It Isn't the Church - It's You
Author Unknown
If you want to have the kind of a church
Like the kind of a church you like,
You needn't slip your clothes in a grip
And start on a long, long hike.
You'll only find what you left behind,
For there's nothing really new,
It's a knock at yourself when you knock your church;
It isn't' the church - it's you.
When everything seems to be going wrong,
And trouble seems everywhere brewing;
When prayer meeting, young people's meeting, and all,
Seem simmering slowly - stewing,
Just take a look at yourself and say,
"What's the use of being blue?"
Are you doing your "bit" to makes things a "hit"?
It isn't the church it's you.
It's really strange sometimes, don't you know,
That things go as well as they do,
When we think of the little -- the very small mite-
We add to the work of the few.
We sit, and stand round, and complain of what's done,
And do very little but fuss.
Are we bearing our share of the burdens to bear?
It isn't the church - it's us.
So, if you want to have the kind of a church
Like the kind of a church you like,
Put off you guile, and put on your best smile,
And hike, by brother, just hike,
To the work in the hand that has to be done--
The work of a saving a few.
It isn't the church that is wrong, by boy;
It isn't the church - it 's you.
Sunday, April 30, 2006
Saturday, April 29, 2006
In Memory of Our Cat, Ralph
by Garrison Keillor
When we got home, it was almost dark.
Our neighbor waited on the walk.
"I'm sorry, I have bad news," he said.
"Your cat, the gray-black one, is dead.
I found him by the garage an hour ago."
"Thank you," I said, "for letting us know."
We dug a hole in the flower bed
With lilac bushes overhead,
Where this cat loved to lie in spring
And roll in dirt and eat the green
Delicious first spring bud,
And laid him down and covered him up,
Wrapped in a piece of tablecloth,
Our good old cat laid in the earth.
We quickly turned and went inside
The empty house and sat and cried
Softly in the dark some tears
For that familiar voice, that fur,
That soft weight missing from our laps,
That we had loved too well perhaps
And mourned from weakness of the heart.
A childish weakness, to regard
An animal whose life is brief
With such affection and such grief.
If such is weakness, so it be.
This modest elegy
Is only meant to note the death
Of one cat so we won't forget
His face, his name, his gift
Of cat affection while he lived,
The sweet shy nature
Of this graceful creature,
The simple pleasure of himself,
The memory of our cat, Ralph.
Posted in memory of our cat, Mittens, who died February 16, 2006.
by Garrison Keillor
When we got home, it was almost dark.
Our neighbor waited on the walk.
"I'm sorry, I have bad news," he said.
"Your cat, the gray-black one, is dead.
I found him by the garage an hour ago."
"Thank you," I said, "for letting us know."
We dug a hole in the flower bed
With lilac bushes overhead,
Where this cat loved to lie in spring
And roll in dirt and eat the green
Delicious first spring bud,
And laid him down and covered him up,
Wrapped in a piece of tablecloth,
Our good old cat laid in the earth.
We quickly turned and went inside
The empty house and sat and cried
Softly in the dark some tears
For that familiar voice, that fur,
That soft weight missing from our laps,
That we had loved too well perhaps
And mourned from weakness of the heart.
A childish weakness, to regard
An animal whose life is brief
With such affection and such grief.
If such is weakness, so it be.
This modest elegy
Is only meant to note the death
Of one cat so we won't forget
His face, his name, his gift
Of cat affection while he lived,
The sweet shy nature
Of this graceful creature,
The simple pleasure of himself,
The memory of our cat, Ralph.
Posted in memory of our cat, Mittens, who died February 16, 2006.
Friday, April 28, 2006
I Corinthians 13:1-13
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am know. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
King James Version
Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth: but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child: but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am know. And now abideth faith, hope, charity, these three; but the greatest of these is charity.
King James Version
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Mealtime Poetry
Be present at our table, Lord;
Be here and everywhere adored;
Thy creatures bless, and grant that we
May feast in paradise with Thee.
