Poetry Saturday—On A Day When Men Were Counted

On a day when men were counted, God became the Son of Man,
That His name in every census should be entered was His plan.
God, the Lord of all creation, humbly takes a creature’s place;
He whose form no man has witnessed has today a human face.

On a night, while silent shepherds watched their flocks upon the plain,
Came a message with its summons brought by song of angel train:
Lo, in Bethlehem’s little village has arrived the shepherd King,
And each shepherd to his Master must his sheep as offering bring.

When there shone the star of David in the spangled eastern sky,
Kings arrived to pay their homage to the Christ, the Lord Most High.
Yet not all, for lo, there soundeth through the streets a fearful cry;
For a king who will not worship has decreed that Christ must die.

Yet it’s Christmas, and we greet Him, coming even now to save;
For the Lord of our salvation was not captive to the grave.
Out of Egypt came the Savior, man’s Immanuel to be—
Christmas shines with Easter glory, glory of eternity. —Daniel Thambyrajah Niles

Poetry Saturday—Thanksgiving

We walk on story fields of white
And do not see the daisies, 
For blessings common in our sight 
We rarely offer praises. 
We sigh for some supreme delight 
To crown our lives with splendor, 
And quite ignore our daily store 
Of pleasures sweet and tender.

Our cares are bold and push their way 
Upon our thought and feeling; 
They hang about us all the day, 
Our time from pleasure stealing. 
So unobtrusive many a joy 
We pass by and forget it, 
But worry strives to own our lives, 
And conquers if we let it.

There’s not a day in all the year 
But holds some hidden pleasure, 
And, looking back, joys oft appear 
To brim the past’s wide measure. 
But blessings are like friends, I hold, 
Who love and labor near us. 
We ought to raise our notes of praise 
While living hearts can hear us.

Full many a blessing wears the guise 
Of worry or of trouble; 
Far-seeing is the soul, and wise, 
Who knows the mask is double. 
But he who has the faith and strength 
To thank his God for sorrow 
Has found a joy without alloy 
To gladden every morrow.

We ought to make the moments notes
Of happy, glad thanksgiving; 
The hours and days a silent phrase 
Of music we are living. 
And so the theme should swell and grow 
As weeks and months pass o’er us, 
And rise sublime at this good time, 
A grand thanksgiving chorus. —Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Poetry Saturday—I Do It Unto Thee

Lord of all pots and pans and things,
since I’ve no time to be a great saint
by doing lovely things…
make me a saint by getting meals,
and washing up the plates.
Warm all the kitchen with Thy love,
and light it with Thy peace;
forgive me all my worrying,
and make my grumbling cease.
Thou Who didst love to give men food,
in room, or by the sea,
accept the service that I do,
I do it unto Thee.
Amen. —Brother Lawrence

Poetry Saturday—Come, Thou Fount

Come, Thou Fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing Thy grace; 
streams of mercy, never ceasing, call for songs of loudest praise. 
Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above. 
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it, mount of Thy redeeming love. 

Here I raise mine Ebenezer; hither by Thy help I’m come; 
and I hope, by Thy good pleasure, safely to arrive at home. 
Jesus sought me when a stranger, wandering from the fold of God; 
He, to rescue me from danger, interposed His precious blood. 

O to grace how great a debtor daily I’m constrained to be! 
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter, bind my wandering heart to Thee. 
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it, prone to leave the God I love;
here’s my heart, O take and seal it, seal it for Thy courts above. —Robert Robinson

Poetry Saturday—Mind Is The Master

Mind is the Master power that moulds and makes,
And Man is Mind, and evermore he takes
The tool of Thought, and, shaping what he wills,
Brings forth a thousand joys, a thousand ills:—
He thinks in secret, and it comes to pass:
Environment is but his looking-glass. —James Allen, in As A Man Thinketh

Poetry Saturday—Come, Ye That Love The Lord

Come, ye that love the Lord,
  And let your joys be known;
Join in a song with sweet accord
  While we surround the throne.
The sorrow of the mind
  Be banish’d from the place; 
Religion never was design’d
  To make our pleasures less.
Let those refuse to sing
  Who never knew our God;
But servants of the heavenly King
  May speak their joys abroad.
The God that rules on high,
  That all the earth surveys,
That rides upon the stormy sky,
  And calms the roaring seas:
This awful God of ours,
  Our Father and our Love;
He will send down His heavenly powers
  To carry us above. 
There shall we see His face,
  And never, never sin;
There from the rivers of His grace
  Drink endless pleasures in.
Yes! and before we rise
  To that immortal state,
The thoughts of such amazing bliss
  Should constant joys create.
The men of grace have found
  Glory begun below;
Celestial fruits on earthly ground
  From faith and hope may grow.
The hill of Zion yields
  A thousand sacred sweets,
Before we reach the heavenly fields,
  Or walk the golden streets.
Then let our songs abound,
  And every tear be dry;
We’re marching through Immanuel’s ground
  To fairer worlds on high. —Isaac Watts

Poetry Saturday—Evolutionary Hymn

Lead us, evolution, lead us 
Up future’s endless stair; 
Chop us, change us, prod us, weed us. 
For stagnation is despair: 
Groping, guessing, yet progressing, 
Lead us nobody knows where. —C.S. Lewis

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