Earth's crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God,

But only he who sees takes off his shoes;

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

_{- Elizabeth Barrett Browning}

I loved you yesterday, I love you today,
I shall love you tomorrow, and I will love you
long after the last grain of sand has
fallen through the hourglass of life.
                          _{-Neville Spadafore}

Not Thou, But I

It must have been for one of us, my own,
     To drink this cup and eat this bitter bread.
     Had not my tears upon thy face been shed,
Thy tears had dropped on mine ; if I alone
Did not walk now, thy spirit would have known
    My loneliness, and did my feet not tread
    This weary path and steep, thy feet had bled
For mine, and thy mouth had for mine made moan
    And so it comforts me, yea, not in vain,
To think of thy eternity of sleep,
To know thine eyes are tearless though mine weep;
     And when this cup's last bitterness I drain,
One thought shall still its primal sweetness keep
Thou hadst the peace and I the undying pain.

                                     _{-Philip Marston}

Teachers 

You are the molders of their dreams.

The gods who build or crush their

young beliefs of right or wrong.

You are the spark that sets aflame the

poet’s hand or lights the flame

in some great singer’s song.

You are the gods of young—the very young.

You are the guardian of a million dreams.

Your every smile or frown can heal or pierce a heart.

Yours are one hundreds lives—one thousand lives.

Yours is the pride of loving them, the sorrow too.

Your patient work, your touch, make you the god of hope

That fills their souls with dreams,

and make those dreams come true.

                                                 _{- Clark Mollenhoff}

Jesus of the Scars

If we have never sought, we seek thee now;
Thine eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;
We must have sight of thorn-marks on thy brow,
We must have thee, O Jesus of the scars.

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;
In all the universe we have no place.
Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?
Lord Jesus, by thy scars we know thy grace.

If, when the doors are shut, thou drawest near,
Only reveal those hands, that side of thine;
We know today what wounds are, have no fear;
Show us thy scars, we know the countersign.

The other gods were strong; but thou wast weak;
They rode, but thou didst stumble to a throne;
But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,
And not a god has wounds, but thou alone. 

                                             _{-Edward Shillito}

Hast Thou No Scar?

Hast thou no scar?
No hidden scar on foot, or side, or hand;
I hear thee sung as mighty in the land,
I hear them hail thy bright ascended star,
Hast thou no scar?

Hast thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers, spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed Me, I swoone
Hast thou no wound?

No wound? no scar?
Yet, as the Master shall the servant be
And pierced are the feet that follow Me;
But thine are whole: can he have followed far,
Who has no wound nor scar?

                                  _{- Amy Carmichael}

Death Be Not Proud

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

                                                                _{-John Donne}

Stop All The Clocks...

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

                                                    _{-WH Auden}

From The Passing of Arthur

If I should pass this way no more pray for my soul.  

More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of.  Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.  
For what are people better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friends?
For so the whole round earth is every way
Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

                                                        _{-Alfred Lord Tennyson}

Breathe in me…deep

That I might breathe…and live

And hold me close that I might sleep

Soft held by all you give

Come kiss me wind and take my breath

Till you and I are one

And we will dance among the tombs

Until all death is gone

And no one knows that we exist

Wrapped in each other’s arms

Except the One who blew the breath

That hides me safe from harm

Come kiss me wind and take my breath

Till you and I are one

And we will dance among the tombs

Until all death is gone

_{-from The Shack by William P. Young}