Give Me Tomorrow

Wrote a new poem yesterday.  :]

For the days I fail You

For the Words I ignore

For the missed opportunities

For the trials in store

Grant me strength!

To live for You and show

A dark world Your Hope--

Lord, give me Tomorrow.

Poem written by me, Sarah Dake.  Photo via Pinterest.

Blessings this lovely Sunday!

Sarah

P.o.t.W.

This poem was inspired by a heart-breaking tragedy that turned into glorious rejoicing among God's children.

One week ago from this past Saturday, May 10th (the day before Mother's Day), a family suffered the loss of their home and everything therein to a fire.  Among the lost possessions and items, including two vehicles, was the precious life of a 18-month-old baby girl.  Despite the death of their daughter and the overwhelming sadness, the parents remain strong and steadfast in their faith, portraying the perfect example of followers of Christ Jesus.

At the funeral, Saturday, May 17th, the father stood and preached the Gospel to those attending, then sang the beautiful hymn, "It Is Well."  Oh, to have such faith!  By the time the service ended, there was great rejoicing at the harvest of seven souls, and many more re-dedications!  Have you ever heard of that happening at a funeral?  How I wish we could have seen it!

God's grace still amazes me.  He used a horrific tragedy to bring others to know Him.

Please keep this sweet family of eight in your prayers.  Though God has provided every possible need, they still crave your prayers.  Many thanks to you, prayer warriors!

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Heavy Heart

My heavy heart is burdened, Lord!

When precious life abruptly ends, 

And we are left to journey forward

Thru pain and trial, frail faith defends.

Tho' Death has lost Your battle fought,

He seems to reign on Earth, yet still;

For every day, lives are o'erwrought

And grief abounds in Death's cold chill.

When cancer takes young mother away,
And children are left to grieve and mourn;

When humanity argues, rights to sway,

And women give in to slaughter unborn.

When feeble body succumbs to age,

And dying woman with family surround

Sees Jesus free her from fleshly cage,

To welcome her home--wisdom now crowned.

When father must bury his baby girl;

In the midst of tears, he takes control,

Speaks forth Christ's truth, sacred pearl,

Then sings, "It is well, it is well with my soul!"

Oh, such faith, I could only wish for!

To sing despite doubt and despair;

To show the love and peace You store,

And help the hurting, their load to share.

My God, my God, I see Your face!
Heavy heart of mine, in Love do dwell.

Still, I sing Your amazing Grace,
And oh! my soul, it is well! It is well!

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Poem written by Sarah Dake.
Photo via Pinterest.

P.o.t.W.

New poem by me, Sarah. 

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God of My Praise

Psalm 109:1

Though stormy waters of life I face

And trials by fire I daily race;

Though friends betray and family falls,

And for faith I'm bound in prison walls;

Still I pray my song shall be

To God my King in whom I'm free.

Though beaten and bruised in shackles of sin,

My hope is, and will, remain in Him.

He who has defeated Death,

And in whom I draw my every breath.

I trust all to Him, my hands I raise,

For He, alone, is God of my praise.

P.o.t.W. {A Man Called Love}

He speaks in a whisper, rarely a shout;
His arms are Comfort; He drives away Doubt.
His Word is a sword, sharp and sheet;
His hands, always open, are warm and dear.
He came for sinners, the vilest of all;
Those ready to listen and heed His call.
He came to live, an example to be;
Then surrendered everything to die on a tree.
He lived and died for vast mankind,
Bound in world-chains, hopeless and blind.
His Rescue of Mercy and Grace displayed,
Shattered Death's plan -- man's debt was paid!
He sits now on Heaven's righteous throne,
Awaiting the Day He shall bring us Home.

Who is He?  This Lord of Above?
He is my God -- a Man called Love.

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Poem written by me, Sarah.  

Photo via Pinterest.  Words Photoshopped by Sarah (with exception of "love").

Happy Monday!

Sarah

P.o.t.W.

Brand new poem from me, Sarah.

Trust Me.

(Photo via Pinterest.  Poem written by Sarah.)

P.o.t.W.

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To each is given a bag of tools,

A shapeless mass, and a book of rules;

And each must make, ere life is flown,

A stumbling block or a stepping stone.

[Anonymous]

P.o.t.W.

Poem by Sarah.

Photo via Pinterest.

P.o.t.W.

New poem, freshly written.  Inspired by the words of Matthew 5:38-42.

Go the Second Mile.

P.o.t.W.

via Google

P.o.t.W.

Eletelephony

Once there was an elephant,

Who tried to use the telephant--

No! no! I mean an elephone

Who tried to use the telephone--

(Dear me! I am not certain quite

That even now I've got it right.)

