Poetry Saturday—A Man With An Aim

Give me a man with an aim,
   Whatever that aim may be,
Whether it’s wealth or whether it’s fame,
   It matters not to me.
Let him walk in the path of right,
   And keep his aim in sight,
And work and pray in faith alway,
   With his eyes on the glittering height.

Give me a man who says,
   “I will do something well,
And make the fleeing days
   A story of labor to tell.”
Though the aim he has be small,
   It is better than none at all;
With something to do the whole year through,
   He will not stumble and fall.

But satan weaves a snare
   For the feet of those who stray,
With never a thought or care
   Where the path may lead away.
The man who hath no aim
   Not only leaves no name
When life’s done, but ten to one
   He leaves a record of shame. 

Give me a man whose heart
   Is filled with ambition’s fire;
Who sets his mark in the start,
   And keeps moving it higher and higher.
Better to die in the strife,
   The hands with labor rife,
Than to glide with the stream in an idle dream
   And lead a purposeless life. 

Better to strive and climb
   And never reach the goal,
Than to drift along with time
   An aimless, worthless soul.
Ay, better to climb and fall,
   Or sow, though the yield be small,
Than to throw away day after day,
   And never to strive at all. —Anonymous

Poetry Saturday—Worthwhile

It is easy enough to be pleasant
   When life flows along like a song,
But the man worthwhile is the one who will smile
   When everything goes dead wrong;
For the test of the heart is trouble,
   And it always comes with the years,
And the smile that is worth the praises of earth
   Is the smile that shines through tears.

It is easy enough to be prudent
   When nothing tempts you to stray:
When without or within no voice of sin
   Is luring your soul away;
But it’s only a negative virtue
   Until it is tried by fire,
And the life that is worth the honor of earth
   Is the one that resists desire.

By the cynic, the sad, the fallen
   Who had no strength for the strife,
The world’s highway is cumbered today;
   They make up the item of life.
But the virtue that conquers passion,
   And the sorrow that hides in a smile,
It is these that are worth the homage of earth,
   For we find them but once in a while. —Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Poetry Saturday—Sacred Bond

‘Twixt Jesus and the chosen race, 
Subsists a bond of sovereign grace. 
That hell, with its infernal train. 
Shall ne’er dissolve, or rend in twain. 

This sacred bond shall never break, 
Though earth should to her centre shake ; 
Rest, doubting saint, assured of this, 
For God has pledged His holiness. 

He swore but once, the deed was done; 
‘Twas settled by the great Three One; 
Christ was appointed to r’deem 
All that the Father loved in Him. 

Hail sacred union, firm and strong! 
How great the grace, how sweet the song! 
That worms of earth should ever be 
One with incarnate Deity! 

One in the tomb, one when He rose, 
One when He triumph’d o’er His foes. 
One when in heaven He took His seat. 
While seraph’s sung all hell’s defeat. 

This sacred tie forbids their fears, 
For all He is, or has, is theirs; 
With Him their head, they stand or fall, 
Their life, their surety, and their all. —Anonymous

Poetry Saturday—Jesus, Saviour, Grow In Me

O Jesus, Saviour, grow in me,
and all things else recede:
to You my heart would nearer be,
from sin be daily freed.

Each day embrace my weakness, Lord,
with Your supporting might;
and let my death be lost in life,
my darkness in Your light.

Let faith in You and in Your strength
my every motive move;
may You alone be my delight,
my passion and my love.

Fill me with gladness from above,
hold me by strength divine.
Lord, let the glow of Your great love
through my whole being shine.

Show me Your glory more and more,
Lord, holy, wise, and true!
Your living image I would be,
in joy and sorrow too.

Make this poor self grow less and less,
and be Yourself my aim;
and through Your grace, make me each day
more worthy of Your name. —Johann K. Lavater

Poetry Saturday—Trinitie Sunday

Lord, who hast form’d me out of mud,
    And hast redeem’d me through Thy bloud,
    And sanctifi’d me to do good;

Purge all my sinnes done heretofore:
    For I confesse my heavie score,
    And I will strive to sinne no more.

Enrich my heart, mouth, hands in me,
    With faith, with hope, with charitie;
    That I may runne, rise, rest with Thee. —George Herbert

Poetry Saturday—The Thorn

I stood a mendicant of God before His royal throne
And begged Him for one priceless gift, which I could call my own.
I took the gift from out of His hand, but as I would depart
I cried, “But Lord this is a thorn and it has pierced my heart.
This is a strange, a hurtful gift, which Thou hast given me.”
He said, “My child, I give good gifts and gave My best to thee.”
I took it home and though at first the cruel thorn hurt sore,
As long years passed I learned at last to love it more and more.
I learned He never gives a thorn without this added grace,
He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face. —Martha Snell Nicholson

Poetry Saturday—Beyond The Glittering, Starry Skies

Beyond the glittering starry skies,
Far as th’ eternal hills,
There, in those boundless worlds of light,
Our great Redeemer dwells.

Legions of angels strong and fair,
In countless armies shine,
At His right hand with golden harps,
To offer songs divine.

“Hail, Prince!” they cry, “forever hail!
Whose unexampled love
Moved Thee to quit those glorious realms,
And royalties above.”

While He did condescend on earth
To suffer rude disdain,
They cast their honors at His feet,
And waited in His train.

Through all His travels here below
They did His steps attend!
Oft gazed and wondered where at last
This scene of love would end.

They saw His heart transfixed with wounds,
His crimson sweat and gore,
They saw Him break the bars of death,
Which none e’er brake before.

They brought His chariot from above,
To bear Him to His throne,
Clapped their triumphant wings and cried,
“The glorious work is done!” —James Fanch

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