
In your hurried holidays, do you hear the voice that pleads?
It comes from ancient ages, it tells what Christmas needs.
In your hurried holidays, do you hear the voice that pleads?
It comes from ancient ages, it tells what Christmas needs.
Author note: This poem was originally written two years ago. I realize that Thanksgiving was unique this year. However maybe we can use this to remember the good times past and hope for better times to come. . . .
This year the feast is at your house, and you will be the host.
You want it to be perfect, but not so you can boast;
It’s just with all the family, there will be quite a crowd
And you want serve a special meal to make the Pilgrim’s proud!
Worthless, crumpled little leaf—
Cast off without a care;
Set upon the listless wind,
Carried here and there.
You’re not but nature’s clutter
To disgrace a pristine lawn;
The only want we give you
Is we want you good and gone!
And the Lord within the Manor
Sees you only as a chore;
He’ll have to rake and bag you
Which is irksome all the more.
The drought was getting serious,
The situation bleak,
And for the want of sustenance
The village was getting weak.
And the thing that was most needed,
On the hot and thirsty plain,
Was a life sustaining downpour—
A good old-fashioned rain.
In this earth’s existence, it’s 11:59,
Yet the world races onward, like everything is fine.
And people seem to say “Eat, drink, and let’s be merry!”
Even the “faithful” dally with, “We see the bridegroom tarry.”
There’s so much work to do each day
And all will discover with some dismay—
That life’s not a walk, it’s an all-out run,
And when it seems over, it’s just begun!
Thundering forth from Sinai’s height
With lightning, smoke, and fire light—
An invitation to take God’s grace,
And prepare the soul to see His face.
Yet Israel’s children with hardened heart,
Chose, instead, a lesser part.
Lehonti was a Lamanite protected on a mount,
Surrounded by defenders even more than he could count;
But Amalickiah’s message flattered him in part,
And so he left security for vanity of heart.
Yet flattery turned fatal so remember, won’t you please?
How subtly and slowly he was poisoned by degrees.
“I am a honeybee,” the cunning wasp lied.
“But how shall I know you?” the wise man replied.
“Just look,” cried the wasp, “I’m yellow and black
With wings to fly and a stinging attack.”
A teenage boy treads alone, a road that’s dusty, dry;
The cigarette in his hand, glows against the starry sky.
And in this place his soul is stirred by heaven’s holy hand,
And he wonders if there is a God and what He might have planned.