Poem by Avis B. Christiansen — A Boy's Tribute To His Dad

Somehow a fellow can’t express

The feelings he has had,

While through the years he’s walked and talked

And laughed and played with Dad.

He cannot put in words the love ---

The pride that wells within,

The admiration in his heart ---

Whene’er Dad looks at him.

Dad is the hero of his dreams,

The king upon the throne,

The pattern for that ideal life

Which he would make his own.

He knows that Dad well understands

The conflicts in his breast,

And shares the problems He must face,

Though often unexpressed.

The pressure of his dad’s strong hand,

The look deep in his eyes,

Speaks volumes to a fellow’s heart,

When cares of life arise.

And when he kneels with Dad in prayer

Before the throne of grace,

The glory of the unseen world

Illumines all the place.

How could a fellow go astray,

Who with his dad had stood

Within the secret place of prayer

Before a holy God!

And this my constant prayer shall be,’       

That until life is done.

My conduct here shall honor him

Who proudly calls me “Son.”

Poem by L.M.Hollingworth — Borrowed

They borrowed a bed to lay His head,

When Christ the Lord came down;

They borrowed an ass in the mountain pass

For Him to ride to town.

            But the crown that He wore

            And the cross that He bore

                        Were His own.

He borrowed the bread when the crowd He fed

On the grassy mountain side;

He borrowed the dish of broken fish

With which He satisfied.

            But the crown that He wore

            And the cross that He bore

                        Were His own.

He borrowed the ship in which to sit

To teach the multitude,

He borrowed the nest in which to rest,

He never had a home as rude,

            But the crown that He wore

            And the cross that He bore

                        Were His own.

He borrowed a room on the way to the tomb,

The passover lamb to eat.

They borrowed a cave, for Him a grave,

They borrowed a winding sheet.

            But the crown that He wore

            And the cross that He bore

                        Were His own.

The thorns on His head were worn in my stead,

For me the Saviour died;

For the guilt of my sin the nails drove in

When Him they crucified.

            Though the crown that He wore

            And the cross that He bore

                        Were His own.

They rightly were mine.

Poem by Unknown — Are All The Children In

I think ofttimes as the night draws nigh

Of an old house on the hill,

Of a yard all wide and blossom-starred

Where children played at will.

And when the night at last came down,

Hushing the merry din,

Mother would look around and ask,

“Are all the children in?”

“Tis many and many a year since then,

And the old house on the hill

No longer echoes to childish feet,

And the year is still, so still.

But I see it all, as the shadows creep,

And though many the years have been

Since then, I can hear mother ask,

“Are all the children in?”

I wonder when the shadows fall

On that last short, earthly day,

When we say good-bye to the world outside,

All tired with our childish play,

When we step out into that Other Land

Where mother so long has been,

Will we hear her ask, just as of old

“Are all the children in?”

Poem by John Greenleaf Whittier

I see the wrong that round me lies,

   I feel the guilt within,

With groan and travail cries

   I hear the world confess its sin.

Within the maddening maze of things,

   And tossed by storm and flood,

To one fixed stake my spirit clings;

   I know that God is good.

I know not where His islands lift

   Their fronded palms in air;

I only know I cannot drift

   Beyond His love and care.

Poem by Robert Browning — I Go To Prove My Soul

I see my way as birds their trackless way,

I shall arrive! What time, what circuit first,

I ask not; but unless God send His hail

Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow,

In some time, His good time, I shall arrive;

He guides me and the bird. In His good time!

Poem by Jessie M. Shaw

One old lady kept a sighing;

Said she wasn’t young,

Didn’t look as sweet’s she used to,

Times were all unstrung;

Troubles doubled aches, and favors

Went a flying past,

Wrinkles stung like thorns and eyesight

Kept a falling fast.

One old lady kept a saying

Life was like the spring,

Brighter blossoms always coming,

Birds around to sing;

Troubles come ---- and went; she let ‘em,

Didn’t count the throng.

Thanked the Lord’ most every morning

She’d been young so long!

Quote by Henry Van Dyke

To be glad of life because it gives you the chance to love and to work and to play and to look up at the stars; to be satisfied with your possessions, but not content with yourself until you have made the best of them; to despise nothing in the world except falsehood and meanness, and to fear nothing except cowardice; to be governed by your admirations rather than your dislikes, to covet nothing that is your neighbor’s except his kindness of heart and gentleness of manners; to think seldom of your enemies, often of your friends, and every day of Christ; and to spend as much time as you can with body and with spirit in God’s out-of-doors --- these are little guide-posts on the footpath to peace.

Quote by Henry Ward Beecher

I think the sweetest thought, the very central idea, of the revelation of the character of God to me, is this: that He does everything out of His supreme will. There is not one thing that I can say with more heartiness, or has in it more echoes of joy, than “Thy will be done.” If anything works righteousness in me or in you, it is God. The nature of God is fruitful in generosity. He is so good that He loves to do good, and loves to make men good, and loves to make them happy by making them good. He loves to be patient with them, and to wait for them, and to pour benevolence upon them, because that is His nature.

Quote by Henry Ward Beecher

It is a sad hour I have seen, through the window, mounted on a rail back of my house, one of those curious-eyed little sparrows. And he was a better preacher to me than I am to you. It was winter, and there was not guaranteed to it one day’s food, not any protection, from any source in this world. It was wholly dependent upon its God. And yet it sang, ---- sang for its own hearing, and sang for my rebuke, saying to me, “Are ye not much more than I? And God thinks of me, and takes care of me.” How much there is in the voice of nature if we only knew how to interpret it!