pink roses

Saturday, February 23, 2013

"Within Thine House, a Sabbath Prayer."

By William Cowper

Jesus, where'er thy people meet,
There they behold thy mercy-seat;
Where'er they seek Thee Thou art found,
And ev'ry place is hallow'd ground.
For thou, within no walls confin'd,
Inhabitest the humble mind;
Such ever bring Thee, where they come,
And going, take Thee to their home.
Dear Shepherd of Thy chosen few!
Thy former mercies here renew;
Here, to our waiting hearts, proclaim
The sweetness of Thy saving Name.
Here may we prove the pow'r of pray'r,
To strengthen faith, and sweeten care;
To teach our faint desires to rise,
And bring all heav'n before our eyes.
Behold! At thy commanding Word,
We stretch the curtain and the cord;
Come Thou, and fill this wider space,
And help us with a large increase.
Lord, we are few, but Thou art near;
Nor short Thine arm, nor deaf Thine ear;
Oh rend the heav'ns, come quickly down,
And make a thousand hearts thine own! 

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

"Answered By Crosses"

 By John Newton

 I ask'd the Lord, that I might grow
In faith, and love, and ev'ry grace,
Might more of his salvation know,
And seek more earnestly his face.

'Twas he who taught me thus to pray,
And he, I trust has answer'd pray'r;
But it has been in such a way,
As almost drove me to despair.

 I hop'd that in some favour'd hour,
At once he'd answer my request:
And by his love's constraining pow'r,
Subdue my sins, and give me rest.

Instead of this, he made me feel
The hidden evils of my heart;
And let the angry pow'rs of hell
Assault my soul in ev'ry part.

Yea more, with his own hand he seem'd 
Intent to aggravate my woe;
Cross'd all the fair designs I schem'd,
Blasted my gourds, and laid me low.

Lord, why is this, I trembling cry'd,
Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?
"'Tis in this way," the Lord reply'd,
"I answer pray'r for grace and faith.

"These inward trials I employ,
"From self and pride to set thee free;
"And break thy schemes of earthly joy,
"That thou mayst seek thy all in me."

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

All Praise to Him who reigns above."

By William Cowper

Almighty King! whose wond'rous hand
Supports the weight of sea and land;
Whose grace is such a boundless store,
No heart shall break that sighs for more;
Thy Providence supplies my food,
And 'tis thy blessing makes it good;
My soul is nourish'd by thy word,
Let soul and body praise the LORD.
My streams of outward comfort came
From him, who built this earthly frame;
Whate'er I want his bounty gives,
By whom my soul forever lives.
Either his hand preserves from pain,
Or, if I feel it, heals again;
From Satan's malice shields my breast,
Or overrules it for the best.
Forgive the song that falls so low
Beneath the gratitude I owe!
It means thy praise, however poor,
An angel's song can do no more.

Tuesday, February 5, 2013

My Attitude

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it,
And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It's nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there -- that's disgrace.
The harder you're thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts,
It's how did you fight --  and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?
If you battled the best you could,
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he's slow or spry,
It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,
But only how did you die?

Edgar Vance Cooke

About the Author:

Edmund Vance Cooke was born on June 5th 1866, in Port Denver, Ontario, Canada. His first job after leaving school was in a Sewing Machine Factory. In 1893, he left that job to earn a living as a poet, writer, and public speaker. He published his first book of poems, "A Patch of Pansies," in 1894 and went on to publish a further 15 books of poetry and several books for children.He married Lilith Castleberry in 1898 and they were blessed with five children. He became a broadcaster on station, WWJ in Detroit broadcasting his poems live to thousands of listeners.Cooke died in Cleveland, Ohio on December 18th 1932.

Saturday, February 2, 2013

"Can't" [By Edgar Allen Guest]

Can't is the worst word that's written or spoken; 
Doing more harm here than slander and lies; 
On it is many a strong spirit broken, 
And with it many a good purpose dies. 
It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning 
And robs us of courage we need through the day: 
It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning 
And laughs when we falter and fall by the way. 

Can't is the father of feeble endeavor, 
The parent of terror and half-hearted work; 
It weakens the efforts of artisans clever, 
And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk. 
It poisons the soul of the man with a vision, 
It stifles in infancy many a plan; 
It greets honest toiling with open derision 
And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man. 

Can't is a word none should speak without blushing; 
To utter it should be a symbol of shame; 
Ambition and courage it daily is crushing; 
It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim. 
Despise it with all of your hatred of error; 
Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain; 
Arm against it as a creature of terror, 
And all that you dream of you some day shall gain. 

Can't is the word that is foe to ambition, 
An enemy ambushed to shatter your will; 
Its prey is forever the man with a mission 
And bows but to courage and patience and skill. 
Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying, 
For once it is welcomed 'twill break any man; 
Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying 
And answer this demon by saying: "I can."

Edgar A.Guest

About the Author:

Edgar Albert Guest was born in Britain
 but grew up and spent most of his life
in the U.S.A. 
He worked most of his adult
life as newspaperman, syndicated country
wide and is reputed to have had a new
 poem published in a newspaper every day
for over 30 years.