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
I take up pen and page to point to truth
And pray my purpose is not rendered vague.
I recognize my mind reveals my youth;
Lord, let me neither tarry nor stravage.
I am a humble runnel of your reign.
Use these my words like water to refresh.
And when I feel my writing is in vain,
Remind me that I do not write for flesh.
These poems need not please the multitude.
These words require no mortal praise nor fame.
These messages may never earn my food;
I pray they ever glorify your name.
I write to please the one who knows my end.
I offer these, my poems for the wind.