I was considering a old suit that I owned, and how it was wearing thin in places. Then I got to considering how we choose to wear out our lives. This is what I hope will be said about me when I wear out.
May your knees wear out in prayer,
Or the shoes upon your feet;
Wear these thin you may,
But don't wear out your seat!
~David Jamison~
Monday, December 22, 2014
Sunday, November 2, 2014
What Is This Thing Man Calls Death?
I heard a wonderful poem about how death isn't the end. It was written by one of my heroes, and someone who had known loss while still remaining positive. As it is copyrighted, I am including the link to it here.
https://www.lds.org/ensign/2010/02/what-is-this-thing-man-calls-death?lang=eng
https://www.lds.org/ensign/2010/02/what-is-this-thing-man-calls-death?lang=eng
Friday, October 31, 2014
Death Came to Me Last Night...
In recognition of today being Halloween, I thought I would post one of my more somber (almost macabre) poems. It features Death, with all his persuasive charms and hidden terrors. I wrote it at a very introspective moment (during a bout of insomnia), while considering how dying can be viewed with either horror or longing, depending on what someone has to live for. I hope that it makes you think, and that you come to the conclusion that I did - that life offers enough for all to spurn Death's advances when he asks us to join him before our time runs out.
Death came to me last night,
and oh, I could naught but stare!
‘Stead of what I thought might,
what visage greeted me there!
He stood not in a shroud,
but in a plain, simple cloak,
not drifting in a cloud,
but walking as other folk.
The scythe he carried not,
only an untitled book.
“The Book of Life,” I thought,
but I did not dare to look.
He towered not o’er me,
but near level with my height,
and Death’s face I could see –
oh, what a puzzling sight!
His features were pleasant,
his smile welcoming, warm.
His face held no portent,
no violence was in his form.
Yet, looking in his eyes,
I knew surely he was Death –
a coldness beyond guise
that fast stole away my breath.
The cold of deepest space,
yet the beauty of the sea,
hid beneath gentle face
and gazed out, blue, towards me.
He spoke and beckoned me,
and extended his free hand,
“Come with me now to see
the wonders within my land.”
The best of salesmen,
oh, how persuasive was he!
The visions he did lend
made me want to go and see.
He opened up his book,
and with a skeletal quill,
invited me to look
and therein my name to fill.
Parchment, yellowed and dry,
‘cross the pages drifted sand,
but this caught not my eye,
and I took the pen in hand.
Then thoughts of what Death lacked
restored curiosity.
I asked, not counting tact,
how he came thus garbed to me.
“Tonight I come gently,
for your sand has not run out.
But, oh, why go slowly?
Join me on my evening route!”
He opened a portal
and urged me with him to come
where could go no mortal.
Forth called the rattle and drum.
But I could not turn back
if I stepped over that rim;
in it showed his soul, black,
and I shrunk way from him.
Then, shaking slow his head,
he stepped in and disappeared;
leaving behind the dread,
taking the beauty I feared.
Now, I know he’ll return
on a not-too-distant day,
but now life’s candle burns
and choice holds my death at bay.
~David Jamison~
Death came to me last night,
and oh, I could naught but stare!
‘Stead of what I thought might,
what visage greeted me there!
He stood not in a shroud,
but in a plain, simple cloak,
not drifting in a cloud,
but walking as other folk.
The scythe he carried not,
only an untitled book.
“The Book of Life,” I thought,
but I did not dare to look.
He towered not o’er me,
but near level with my height,
and Death’s face I could see –
oh, what a puzzling sight!
His features were pleasant,
his smile welcoming, warm.
His face held no portent,
no violence was in his form.
Yet, looking in his eyes,
I knew surely he was Death –
a coldness beyond guise
that fast stole away my breath.
The cold of deepest space,
yet the beauty of the sea,
hid beneath gentle face
and gazed out, blue, towards me.
He spoke and beckoned me,
and extended his free hand,
“Come with me now to see
the wonders within my land.”
The best of salesmen,
oh, how persuasive was he!
The visions he did lend
made me want to go and see.
He opened up his book,
and with a skeletal quill,
invited me to look
and therein my name to fill.
Parchment, yellowed and dry,
‘cross the pages drifted sand,
but this caught not my eye,
and I took the pen in hand.
Then thoughts of what Death lacked
restored curiosity.
