HE WISHES FOR THE CLOTHS OF HEAVEN

Had I the heaven's embroider'd cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet;
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

- W.B. Yeats

JUST FOR ME

"Father, where shall I work today?"
And my love flowed warm and free.
Then He pointed out a tiny sport
And said: "Tend that for me".
I answered quickly: "Oh no, not that!
Why no one would ever see,
No matter how well my work was done;
Not that little place for me!"

And the word He spoke, it was not stern;
He answered me tenderly;
"Ah, little one, search that heart of thine.
Art thou working for them or for me?
Nazareth was a little place,
And so was Galilee."

-  Meade McGuire

WHEN THE SONG OF THE ANGELS IS STILLED

When the song of the angel is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas beings:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among brothers,
To make music in the heart.

-  Howard Thurman

THE CAPTAIN OF MY SOUL

Art thou in truth? Then what of Him
Who bought thee with His blood?
Who plunged into devouring seas
And snatched thee from the flood?

Who bore for all our fallen race
What none but Him could bear,
The God who died that man might live
And endless glory share?

Of what avail thy vaunted strength,
Apart from His vast might?
Pray that His light may pierce the gloom
That thou mayest see aright.

Men are as bubbles on the wave,
As leaves upon the tree,
Thou, captain of thy soul, forsooth!
Who gave that place to thee?

Free will is thine - free agency,
To wield for right or wrong;
But thou must answer unto Him
To whom all souls belong.

Bend to the dust that head 'unbowed',
Small part of life's great whole!
And see in Him and Him alone,
The Captain of thy soul.

-  Orson F. Whitney

TO KNOW JOY

"God gave man the challenge of raw materials, not the ease of finished things. He left the pictures unpainted and the music unsung and the problems unsolved that man might know the joys and glories of creation."

- Author unknown

I WALKED A MILE WITH PLEASURE

I walked a mile with Pleasure;
She chatted all the way;
But left me none the wiser
For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow;
Not a word said she;
But oh, the things I learnt,
When sorrow walked with me.

-  Robert Browning Hamilton

THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS TREE

The littlest Christmas tree,
Lived in a meadow of green,
Among a family of tall evergreens.
He learned how to whisper
The evergreen song,
With the slightest of wind
That came gently along.

He watched as the birds,
Made a home out of twigs,
And couldn't wait till he too was big.
For all of the trees offered a home,
The maple, the pine, and the oak,
Who's so strong.

I hate being little, the little tree said,
I can't even turn colours,
Like the maple turns red,
I can't help the animals.
Like the mighty old oak,
He shelters them all
In his wide mighty cloak.

The older tree said,
Why little tree, you don't know,
The story of a mighty king,
From the land with no snow?
Little tree questioned,
A land with no snow?
Yes! said the old tree,
A very old story from so long ago.

A star appeared giving great light,
Over a manger on long winter's night.
A baby was born, a king of all kings,
And with him comes love over all things.
He lived in a country all covered in sand
And laid down his life to save all of man.

Little tree thought of the gift given by Him,
Then the big tree said with the happiest grin,
We're not just trees, but a reminder of that day,
There's a much bigger part, a role that we play.
For on Christmas Eve, my life I'll lay down,
In exchange for a happier, loving ground.
And as I stand dying, they'll adorn me in trim,
This all will be done in memory of Him.

Among a warm fire, with family and friends,
In the sweet songs of Christmas,
I'll find my great end.
Then ever so gently He'll come down to see,
And take me to heaven, Jesus and me.

So you see little tree,
We are not like the oak,
Who shelters all things beneath his great cloak.
Nor are we like the maple in fall,
Whose colours leave many standing in awe.
The gift that we give is ourselves,
Limb for limb,
The greatest of honour,
In memory or Him.

The little tree bowed his head down and cried,
And thought of the King who willingly died.
For what kind of gift can anyone give?
Than to lay down your life when you wanted to live.

A swelling of pride came over the tree,
Can all of this happen because of just me?
Can I really bring honour by adorning a home?
By reminding mankind that he's never alone?

With this thought little tree began singing with glee,
Happy and proud to be a true Christmas tree.
You can still hear them singing, even the smallest in height,
Singing of Christmas and that one holy night.