Howe'er it was, he got his trunk

Entangled in the telephunk;

The more he tried to get it free,

The louder buzzed the telephee--

(I fear I'd better drop the song

of elephop and telephong!)

Laura E. Richards

P.o.t.W.

The Arrow and the Song
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

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I shot an arrow into the air,
It fell to earth, I knew not where;
For, so swiftly it flew, the sight
Could not follow in its flight.

I breathed a song into the air,
It fell to earth I knew not where;
For who has sight so keen and strong,
That it can follow the flight of song?

Long, long afterward, in an oak
I found the arrow, still unbroke;
And the song, from beginning to end,
I found again in the heart of a friend.

P.o.t.W.

Wishing
(excerpt from It Can Be Done)

Horace Greeley said that no one need fear the editor who indulged in diatribes against the prevalence of polygamy in Utah, but that malefactors had better look out when an editor took up his pen against abuses in his own city.  We all tend to begin our reforms too far away from home.  The man who wishes improvement strongly enough to set to work on himself is the man who will obtain results.

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Do you wish the world were better?

Let me tell you what to do. 

Set a watch upon your actions,

Keep them always straight and true.

Rid your mind of selfish motives,

Let your thoughts be clean and high.

You can make a little Eden

Of the sphere you occupy.

Do you wish you were wiser?

Well, suppose you make a start,

By accumulating wisdom

In the scrapbook of your heart;

Do not waste one page on folly;

Live to learn, and learn to live.

If you want to give men knowledge

You must get it, ere you give.

Do you wish the world were happy?

Then remember day by day

Just to scatter seeds of kindness

As you pass along the way,For the pleasures of the manyMay be ofttimes traced to one,

As the hand that plants an acorn

Shelters armies from the sun.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

P.o.t.W.

Co-operation
(excerpt from It Can Be Done: Poems for Hardship, Sacrifice, and Dominion)

"We must all hang together, or assuredly we shall all hang separately," Benjamin Franklin is reported to have said at the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

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It ain't the guns nor armament, 

Nor funds that they can pay,

But the close co-operation,

That makes them win the day.

It ain't the individual,

Nor the army as a whole,

But the everlasting team-work

Of every bloomin' soul.

J. Mason Knox

P.o.t.W.

This poem is a bit random, I'm afraid.  =]  But maybe it will put a smile on your face.  Remember to give thanks for what you have, tomorrow it could be gone.

A Poor Unfortunate
(An excerpt and poem from It Can Be Done: Poems for Hardship, Sacrifice, and Dominion)

Things are never so bad but they might have been worse.  An immigrant into the South paid a negro to bring him a wild turkey.  The next day he complained: "You shouldn't shoot at the turkey's body, Rastus.  Shoot at his head.  The flesh of that turkey was simply full of shot."  "Boss," said the negro, "dem shot was meant for me."

His hoss went dead an' his mule went lame;

He lost six cows in a poker game;

A harricane came on a summer's day,

An' carried the house whar' he lived away;

Then a airthquake come when that wuz gone,

An' swallered the lan' that the house stood on!

An' the tax collector, he come roun'

An' charged him up fer the hole in the groun'!

An' the city marshal--he come in view

An' said he wanted his street tax, too!

Did he moan an' sigh? Did he set an' cry

An' cuss the harricane sweepin' by?

Did he grieve that his ol' friends failed to call

When the airthquake come an' swallered all?

Never a word o' blame he said,

With all them troubles on top his head!

Not him... He clumb to the top o' the hill--

Whar' standin' room wuz left him still,

An' barin' his head, here's what he said:

"I reckon it's time to git up an' git;

But, Lord, I hain't had the measels yit!"

Frank L. Stanton

P.o.t.W.

There is a Fountain

Hymn, William Cowper, 1731-1800

to an Early American Melody

There is a fountain filled with Love

Drawn from Immanuel's veins;

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,

Lose all their guilty stains:

Lose all their guilty stains,

Lose all their guilty stains;

And sinners, plunged beneath that flood,

Lose all their guilty stains.

The dying thief rejoiced to see

That fountain in his day;

And there may I, though vile as he,

Wash all my sins away!

Wash all my sins away,

Wash all my sins away;

And there may I, though vile as he,

Wash all my sins away!

Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood

Shall never lose its power

Till all the ransomed church of God

Be saved, to sin no more:

Be saved, to sin no more,

Be saved, to sin no more;

Till all the ransomed church of God 

Be saved to sin no more.

E'er since by faith I saw the stream

Thy flowing wounds supply,

Redeeming love has been my theme.

And shall be till I die:

And shall be till I die,

And shall be till I die;

Redeeming love has been my theme, 

And shall be till I die.

P.o.t.W.

