SAINTS AND SINNERS
When some fellow yields to temptation
And breaks a conventional law,
We look for no good in his makeup.
Oh Lord, how we look for the flaw!
No one asks, "Who did the tempting?"
Nor allows for the battles he fought.
His name becomes food for the jackals,
The saints who have never been caught.
I'm a sinner, oh Lord, and I know it.
I am weak, and I blunder and fail.
I am tossed on life's stormy ocean
Like a ship that is caught in a gale.
I am willing to trust in Thy mercy,
To keep the commandments you taught.
But deliver me, Lord, from the judgment
Of the saints who have never been caught.
KEEP KICKING
Two frogs fell into a can of cream, or so it has been told.
The sides of the can were shiny and steep; the cream was deep and cold.
"Oh, what's the use?" said number one. "It's plain no help's around.
Goodbye, my friend; goodbye, sad world," and weeping still, he drowned.
But number two, of sterner stuff, dog paddled in surprise.
The while he licked his creamy lips and blinked his creamy eyes.
"I'll swim at least a while," he thought, or so it has been said.
"It really wouldn't help the world, if one more frog were dead."
An hour or more he kicked and swam; not once he stopped to mutter.
Then hopped out from the island he had made of fresh churned butter.
Author unknown
HOW DO YOU LIVE YOUR DASH?
I read of a man who stood to speak at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on her new tombstone from the beginning to the end.
He noted that first came her date of birth,
and spoke the following date with tears.
But he said what mattered most of all was the dash between the years.
For that dash represents all the time that she spent,
alive on God's green earth (1908-99).
And now only those who love her know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not how much we own: the cars, the house, the cash.
What matters is how we live and love and how we spend our dash.
So think about this long and hard. Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left that can still be rearranged.
If we could just slow down enough to consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand the way other people feel,
And be less quick to anger, and show appreciation more,
And love the people in our lives like we'd never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect and more often wear a smile,
Remembering that this special dash might last only a little while.
So, when your eulogy's being read with your life's actions to rehash,
Would you be proud of the things they say about how you spent your dash?
Author unknown
REDNECK FAMILY TREE
Many, many years ago when I was twenty three,
I got married to a widow who was pretty as could be.
This widow had a grown-up daughter who had hair of red.
My father fell in love with her, and soon the two were wed.
This made my Dad my son-in-law, and changed my very life.
My daughter was my mother, for she was my father's wife.
To complicate the matters worse, although it brought me joy.
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.
My little baby then became a brother-in-law to Dad.
And so became my uncle, though it made me very sad.
For if he was my uncle, then that also made him brother
To the widows grown-up daughter who, of course, was my step-mother.
Father's wife then had a son who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandson, For he was my daughter's son.
My wife is now my mother's mother, and it makes me kinda blue'
Because, although she is my wife, she is my grandma too.
If my wife is my grandmother, then I am her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it simply drives me wild.
For now I have become the strangest case you ever saw.
As the husband of my grandmother, I am my own grandpa!!
I’M JUST MORE MATURE
Today at the drug store, the clerk was a gent,
From my purchase this chap took off ten percent.
I asked for the cause of a lesser amount;
And he answered: “Because of the Senior’s Discount.”
I went to McDonald’s for a burger and fries;
And there, once again, got quite a surprise
The clerk poured some coffee which he handed to me.
He said: “For you seniors, the coffee is free.”
Understand, I’m not old, I’m just more mature;
But some things are changing, temporarily, I’m sure.
The newspaper print gets smaller each day,
And people speak softer, can’t hear what they say.
My teeth are my own (I have the receipt).
And my glasses identify people I meet.
I’ve slowed down a bit...not a lot, I am sure.
You see, I’m not old, I’m just more mature
The gold in my hair has been bleached by the sun.
You should see all the damage that chlorine has done.
Washing my hair has turned it all white,
But don’t call it gray...saying “blond” is just right.
My friends all get older...much faster than me.