- Amy Peterson

THE BELIEVERS IN LIFE

You give but little when you give of your possessions.

It is when you give of yourself that you truly give.

For what are your possessions but things you keep

and guard for fear you may need them tomorrow?

There are those who give little of the much which they have, 

And they give it for recognition and their hidden desire makes their gifts unwholesome.

And there are those who have little and give it all.

These are the believers in life and the bounty of life, and their coffer is never empty.

There are those who give with joy, and that joy is their reward.

And there are those who give with pain and that pain is their baptism.

And there are those who give and know not pain in giving, 

Nor do they seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue;

They give as in yonder valley the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space.

Through the hands of such as these God speaks, 

And from behind their eyes He smiles upon the earth.

-  Kahlil Gibran

THE TOUCH OF THE MASTER'S HAND

'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 folks" he cried -
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"Three dollars once, and three dollars twice,
Going, going for three".

But now from the room, from the very last row
Came a grey-haired man and he picked up the bow.
Then wiping the dust from the old violin and
Tightening up all the strings,
He played a melody, a melody as pure and sweet
As the caroling angels sing.
The music closed and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low
Said: "What am I bid for the old violin",
And he held it up with the bow...
"A thousand dollars and who'll make it two,
Two thousand dollars and who'll make it three?
Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and going for three".

The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We don't quite understand,
"What changed its' worth?"
Swift came the reply:
"The touch of the Master's hand"

And many a man with life out of tune and
Battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going, he is almost gone.
But the Master comes and the foolish crowd
Never do quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that's wrought by
The touch of the Master's hand.

- Myra 'Brooks' Welch

ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting;

The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star,

Hath had elsewhere its setting,

And cometh from afar:

Not in entire forgetfulness,

And not in utter nakedness,

But trailing clouds of glory do we come

From God, who is our home.

- William Wordsworth

NINETY AND NINE

There were ninety and nine that safely lay
In the shelter of the fold,
But one was out on the hills away,
Far off from that gate of gold.
Away on the mountains wild and bare,
Away from the tender Shepherd's care.

"Lord, thou has there thine ninety and nine,
Are they not enough for thee?"
But the Shepherd made answer:
"This one of mine has wondered away from me;
And although the road be rough and steep,
I go to the desert to find my sheep."

But none of the ransomed ever knew
How deep were the waters crossed;
Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed through
Ere he found His sheep that was lost.
Out in the desert He heard its cry,
'Twas sick and helpless and ready to die.

"Lord, whence are those blood-drops all the way,
That mark out the mountains' track?"
"They were shed for one who has gone astray,
Ere the Shepherd could bring him back."
"Lord, whence are thy hands so rent and torn?"
"They are pierced tonight by many a thorn".

And all through the mountains thunder-riven,
And up from the rocky steep,
There arose a glad cry to the gate of heaven,
"Rejoice! I have found my sheep".


- Elizabeth C. Clephane

THE ROAD IS TOO ROUGH

"The road is too rough" I said -
"Dear Lord, there are stones that hurt me so"
And He said - "Dear child I understand, I walked it long ago"
"But there is a cool green path" I said,
"Let me walk there for a time"
"No child" He gently said to me -
"That green road does not climb"
"But my burden" I said "Is far too great, how can I bear it so?"
"My child" said He "I remember it's weight, I carried my cross you know"
"But" I said "I wish there were friends with me who would make my way their own"
"Ah yes" said He "Gethsemane was hard to face alone."
And so I climbed the stony path content at last to know
That where my master had not gone I would not need to go.
And strangely there I found new friends, the burden grew less sore,
As I remember - long ago, He went that way before.

- Olga J. Weiss

A RIVER TO CROSS

There's always a river to cross,
Always an effort to make,
If there's anything good to win,
Any rich prize to take.
Yonder's the fruit we crave;
Yonder the charming scene;
But deep and wide, with a troubled tide,
Is the river that lies between.

For rougher the way that we take,
The stouter the heart and the nerve;
The stones in our path we break;
Nor e'er from our impulse swerve;
For the glory we hope to win
Our labours we count no loss;
'Tis folly to pause and murmur because
Of the river we have to cross.

-  Anonymous