Can't 
(excerpt from It Can Be Done: Poems for Hardship, Sacrifice, and Dominion)

A great, achieving soul will not clog itself with a cowardly thought or a cowardly watchword.  Cardinal Richelieu in Bulwer Lytton's play declares: "In the lexicon of youth, which fate reserves for a bright manhood, there is no such word as 'fail.' " "Impossible," Napoleon is quoted as saying, "is a word found only in the dictionary of fools."

Can't is the worst word that's written or spoken;

Doing more harm here than slander and lies;

On it is many a strong spirit broken,

And with it many a good purpose dies.

It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning

And robs us of courage we need through the day:

It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning

And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.

Can't is the father of feeble endeavor,

The parent of terror and half-hearted work;

It weakens the efforts of artisans clever,

And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk.

It poisons the soul of the man with a vision,

It stifles in infancy many a plan;

It greets honest toiling with open derision

And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.

Can't is a word none should speak without blushing;

To utter is should be a symbol of shame;

Ambition and courage it daily is crushing;

It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim.

Despise it with all of your hatred of error;

Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain;

Arm against it as a creature of terror,

And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.

Can't is the word that is foe to ambition,

An enemy ambushed to shatter Your will;

Its prey is forever the man with a lesson.

And bows but to courage and patience and skill.

Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying,

For once it is welcomed 'twill break any man;

Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying 

And answer this demon by saying: "I can."

Edgar A. Guest

P.o.t.W.

A Prayer
(excerpt from It Can Be Done: Poems for Hardship, Sacrifice, and Dominion)

Girabaldi, the Italian patriot, said to his men: "I do not promise you ease; I do not promise you comfort.  I promise you hardship, weariness, suffering; but I promise you victory."

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I do not pray for peace,
Nor ask that on my path
The sounds of war shall shrill no more,
The way be clear of wrath.
But this I beg Thee, Lord,
Steel Thou my heart with might,
And in the strife that men call life,
Grant me the strength to fight.
I do not pray for arms,
Nor shield to cover me.
What though I stand with empty hand,
So it be valiantly!
Spare me the coward's fear questioning 
    wrong or right:
Lord, among these mine enemies,
Grant me the strength to fight.

I do not pray that Thou
Keep me from any wound,
Though I fall low from thrust and blow,
Forced fighting to the ground;
But give me wit to hide
My hurt from all men's sight,
And for my need the while I bleed,
Lord, grant me strength to fight.
I do not pray that Thou 
Shouldst grant me victory;
Enough to know that from my foe
I have no will to flee,
Beaten and bruised and banned,
Flung like a broken sword,
Grant me this thing for conquering--
Let me die fighting, Lord!

Theodosia Garrison

P.o.t.W.

Here is a new poem written by me, Sarah.  =]

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"Unworthy!" 

Cries my burdened soul.

"Worth it all," 

Says He who gave His whole.

"Sinner," 

I whisper through heavy tears;

"Redeemed," 

Says He, "Forget your fears."

"Prisoner!" 

I cry on bended knee.

"My child, 

I will set you free.

                                  Come to Me."

Sarah Sackett

Poem of the Week [P.o.t.W.]

It has been quite a while since last we posted a poem.  

I [Sarah] would like to share one from a book called "It Can Be Done," originally published in 1921 and containing 239 poems.  My edition has been edited by Mr. Scott T. Brown, where he has put together those he loved most, with a little intro before the majority of poems.  Eventually, I would love to purchase the original copy, but this one will do.  =]  

Side note:  The next few poems posted will most likely come from this book. . .

This one is titled, "Life and Death."

"Many a man would die for wife and children, for faith, for country.  But would he live for them?  That, often, is the more heroic course--and the more sensible.  A rich man was hiring a driver for his carriage.  He asked each applicant how close he could drive to a precipice without toppling over.  'One foot,' 'Six inches,' Three inches,' ran the replies.  But an Irishman declared 'Faith, and I'd keep as far away from the place as I could.'  'Consider yourself employed,' was the rich man's comment."

So he died for his faith.  That is fin,

More than most of us do.

But stay, can you add to that line

That he lived for it, too?

In death he bore witness at last

As a martyr to truth.

Did his life do the same in the past

From the days of his youth?

It is easy to die. Men have died

For a wish or a whim--

From bravado or passion or pride.

Was it harder for him?

But to live: every day to live out

All the truth that he dreamt,

While his friends met his conduct with doubt,

And the world with contempt--

Was it thus that he plodded ahead,

Never turning aside?

Then we'll talk of the life that he led--
Never mind how he died.

[Ernest H. Crosby]

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Do not worry about how you might leave this world.  Make an effort to LIVE.

Happy Independence Day!

Happy 4th of July!

Picture via Pinterest.

A Nation's Strength (July 4th, 2012)