Be here and everywhere adored;
Thy creatures bless, and grant that we
May feast in paradise with Thee.
We thank Thee, Lord, for this our food,
For life and health and every good;
By Thine own hand may we be fed;
Give us each day our daily bread.
For life and health and every good;
By Thine own hand may we be fed;
Give us each day our daily bread.
We thank Thee, Lord, for this our good,
But more because of Jesus’ blood;
Let manna to our souls be giv’n,
The Bread of Life sent down from Heav’n.
But more because of Jesus’ blood;
Let manna to our souls be giv’n,
The Bread of Life sent down from Heav’n.
John Cennick
1718-1755
British itinerant evangelist
This is the blessing I said, when it was *my turn* as a child. I found it in The Lion Book of Family Prayers by Mary Batchelor. Post a comment and tell me what poem you prayed.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Confederate Women
Subject of Praise
Butts County (GA) Progress
EDITOR PROGRESS:
Your paper of some weeks past was handed to me on sick-bed in McDonough.
I read a suggestion from my brother Wilson Smith on the Women of the Confederacy and I was forcibly impressed. I dare say there is hardly an ex-confederate soldier in Butts county but what would vote to give the monument to the Women of the Confederacy instead of the Soldier, if the Daughters in Butts county decide to build one. And the new idea, the spinning wheel instead of the gun, is grand.
Yes, while other sections are raising the shaft in honor of the men who stood in line with gun and bayonet, let Butts county raise the shaft in honor and memory of the noble women who stood behind the lines and prayed and spun and wove, and buried the dead that were sent home. God bless them, heroines all. Who is it that went through that fearful ordeal that can now meditate upon the sacrifices, suffering and hardships of those mothers, wives, sisters and daughters and keep back the tears?
I can tell you what it was that caused the Confederate soldiers to astonish the world by their endurance of hardships and heroic bravery. It was the mother, wife, sweetheart and sister at home. And who has attempted to write the history of their heroic struggle? No one. And the half can never be told.
A personal explanation will illustrate the cause of the Confederate solders staying in the last ditch until killed or captured. Two years of the war had passed before I was old enough to go. My older brother as well as many neighbors had been brought home shot to pieces and many other dear friends left dead on the battle field. We knew then what it meant to go to the war. The time for my departure had come. My clothes were packed and I, a small boy (stature 5'8"), had put on the Confederate gray. My mother, with tears all streaming down her cheeks, stood in the hall, at the foot of the stairs. Throwing her arms about my neck she said, "Put your trust in God and He will bring you through. I would rather you would die in battle than desert." And those were her last words of farewell.
Too full of emotion to utter one word, I left her with those words indelibly stamped on my conscience and memory. I was at once a man. From that moment I was a changed being.
In all the crack and onslaught of battle I did not stay there because I was brave but because my other told me to. And I know that was the experience of thousands of others who suffered the pangs of hunger, cold and heat, shot and shell, sickness and death, on account of the loved ones at home.
They gave their sons, husbands, and brothers, lovers, all and received back a fragment of battered and torn limbs, and they nursed them back into the greatest industrial struggle the world has even known.
Yes, give the women the monument.
W. F. Smith
Captain, Confederate States of America
McDonough, GA
April 23, 1909
This letter to the editor is copyrighted and published in the book Rival Lovers by William Ferguson Smith, edited by Harriet Stovall Kelley.
Subject of Praise
Butts County (GA) Progress
EDITOR PROGRESS:
Your paper of some weeks past was handed to me on sick-bed in McDonough.
I read a suggestion from my brother Wilson Smith on the Women of the Confederacy and I was forcibly impressed. I dare say there is hardly an ex-confederate soldier in Butts county but what would vote to give the monument to the Women of the Confederacy instead of the Soldier, if the Daughters in Butts county decide to build one. And the new idea, the spinning wheel instead of the gun, is grand.
