered, He answered, “You didn’t ask!”

I tried to come into God’s presence; I used all my keys at the lock.
God gently and lovingly chided, “Why, child, you didn’t knock!”

I wanted to see joy and beauty, but the day toiled on, gray and bleak.
I wondered why God didn’t show me. He answered me, “But you didn’t seek.”

The Master was searching for a vessel to use;
On the shelf there were many—which one would He choose?
Take me, cried the gold one, I’m shiny and bright,
I’m of great value and I do things just right.
My beauty and luster will outshine the rest
And for someone like You, Master, gold would be the best!

Unheeding, the Master passed on to the brass,
It was wide mouthed and shallow, and polished like glass.
Here! Here! cried the vessel, I know I will do,
Place me on Your table for all men to view.

‘Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.

“What am I bid, good folk?” he cried.
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar ... now two ... only two ...
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?

“Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three” ... but no!
From the room far back a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow.

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will,
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
When the funds are low and the debts are high,
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh,
When care is pressing you down a bit,
Rest, if you must, but don't you quit.

Life is queer with its twists and turns,
As every one of us sometimes learns,
And many a failure turns about,
When he might have won had he stuck it out;
Don't give up though the pace seems slow—
You may succeed with another blow.

I took a piece of plastic clay,
And idly fashioned it one day,
And as my fingers pursued it still,
It moved and yielded at my will.

It came of age when days were past,
And the piece of clay was hard at last...
The form I gave it, it still bore,
But I could change it no more.

I took a piece of living clay,
And gently formed it day by day,
And molded it with power and art
A young child’s soft and yielding heart.

What can I give Him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would give Him a lamb.
If I were a wise man, I would do my part.
Yet what can I give Him? I’ll give Him my heart.—Christina Rossetti

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!

The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose.
An evil soul producing holy witness
Is like a villain with a smiling cheek,
A goodly apple rotten at the heart:
O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!—Shakespeare

Submitted by the homiletics class of West Coast Baptist College

A careless word may kindle strife,
A cruel word may wreck a life,

A bitter word may hate instill,
A brutal word may smite and kill,

A gracious word may smooth the way,
A joyous word may light the day,

A timely word may lessen stress,
A loving word may heal and bless.

Source: Pearls from Many Seas, T. J. Bach

Submitted by the homiletics class of West Coast Baptist College

What various hindrances we meet
In coming to a mercy seat!
Yet who that knows the worth of prayer,
But wishes to be often there?

Prayer makes the darken’d cloud withdraw,
Prayer climbs the ladder Jacob saw,
Gives exercise to faith and love,
Brings every blessing from above.

Restraining prayer, we cease to fight;
Prayer makes the Christian’s armour bright;
And Satan trembles when he sees
The weakest saint upon his knees.

Judd Lewis (1867-1945) worked for forty-five years at the Houston Post newspaper. He wrote a column of humor and poetry under the name, “Uncle Judd.” He was a man of great compassion who helped find a proper home for two hundred twenty-one homeless children. No doubt, each of them had issues of forgiveness to work through, so it is not surprising that one of Lewis’s most memorable pieces involved the fine art of forgetting wrongs suffered. His poem is titled “Forget It”