I asked, not counting tact,
how he came thus garbed to me.
“Tonight I come gently,
for your sand has not run out.
But, oh, why go slowly?
Join me on my evening route!”
He opened a portal
and urged me with him to come
where could go no mortal.
Forth called the rattle and drum.
But I could not turn back
if I stepped over that rim;
in it showed his soul, black,
and I shrunk way from him.
Then, shaking slow his head,
he stepped in and disappeared;
leaving behind the dread,
taking the beauty I feared.
Now, I know he’ll return
on a not-too-distant day,
but now life’s candle burns
and choice holds my death at bay.
~David Jamison~
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Walt Whitman Award
Last night I submitted my first book-length manuscript of poetry (many of the pieces have been posted on here) to a contest for publication! It is through the Academy of American Poets' Walt Whitman Award. Really hoping I win it!
Monday, October 27, 2014
A Psalm of Life
This poem
was written by my poet hero, Longfellow, in the hardest point of his
life. His wife was burned to death in an accident, and he was so
badly injured trying to save her that he couldn't attend her funeral.
After years of despondent sorrow for his loss, he finally chose to toss off the
dark abyss of his depression, and rose to the heights of heaven in his
timeless, inspired declaration that the soul cannot die, lifting us with
him in the process.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow~
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Part Two: Hope's Triumph
Here is the second half to my previous post. As tempting as it is, the human heart was never meant to close when hurt, only to open wider and seek out a healer.
I opened my heart
and it broke apart,
so the doors of my soul
quick covered the hole.
Better to seal in, it seemed,
my pain with all I dreamed.
Better to be full numb
than have love-pain to come.
Pain cried "keep out"
with agonizing shout.
Pierced to the very core,
I wanted love - no more!
But spring follows cold,
and faced by love so bold,
as day chases night
there came to me a light.
My bitterness slowly ebbs
as you pierce the webs
and dust that fills my tomb;
you shine through the gloom.
A crack fills the air!
My heart's covering doth tear.
I step out of self-made crypt,
and my chains off do rip.
You've opened my soul,
uncovered and healed the hole.
My heartbeat doth begin
and I start to love - again.
I opened my heart
and it broke apart,
so the doors of my soul
quick covered the hole.
Better to seal in, it seemed,
my pain with all I dreamed.
Better to be full numb
than have love-pain to come.
Pain cried "keep out"
with agonizing shout.
Pierced to the very core,
I wanted love - no more!
But spring follows cold,
and faced by love so bold,
as day chases night
there came to me a light.
My bitterness slowly ebbs
as you pierce the webs
and dust that fills my tomb;
you shine through the gloom.
A crack fills the air!
My heart's covering doth tear.
I step out of self-made crypt,
and my chains off do rip.
You've opened my soul,
uncovered and healed the hole.
My heartbeat doth begin
and I start to love - again.
Part One: Glass Heart
This is the first half of an intertwined pair of poems. It is pain that brought about this one, and healing that bore the second. But without the injury, there could have been no recovery.
How can a heart so open
be so empty?
Welcoming the universe,
then watching it flee.
A glass tear trickles down,
a flood stopped at its start.
A wound, a yearning, an ache;
each from a broken heart.
Oh, my heart was opened wide,
and that is far the worse:
you cannot break a heart
unless it's opened first.
~David Jamison~
How can a heart so open
be so empty?
Welcoming the universe,
then watching it flee.
A glass tear trickles down,
a flood stopped at its start.
A wound, a yearning, an ache;
each from a broken heart.
Oh, my heart was opened wide,
and that is far the worse:
you cannot break a heart
unless it's opened first.
~David Jamison~
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep
I saw this poem this morning and was inspired! It is so true, our loved ones are not truly lost!
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
~Mary Elizabeth Frye~
Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.
~Mary Elizabeth Frye~
Sunday, October 12, 2014
Realization
This past weekend I was at an inspirational conference. While listening to one of the speakers share the path that life had taken them on, I came to an realization that often my greatest trials have been my greatest blessings, steering me away from what I want, and toward what I need.
Realization
The journey and the pain
are the soul-cost to gain
all that you never sought,
but what God for you bought!
What I could not foresee,
Christ loving gave to me.
Now who can I serve,
give the gift I didn't deserve?
Oh, all that God has planned -
far more than my selfish demand!