Yes, while other sections are raising the shaft in honor of the men who stood in line with gun and bayonet, let Butts county raise the shaft in honor and memory of the noble women who stood behind the lines and prayed and spun and wove, and buried the dead that were sent home. God bless them, heroines all. Who is it that went through that fearful ordeal that can now meditate upon the sacrifices, suffering and hardships of those mothers, wives, sisters and daughters and keep back the tears?
I can tell you what it was that caused the Confederate soldiers to astonish the world by their endurance of hardships and heroic bravery. It was the mother, wife, sweetheart and sister at home. And who has attempted to write the history of their heroic struggle? No one. And the half can never be told.
A personal explanation will illustrate the cause of the Confederate solders staying in the last ditch until killed or captured. Two years of the war had passed before I was old enough to go. My older brother as well as many neighbors had been brought home shot to pieces and many other dear friends left dead on the battle field. We knew then what it meant to go to the war. The time for my departure had come. My clothes were packed and I, a small boy (stature 5'8"), had put on the Confederate gray. My mother, with tears all streaming down her cheeks, stood in the hall, at the foot of the stairs. Throwing her arms about my neck she said, "Put your trust in God and He will bring you through. I would rather you would die in battle than desert." And those were her last words of farewell.
Too full of emotion to utter one word, I left her with those words indelibly stamped on my conscience and memory. I was at once a man. From that moment I was a changed being.
In all the crack and onslaught of battle I did not stay there because I was brave but because my other told me to. And I know that was the experience of thousands of others who suffered the pangs of hunger, cold and heat, shot and shell, sickness and death, on account of the loved ones at home.
They gave their sons, husbands, and brothers, lovers, all and received back a fragment of battered and torn limbs, and they nursed them back into the greatest industrial struggle the world has even known.
Yes, give the women the monument.
W. F. Smith
Captain, Confederate States of America
McDonough, GA
April 23, 1909
This letter to the editor is copyrighted and published in the book Rival Lovers by William Ferguson Smith, edited by Harriet Stovall Kelley.
Rival Lovers
A story of the War Between the States
by William Ferguson Smith
Edited by Harriet Stovall Kelley
Written more than 125 years ago, Rivals is a story of a young Georgia boy who went away to war in 1863, fell in love and into great adventure and returned to write of his experience. It is a courtly tale of romance that lay lost and forgotten until his great niece discovered the original text while cleaning out the old Smith Family home in Flovilla, GA in 1971.
The second half of the book contains a biographical sketch and other writings by Smith, who became one of his county's leading and most conscientious citizens.
A story of the War Between the States
by William Ferguson Smith
Edited by Harriet Stovall Kelley
Written more than 125 years ago, Rivals is a story of a young Georgia boy who went away to war in 1863, fell in love and into great adventure and returned to write of his experience. It is a courtly tale of romance that lay lost and forgotten until his great niece discovered the original text while cleaning out the old Smith Family home in Flovilla, GA in 1971.
The second half of the book contains a biographical sketch and other writings by Smith, who became one of his county's leading and most conscientious citizens.
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
Meaning
When I die, I will see the lining of the world.
The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.
The true meaning, ready to be decoded.
What never added up will add Up,
What was incomprehensible will be comprehended.
- And if there is no lining to the world?
If a thrush on a branch is not a sign,
But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day
Make no sense following each other?
And on this earth there is nothing except this earth?
- Even if that is so, there will remain
A word wakened by lips that perish,
A tireless messenger who runs and runs
Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies,
And calls out, protests, screams.
Czeslaw Milosz
When I die, I will see the lining of the world.
The other side, beyond bird, mountain, sunset.
The true meaning, ready to be decoded.
What never added up will add Up,
What was incomprehensible will be comprehended.
- And if there is no lining to the world?
If a thrush on a branch is not a sign,
But just a thrush on the branch? If night and day
Make no sense following each other?
And on this earth there is nothing except this earth?
- Even if that is so, there will remain
A word wakened by lips that perish,
A tireless messenger who runs and runs
Through interstellar fields, through the revolving galaxies,
And calls out, protests, screams.