They seem much more wrinkled, from what I can see.
I’ve got “character lines”, not wrinkles, for sure,
So don’t call me old, I’m just more mature.
But I’m keeping up on what’s hip and what’s new.
And I think I can still dance a mean boogaloo.
I’m still in the running...in this I’m secure.
I’m not really old; I’m just more mature.
WITHOUT MY GLASSES
My face in the mirror is not wrinkled or drawn.
My house is not dusty; the cobwebs are gone.
My garden looks lovely, and so does my lawn.
I think I shall never put my glasses back on.
Anonymous
The mirror reflects just my face, not my heart.
Thank God He forgives and gives a new start.
From my house, garden and lawn before long I’ll depart.
For my eyes see much more than my doctor’s eye chart.
H.E.
Michal still lurks in the pew
Michal was loyal to everything royal,
For she was the daughter of Saul.
But her husband was poorish and awfully boorish
With simply no manners at all.
It was her fate to marry a mate
Who’d grown up with chickens and sheep.
How to bring charm to this boy from the farm
Was causing this queen to lose sleep.
Oh she had to confess he was a success.
In the eyes of the world, Dave was famous.
But of how kings comport themselves when in court,
He remained a complete ignoramus.
David’s heart soared as he danced to the Lord,
In a manner more free than refined.
And his poor little wife got the shock of her life,
So she gave him a piece of her mind.
“I don’t care a smidgeon about your religion
As long as its solemn and chaste.
But the way you’re behavin’ with arms wildly wavin’
Is shocking and lacking in taste.”
If you must raise your spirit in praise,
Please see that its soothing and calm.
The Lord, I am sure, would really prefer
Something more like the 23rd Psalm.
When God’s anointed became disappointed,
He knew he had nary a chance
Of ever persuadin’ this prim, royal maiden
That the Lord is a lover of dance.
Churches these days talk a lot about praise
And the joy that accompanies Good News.
But don’t tap your feet or get out of your seat,
For Michal still lurks in the pews.
Author Unknown
THE DESTRUCTION OF SENACHERIB
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold.
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue waves rolls nightly on deep Galilee.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
The host with their banners at sunset were seen.
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
The host on the morrow lay withered and strown.
For the angel of death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed.
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved and forever lay still.
And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
But through them rolled not the breath of his pride.
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
As cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.
And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail.
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone.
The lances unlifted, the banners unblown.
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal.
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like wax in the glance of the Lord.
Lord Byron
Should you go first
Should you go first and I remain to walk the road alone,
I’ll live in memory’s garden, dear, with happy days we’ve known.
In Spring I’ll wait for roses red; when faded, for lilacs blue.
In early fall when brown leaves fall, I’ll catch a glimpse of you.
Should you go first and I remain, for battles to be fought.
Each thing you’ve touched along the way will be a hallowed spot.
I’ll hear your voice, I’ll see your smile though blindly I may grope.
The memory of your helping hand will buoy me on with hope
Should you go first and I remain to finish with the scroll,
No length'ning shadows shall creep in to make this life seem droll,
We've known so much of happiness; we've had our cup of joy;
And memory is one gift of God that death cannot destroy..
Should you go first and I remain, one thing I’ll have you do:
Walk slowly down that long, long path, for soon I’ll follow you.
I want to know each step you take, so I may take the same,
For someday down that long, long road you’ll hear me call your name.
A.K. Roswell
The Senior Disease
I’m at a life stage where it’s not very rare
To look for an item that’s no longer there.
The objects are many I tend to displace
That manage to vanish, not leaving a trace.
My keys disappear, and my socks go astray
U
ntil I am down to one black and one gray.
Before I go shopping I make out a list,
And find at the store that it doesn’t exist.
I go to my garden to tie up a vine,
And look in my tool kit but can’t find the twine.
I swear that I had it two minutes ago,
But it seems to be lost, though I look high and low.