Far less than the world cries for,
far less, but so much more!
~David Jamison~
Realization
The journey and the pain
are the soul-cost to gain
all that you never sought,
but what God for you bought!
What I could not foresee,
Christ loving gave to me.
Now who can I serve,
give the gift I didn't deserve?
Oh, all that God has planned -
far more than my selfish demand!
Far less than the world cries for,
far less, but so much more!
~David Jamison~
Thursday, October 9, 2014
Fly!
I am putting together a manuscript to submit to a contest for the publication of a first book of poetry. This has naturally put my thoughts on poetry a lot of late, which will hopefully be reflected in more frequent posts here.
While typing up my poems (I handwrite almost all of them first, it seems to help the words flow better), I found this short piece, written for a friend at a crossroads of their life. I hope it inspires you to follow your dreams, spread your wings, and fly!
You’re questioning your hopes,
and doubting all your dreams –
for nothing is quite sure,
or ever as it seems.
so, amidst your giving,
keep happiness around.
You were not designed
with failure as an end;
begin the dance of faith,
and light will be your friend.
You can reach any goal
‘pon which you set your eye;
you were born for greatness,
so follow your dreams – and fly!
~David Jamison~
While typing up my poems (I handwrite almost all of them first, it seems to help the words flow better), I found this short piece, written for a friend at a crossroads of their life. I hope it inspires you to follow your dreams, spread your wings, and fly!
You’re questioning your hopes,
and doubting all your dreams –
for nothing is quite sure,
or ever as it seems.
But dreams were made for living,
and joy for being found,so, amidst your giving,
keep happiness around.
You were not designed
with failure as an end;
begin the dance of faith,
and light will be your friend.
You can reach any goal
‘pon which you set your eye;
you were born for greatness,
so follow your dreams – and fly!
~David Jamison~
Tuesday, October 7, 2014
The Touch of the Master's Hand
This poem has had a great and lasting impact on my life. Both from my love of violins, and my musings about the idea of self-worth and inherent eternal value, this poem strikes a cord anew with me every time I read it. I invite you to read it, and open your heart to the inspired message: that your value is far above what you or others believe, and it only takes the "touch of the Master's hand" to bring that value to the surface.
’Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
’Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile:
“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”
“A dollar, a dollar”; then, “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;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, 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! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
And going, and gone!” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We do not quite understand
What changed its worth.” Swift came the reply:
“The touch of a 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’s “going” once, and “going” twice,
He’s “going” and almost “gone.”
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.
~Myra Brooks Welch~
Saturday, September 27, 2014
In Memoriam: 27
A touching and true poetic statement by a wise man:
I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
~Alfred Lord Tennyson~
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Small Thanks
In my last post I talked about epigrams and humorous poetry. Well I do not consider myself to be a funny poet, I have tried my hand at limericks, a sort of tongue-in-cheek stepchild among poetry. Here is one about my day-job, locksmithing. If nothing else, it stands to prove that I am not too mature to make a pun.
A locksmith visited a miser sour,
to make the best key in his power.
Instead of paying when done,
the miser pulled a gun!
So the locksmith made a bolt for the door.
~David Jamison~
A locksmith visited a miser sour,
to make the best key in his power.
Instead of paying when done,
the miser pulled a gun!
So the locksmith made a bolt for the door.
~David Jamison~
Tuesday, July 1, 2014
Epigram: A Reply
I am a fond proponent of good, clean humor, and I also love poetry (or couldn't you tell?), and the two combined is a special treat. Alas, I have found that I have very little luck in writing such myself, as so for a smile today, I thought I would share the work of a man more talented in that department.
Some of my favorite funny poems are epigrams; they are short, to the point, and often evoke, if not outright laughter, at least a chuckle. This one is called "A Reply." Enjoy!
Sir, I admit your general rule
that every poet is a fool;
but you yourself may serve to show it,
that every fool is not a poet.
~Matthew Prior~
Some of my favorite funny poems are epigrams; they are short, to the point, and often evoke, if not outright laughter, at least a chuckle. This one is called "A Reply." Enjoy!
Sir, I admit your general rule
that every poet is a fool;
but you yourself may serve to show it,
that every fool is not a poet.