Czeslaw Milosz
Monday, April 24, 2006
Intimations of Mortality
on being told by the dentist that this will be over soon
Indeed, it will soon be over, I shall be done
With the querulous drill, the forceps, the clove-smelling cotton.
I can go forth into fresher air, into sun,
This narrow anguish forgotten.
In twenty minutes or forty or half an hour,
I shall be easy, and proud of my hard-got gold,
But your apple of comfort is eaten by worms, and sour.
Your consolation is cold.
This will not last, and the day will be pleasant after.
Ill dine tonight with a witty and favorite friend.
No doubt tomorrow I shall rinse my mouth with laughter.
And also that will end.
The handful of time that I am charily granted
Will likewise pass, to oblivion duly apprenticed.
Summer will blossom and autumn be faintly enchanted.
Then time for the grave, or the dentist.
Because you are shrewd, my man, and your hand is clever,
You must not believe your words have a charm to spell me.
There was never a half of an hour that lasted forever.
Be quiet. You need not tell me.
Phyllis McGinley
on being told by the dentist that this will be over soon
Indeed, it will soon be over, I shall be done
With the querulous drill, the forceps, the clove-smelling cotton.
I can go forth into fresher air, into sun,
This narrow anguish forgotten.
In twenty minutes or forty or half an hour,
I shall be easy, and proud of my hard-got gold,
But your apple of comfort is eaten by worms, and sour.
Your consolation is cold.
This will not last, and the day will be pleasant after.
Ill dine tonight with a witty and favorite friend.
No doubt tomorrow I shall rinse my mouth with laughter.
And also that will end.
The handful of time that I am charily granted
Will likewise pass, to oblivion duly apprenticed.
Summer will blossom and autumn be faintly enchanted.
Then time for the grave, or the dentist.
Because you are shrewd, my man, and your hand is clever,
You must not believe your words have a charm to spell me.
There was never a half of an hour that lasted forever.
Be quiet. You need not tell me.
Phyllis McGinley
Sunday, April 23, 2006
Jehovah Tsidkenu
by Robert Murray McCheyne
I once was a stranger to grace and to God,
I knew not my danger, and felt not my load;
Though friends spoke in rapture of Christ on the tree,
Jehovah Tsidkenu was nothing to me.
I oft read with pleasure, to sooth or engage,
Isaiah’s wild measure and John’s simple page;
But e’en when they pictured the blood sprinkled tree
Jehovah Tsidkenu seemed nothing to me.
Like tears from the daughters of Zion that roll,
I wept when the waters went over His soul;
Yet thought not that my sins had nailed to the tree
Jehovah Tsidkenu—’twas nothing to me.
When free grace awoke me, by light from on high,
Then legal fears shook me, I trembled to die;
No refuge, no safety in self could I see—
Jehovah Tsidkenu my Saviour must be.
My terrors all vanished before the sweet name;
My guilty fears banished, with boldness I came
To drink at the fountain, life giving and free—
Jehovah Tsidkenu is all things to me.
Jehovah Tsidkenu! my treasure and boast,
Jehovah Tsidkenu! I ne’er can be lost;
In thee I shall conquer by flood and by field,
My cable, my anchor, my breast-plate and shield!
Even treading the valley, the shadow of death,
This “watchword” shall rally my faltering breath;
For while from life’s fever my God sets me free,
Jehovah Tsidkenu, my death song shall be.
Saturday, April 22, 2006
Why Do Birds Sing?
Let poets piece prismatic words,
Give me the jewelled joy of birds!
What ecstasy moves them to sing?
Is it the lyric glee of Spring,
The dewy rapture of the rose?
Is it the worship born in those
Who are of Nature's self a part,
The adoration of the heart?
Is it the mating mood in them
That makes each crystal note a gem?
Oh mocking bird and nightingale,
Oh mavis, lark and robin - hail!
Tell me what perfect passion glows
In your inspired arpeggios?