Sometimes when I want to relax in a chair,
The seat that I grope for is gone, who knows where?
When I climb up a ladder to get curtains hung,
Then back my way down, I can’t find the last rung.
‘Why am I plagued by,” I say with a gasp,
“Inanimate objects eluding my grasp?”
Though my temperatures normal, I don’t even sneeze.
I think I’ve contracted the senior disease.
Charlotte Richards
WILL YOU GIVE IT UP?
I cannot give it up, this little world I know;
The innocent delights of youth, the things I cherish so.
'Tis true I love my Lord, and want to do His will,
But Oh, I may enjoy the world, and be a christian still.
I love the houyr of prayer; I love the hymns of praise.
I love the blessed Word that tells of God's redeeming grace;
But I am human still, and while I dwell on earth.
God surely will not grudge the hours I spend in harmless mirth.
These things belong to youth, and are its natural right -
My pleasures, pastimes, and my friends - the merry and the bright.
My Father's heart is kind; He will not count it ill
That my small portion of the world should please and hold me still!
And yet --, outside the camp, 'twas there my Savior died.
It was the world that cast Him forth, and saw Him crucified.
Can I take part with these who nailed Him to the tree?
And where His name is never praised, is that the place for me?
Nay, world, I turn away, though thou seem fair and good,
That friendly outstreched hand of thine is stained with Jesus blood.
If in thy least device I stoop to take a part,
All unaware thine influence steals God's presence from my heart.
I miss my Savior's smile whene'er I walk thy ways.
Thy laughter drowns the Spirit's voice and chokes the springs of praise.
If e'er I turn aside to join thee for an hour,
the face of Christ grows blurred and dim and prayer has lost its power.
Farewell! Henceforth my place is with the Lamb who died.
My Sovereign, while I have thy love what can I want beside?
Thyself, dear Lord, art now my free and loving choice.
In whom, thou now I see thee not, believing I rejoice.
Author unknown
A MONKEY'S VIEWPOINT
Three monkeys sat in a coconut tree
Discussing things as they're said to be.
Said one to the others: "Now listen, you two,
There's a certain rumor that can't be true,
That man descends from our noble race,
The very idea, it's a dire disgrace.
No monkey has ever deserted his wife,
Starved her babies and ruined her life;
And you've never klnown a mother monk
To leave her babies with others to bunk
'Til they scarcely knew who their mother is!
And another thing you'll never see:
A monk build a fence 'round a coconut tree.
And let the coconuts go to waste,
Forbidding all other monks a taste.
Why, if I'd put a fence around this tree,
Starvation would force you to steal from me.
Here's another thing a monk won't do -
Go out at night and go on a stew,
Or use a gun, a club, or a knife
To take some other monkey's life.
If man descended, who loves such fuss,
My brothers, he didn't descend from us."
Author unknown
POWERLESS
Once I bought my son an engine that would circle 'round and 'round.
For I knew he'd be so happy when his 'lectric train he found.
Like a boy, myself, I set it going 'neath the Christmas tree.
All my dignity forgotten as I watched in childish glee.
Then it stopped. I tried to mend it. Turned it here and punched it there;
But my knowledge of mechanics found no trouble anywhere.
I was disappointed sorely as I knew the boy would be.
Then I spied a glittering something that had fallen from the tree.
Surely that wee bit of tinsel on the rail no harm had done,
But I brushed it off, and presto, how that train began to run!
But my smile of joy soon faded as I slowly turned the key.
Through that incident of playtime what a lesson came to me.
Oh, how many lives are useless, standing still or sliding back!
Something foreign cuts the current, maybe tinsel on the track.
Just a bit of something shiny, something harmless in its place.
But it makes all effort fruitless; there's no power for the race.
Track is smooth and train is ready. The machinery has no lack.
You alone can find the trouble. Get the tinsel off the track.
Then again, your train goes speeding on the round the Master hand
Laid before you on the mission that His love and wisdom planned.
Ida Keyes