~Matthew Prior~
Sunday, June 29, 2014
To Catch a Snowflake
Here is a poem that I wrote some years back about a lost love (who shall remain anonymous). I rediscovered it yesterday, and wanted to share it. Sometimes, when I come across a particularly touching piece of poetry, I feel if I don't share it with another human I'll bust! I'm not totally sure why. Please let me know what you think about it. I am considering putting together a book of the love poems I've written over the years... would appreciate any thoughts on the matter.
The drifting snow reminds me
of your pure, sweet innocence;
and watching it falling down
I can't help but reminisce
on all the days, now gone by,
the laughter, heartache, and tears;
and to me, looking on back,
it seems but moments, not years.
All I wanted in this world -
to love and be loved by you;
that door seems to be shutting,
a wall put between us two.
Perhaps there is a window
for us I cannot yet see,
but, amidst white reminders,
all I feel is lonely.
For the first time you hurt me,
though for sure without intent;
I just wish I knew my sin
that our friendship has now rent
into two torn, poor pieces -
mine, without you, less than whole;
the cold around sinks in me,
chilling my heart and my soul.
Yet as I beg forgiveness
I give you, unneeded, mine;
though hurt, anger won't find a place
in my heart - no, not a sign.
So I stand out in the cold,
with soft snowflakes all around -
sticking to all I see:
on trees, houses, and the ground.
But there's one place they won't stick,
and that's here within my hands;
needing something different,
each vanishes where it lands.
How alike, the snow and you,
with beauty, soft grace, and charms;
you are everywhere near me,
but you're never in my arms.
I know that I should come in,
the cold starts to make me shake,
but I can't resist trying -
trying to catch a snowflake.
~David Jamison~
The drifting snow reminds me
of your pure, sweet innocence;
and watching it falling down
I can't help but reminisce
on all the days, now gone by,
the laughter, heartache, and tears;
and to me, looking on back,
it seems but moments, not years.
All I wanted in this world -
to love and be loved by you;
that door seems to be shutting,
a wall put between us two.
Perhaps there is a window
for us I cannot yet see,
but, amidst white reminders,
all I feel is lonely.
For the first time you hurt me,
though for sure without intent;
I just wish I knew my sin
that our friendship has now rent
into two torn, poor pieces -
mine, without you, less than whole;
the cold around sinks in me,
chilling my heart and my soul.
Yet as I beg forgiveness
I give you, unneeded, mine;
though hurt, anger won't find a place
in my heart - no, not a sign.
So I stand out in the cold,
with soft snowflakes all around -
sticking to all I see:
on trees, houses, and the ground.
But there's one place they won't stick,
and that's here within my hands;
needing something different,
each vanishes where it lands.
How alike, the snow and you,
with beauty, soft grace, and charms;
you are everywhere near me,
but you're never in my arms.
I know that I should come in,
the cold starts to make me shake,
but I can't resist trying -
trying to catch a snowflake.
~David Jamison~
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Branching out
I know that this blog is dedicated to poetry, and poetry by definition has metrical form, separating it from prose. But I want to include, on occasion, some prose musings of mine. I hope that they touch you in some way, and that you enjoy reading them as much as I enjoy writing them.
True Love
True Love
What is true love? True love is never motivated by self-fulfillment or personal satisfaction. It puts the welfare (in all senses of the word) of the other completely above its own. It isn't satisfied with cheap imitations (quick thrills or short-term gains), it seeks relationships that last. There are no endings in true love - only beginnings. It does not give up, fold in, or walk out. In all things, it isn't about the lover - it's about the loved. True love doesn't come in "instant," "pre-packaged," or "one-size-fits-all" forms. It takes work, sweat, and tears, and is not for sissies. It is hard to build, and even harder to maintain. It does not last if left uncared for, but will not buckle when it is attacked. It gives up anything and everything necessary for the loved; it asks nothing in return, but gets everything.
What is true love worth? You tell me.
What is true love worth? You tell me.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
The Best of Years
A couple of weeks ago I attended the 100th birthday celebration of my grandmother. It was a wonderful experience.
Well, a few months before I had been approached by an uncle and asked if I would write a poem for her about her life, and then read it for the family at the party! It was a wonderful honor, but, considering I hadn't written any poetry for around a year (for various reasons), it was also a little daunting. Imagine, paying tribute to 100 years, and a mother of nearly as many descendants!