A thrush is thrilling as I write
Its obligato of delight;
And in its fervour, as in mine,
I fathom tenderness divine,
And pity those of earthy ear
Who cannot hear . . . who cannot hear.
Let poets pattern pretty words:
For lovely largesse - bless you, Birds!
Robert W. Service
Let poets piece prismatic words,
Give me the jewelled joy of birds!
What ecstasy moves them to sing?
Is it the lyric glee of Spring,
The dewy rapture of the rose?
Is it the worship born in those
Who are of Nature's self a part,
The adoration of the heart?
Is it the mating mood in them
That makes each crystal note a gem?
Oh mocking bird and nightingale,
Oh mavis, lark and robin - hail!
Tell me what perfect passion glows
In your inspired arpeggios?
A thrush is thrilling as I write
Its obligato of delight;
And in its fervour, as in mine,
I fathom tenderness divine,
And pity those of earthy ear
Who cannot hear . . . who cannot hear.
Let poets pattern pretty words:
For lovely largesse - bless you, Birds!
Robert W. Service
Friday, April 21, 2006
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Lord, Make a Regular Man Out of Me
This I would like to be - braver and bolder,
Just a bit wiser because I am older,
Just a bit kinder to those I may meet,
Just a bit manlier taking defeat;
This for the New Year my wish and my plea -
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be - just a bit finer,
More of a smiler and less of a whiner,
Just a bit quicker to stretch out my hand
Helping another who's struggling to stand,
This is my prayer for the New Year to be,
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be - just a bit fairer,
Just a bit better, and just a bit squarer,
Not quite so ready to censure and bland,
Quicker to help every man in the game,
Not quite so eager men's failings to see,
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be - just a bit truer,
Less of the wisher and more of the doer,
Broader and bigger, more willing to give,
Living and helping my neighbor to live!
This for the New Year my prayer and my plea -
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
Edgar Albert Guest
This I would like to be - braver and bolder,
Just a bit wiser because I am older,
Just a bit kinder to those I may meet,
Just a bit manlier taking defeat;
This for the New Year my wish and my plea -
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be - just a bit finer,
More of a smiler and less of a whiner,
Just a bit quicker to stretch out my hand
Helping another who's struggling to stand,
This is my prayer for the New Year to be,
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be - just a bit fairer,
Just a bit better, and just a bit squarer,
Not quite so ready to censure and bland,
Quicker to help every man in the game,
Not quite so eager men's failings to see,
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
This I would like to be - just a bit truer,
Less of the wisher and more of the doer,
Broader and bigger, more willing to give,
Living and helping my neighbor to live!
This for the New Year my prayer and my plea -
Lord, make a regular man out of me.
Edgar Albert Guest
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
Advice to Writers
For the Daily Press
When you've got a thing to say,
Say it! Dont take half a day.
When your tale's got little in it,
Crowed the whole thing in a minute!
Life is short - a fleeting vapor -
Don't you fill the whole blamed paper
With a tale which, at a pinch,
Could be cornered in an inch!
Boil her down until she simmers,
Polish her until she glimmers.
Joel Chandler Harris
For the Daily Press
When you've got a thing to say,
Say it! Dont take half a day.
When your tale's got little in it,
Crowed the whole thing in a minute!
Life is short - a fleeting vapor -
Don't you fill the whole blamed paper
With a tale which, at a pinch,
Could be cornered in an inch!
Boil her down until she simmers,
Polish her until she glimmers.
Joel Chandler Harris
Tuesday, April 18, 2006
Paul Revere's Ride
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Some poems are long, some short, some rhyme, some dont. Some tell a story.
So, in honor of the anniversary of this midnight ride, I commend to the attention of all my readers, this excellent poem.
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Some poems are long, some short, some rhyme, some dont. Some tell a story.
So, in honor of the anniversary of this midnight ride, I commend to the attention of all my readers, this excellent poem.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Sunday, April 16, 2006
Up from the grave He arose
Low in the grave He lay, Jesus my Savior,
Waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord!
