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The Poetry Thread.
Deborah-Leigh:
Sorin
That was very well written 8) ;D
Will the world miss us when we go/
Oh no Oh no I do not think so
Will the crowd notice that we are no more
Only if we owe them a debt to even their score!
Will we be missed by those we have kissed
Only if love did not make us remiss
Did we notice others and love them true
Only they canl know and so will we too
When that Trump does sound and from graves we resound
Our exact soul rags or riches will be found
Will we be dressed in His Spirit of hope and of love
Will we be dressed with Gods robes of grace from above
Or will we be mean and bitter to task
and into the fire of God be thrown at last
How will we fare on that fine day
When Jesus returns on His special day?
A heart that is clean and conscioence so true
This is my prayer for me and for you.
Peace to you
Arcturus :)
iris:
--- Quote from: Arcturus on February 15, 2007, 03:52:22 PM ---Sorin
That was very well written 8) ;D
Will the world miss us when we go/
Oh no Oh no I do not think so
Will the crowd notice that we are no more
Only if we owe them a debt to even their score!
Will we be missed by those we have kissed
Only if love did not make us remiss
Did we notice others and love them true
Only they canl know and so will we too
When that Trump does sound and from graves we resound
Our exact soul rags or riches will be found
Will we be dressed in His Spirit of hope and of love
Will we be dressed with Gods robes of grace from above
Or will we be mean and bitter to task
and into the fire of God be thrown at last
How will we fare on that fine day
When Jesus returns on His special day?
A heart that is clean and conscioence so true
This is my prayer for me and for you.
Peace to you
Arcturus :)
--- End quote ---
Hi Arcturus...I really liked your poem. Did you write it yourself?
Iris
Deborah-Leigh:
Yes Iris, I did....
Thank you that you liked it... :D
Peace to you
Arcturus :)
PKnowler:
Here's a poem a friend wrote that I thought would fit nicely here.
He's a UR believer. It's powerful!
NO HOPE IN HELL!
I look at the church today, listen to what they say
We have no hope in hell, no hope in hell
They know for sure,they know this well
What to do, where to go
They say that God doesn't run the show
Christ died on the cross for your sin
But that is not enough to win
No hope in hell is what they say
Listen to them and there's hell to pay
We have to make the church to see
That Christ is the only reality
No hope in hell, no hope in hell
Christ died for Hitlers Soul
Just as He died to make them whole
To the cross is where I'll be
Because He died to set all free
God will have all men saved
For now we know hell is just the grave
He is the living God of all men
For we will not die in our sin
Saved by fire, but not from hell
These are the things they will not tell
No hope in hell, no hope in hell
Christ is the hope I saw, for now God is all in all
Mike Kramer
2/12/07
Snowfire:
The Touch of the Master's Hand
by Myra Brooks Welch
'Twas battered and scarred, and the old auctioneer
thought it scarcely worth his while
to waste much time on the old violin,
but he still held it up with a smile:
"What am I bidden, good folks," he cried,
"Who'll start the bidding for me?"
"A dollar, a dollar"; then, "Two!" "Only two?
Two dollars, and who'll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
going for three..." but no.
From the room far back, a gray-haired man
came forward and picked up the bow;
then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
and tightening the loose strings,
he played a melody pure and sweet
as a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
with a voice that was quiet and low,
said; "What am I bidden for the old violin?"
And he held it up with the bow.
"A thousand! And who'll make it two?
Two thousand! And who'll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
and going, and gone," said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
"We do not quite understand
what changed its worth." Swift came the reply:
"The touch of the master's hand."
And many a man with life out of tune,
and battered and scarred with sun,
is auctioned cheep to the thoughtless crowd,
much like this old violin.
A "mess of pottage," a glass of wine;
a game; and he travels on.
He is "going" once, "going" twice,
he's "going" and almost "gone."
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
never can quite understand
the worth of a soul and the change that's wrought
by the touch of the Master's hand.
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