I struggled with it for quite a while, trying to find the words, trying to make it into something with feeling, meaning and love - in other words, trying to breathe a soul onto paper. I finally finished it in the last few hours before I would get up to read it. Here is a copy of it.
The Best of Years
O, Mother of Multitudes,
your life's a tapestry
of unbounded influence
on friend and family.
You may not know in full
what your life has meant,
or of the lives changed
for which you were sent.
Not least of these your children,
your sprouting oak-tree stem;
each in your heart found place,
each one a wanted gem.
Oh, the weaving of your life,
to touch many a thread!
A hundred little moments
with infinity ahead.
Lives have been touched,
and many will be still;
no matter where you are
this place you'll always fill.
Do not bemoan times past,
nor call them back with tears -
the legacy you've built
makes these the best of years.
~David Jamison~
Well, a few months before I had been approached by an uncle and asked if I would write a poem for her about her life, and then read it for the family at the party! It was a wonderful honor, but, considering I hadn't written any poetry for around a year (for various reasons), it was also a little daunting. Imagine, paying tribute to 100 years, and a mother of nearly as many descendants!
I struggled with it for quite a while, trying to find the words, trying to make it into something with feeling, meaning and love - in other words, trying to breathe a soul onto paper. I finally finished it in the last few hours before I would get up to read it. Here is a copy of it.
The Best of Years
O, Mother of Multitudes,
your life's a tapestry
of unbounded influence
on friend and family.
You may not know in full
what your life has meant,
or of the lives changed
for which you were sent.
Not least of these your children,
your sprouting oak-tree stem;
each in your heart found place,
each one a wanted gem.
Oh, the weaving of your life,
to touch many a thread!
A hundred little moments
with infinity ahead.
Lives have been touched,
and many will be still;
no matter where you are
this place you'll always fill.
Do not bemoan times past,
nor call them back with tears -
the legacy you've built
makes these the best of years.
~David Jamison~
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Good Timber
Wow, it has been a while since I last posted! I have had the following poem on my mind of late. It keeps popping up at the strangest times. For me when a poem does that, there is something that I need to learn from it. That was certainly the case here.
Are you struggling through trials that you never wanted, and don't feel that you deserve? Do you find yourself looking up at the stars/ceiling and asking the oldest question of all time (why)? I do. No poem can answer all your questions or quiet all your fears, but this one was a good start for me.
Good Timber
The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.
The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began. Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The further sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.
Where thickest lies the forest growth,
We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life.
~Douglas Malloch
Are you struggling through trials that you never wanted, and don't feel that you deserve? Do you find yourself looking up at the stars/ceiling and asking the oldest question of all time (why)? I do. No poem can answer all your questions or quiet all your fears, but this one was a good start for me.
Good Timber
The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.
The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began. Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The further sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.
Where thickest lies the forest growth,
We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life.
~Douglas Malloch
Sunday, January 19, 2014
"God's Pay" & "Father, Where Shall I Work Today?"
Greetings again to all poetry lovers! I have just returned from my two-year mission for my Savior, and thought that I would once again post here.
I have had little time over the past two years to write (though I will be posting a poem or two from that period in the near future), but thought I would post two inspirational poems that I found.
The first speaks of how God rewards those who do His work, the second, how we should react when called to that work, no matter what the task or location may be. I hope that you enjoy them!
Who does God's work will get God's pay,
No matter how long may seem the day,No matter how weary be the way;He does not pay as others payWith silk and gold and raiments gay,But his high wisdom knows a wayAnd this is sure, that come what may,Who does God's work will get God's pay.
~Author Unknown
“Father, where shall I work today?”
I have had little time over the past two years to write (though I will be posting a poem or two from that period in the near future), but thought I would post two inspirational poems that I found.
The first speaks of how God rewards those who do His work, the second, how we should react when called to that work, no matter what the task or location may be. I hope that you enjoy them!
Who does God's work will get God's pay,
No matter how long may seem the day,No matter how weary be the way;He does not pay as others payWith silk and gold and raiments gay,But his high wisdom knows a wayAnd this is sure, that come what may,Who does God's work will get God's pay.
~Author Unknown
“Father, where shall I work today?”
And my love flowed warm and free.
Then he pointed out a tiny spot
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; …
“Art thou working for them or for me?
Nazareth was a little place,
And so was Galilee.”
~Meade MacGuire
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