To take a thought, original and good,
And claim it as one’s own thought, own design;
To see another’s work and call it, “Mine,”
Accepting honor as the author should;
To speak until the people understood
The thief to be the writer of each line,
Scratching the author’s name off from the spine
Till truth’s uncov’ring be no likelihood–
Delusion tempts souls to these actions take,
Tries to erase the author, steal his place.
And do we not each make this fatal nod?
The author still is living and awake,
Yet we would rob his glory, slight his face.
Have we not all been plagiarists of God?
Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash
The Lord has spoken to the void
And brought about a great expanse.
Into a world of life devoid,
He called creation up to dance.
He formed the fabric of this time,
And light was his divine decree.
No language can his glory rhyme;
He rules o’er all in sov’reignty.
He is the Author of all love,
All pleasure too, his gift of grace,
All wonder at the stars above,
And ev’ry wonder of this space.
O magnify the grace of God,
And praise the perfect Lord of all,
And join with all, the sky and sod,
Resounding his all glorious call.
I laid my Bible to rest last Wednesday, and I felt like I was letting go of an old friend.