Refrain
Up from the grave He arose,
With a mighty triumph o’er His foes,
He arose a Victor from the dark domain,
And He lives forever, with His saints to reign.
He arose! He arose!
Hallelujah! Christ arose!
Vainly they watch His bed, Jesus my Savior;
Vainly they seal the dead, Jesus my Lord!
Refrain
Death cannot keep its Prey, Jesus my Savior;
He tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord!
Refrain
Words & Music: Robert Lowry, 1874
Low in the grave He lay, Jesus my Savior,
Waiting the coming day, Jesus my Lord!
Refrain
Up from the grave He arose,
With a mighty triumph o’er His foes,
He arose a Victor from the dark domain,
And He lives forever, with His saints to reign.
He arose! He arose!
Hallelujah! Christ arose!
Vainly they watch His bed, Jesus my Savior;
Vainly they seal the dead, Jesus my Lord!
Refrain
Death cannot keep its Prey, Jesus my Savior;
He tore the bars away, Jesus my Lord!
Refrain
Words & Music: Robert Lowry, 1874
Saturday, April 15, 2006
Hall of Thorns
Tread lightly among the thorny growth
Below the eaves of filtered sun and
Dead, brown limbs of barbs still sharp with use.
Dare to lift your head and see the greenly growth,
A crown of leaf above the thorn and
Arching boughs that sprout anew with
Fresh rows of thorns on limbs of green.
A roof of sun, held by beams of the live
And dead branches,
Beams that twine and gather to form
A hall of thorns,
lit by blossoms, white and fading,
like flickering lights in the shadows
of the briary corridor.
Tapestries of white and golden hue
To grace
A hall of thorns.
Margaret Jago
May 2002
Tread lightly among the thorny growth
Below the eaves of filtered sun and
Dead, brown limbs of barbs still sharp with use.
Dare to lift your head and see the greenly growth,
A crown of leaf above the thorn and
Arching boughs that sprout anew with
Fresh rows of thorns on limbs of green.
A roof of sun, held by beams of the live
And dead branches,
Beams that twine and gather to form
A hall of thorns,
lit by blossoms, white and fading,
like flickering lights in the shadows
of the briary corridor.
Tapestries of white and golden hue
To grace
A hall of thorns.
Margaret Jago
May 2002
Friday, April 14, 2006
The Lamb
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
William Blake
English Poet
1757-1827
Image "Worthy"
by Amy Crews
American Artist
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
William Blake
English Poet
1757-1827
Image "Worthy"
by Amy Crews
American Artist
Thursday, April 13, 2006
To My Family Doctor
A woman's work is never done
That's what they always say,
But what about your Doctor
Where does he end his day?
His day starts with an office full
Of people who complain,
And need to give the small details
Of all their aches and pains
When office hours are over
You'd think that would be all,
Then he sits down for dinner
And here comes that frantic call:
"My baby has a fever,"
"My husband has a cough,"
"My big toe hurts so badly
Could you PLEASE just cut it off"
We really haven't got a clue
Of the things he must endure,
While listening to our problems
And seeking out a cure,
Let's be kind to our Doctor
Cause it's not an easy life,
So have compassion for him
And sympathy for his wife.
by Linda Brown
copyright 2004
A woman's work is never done
That's what they always say,
But what about your Doctor
Where does he end his day?
His day starts with an office full
Of people who complain,
And need to give the small details
Of all their aches and pains
When office hours are over
You'd think that would be all,
Then he sits down for dinner
And here comes that frantic call:
"My baby has a fever,"
"My husband has a cough,"
"My big toe hurts so badly
Could you PLEASE just cut it off"
We really haven't got a clue
Of the things he must endure,
While listening to our problems
And seeking out a cure,
Let's be kind to our Doctor
Cause it's not an easy life,
So have compassion for him
And sympathy for his wife.
by Linda Brown
copyright 2004
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