Two Carpenters

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The wood was rough, but it would serve him well.
He chose it not for elegance or style
But for its faithfulness. A little while
(And, too, a little work) and he could sell
It with a workman’s pride. And he could tell,
Though now it lay unstructured in a pile,
That with some nails, a hammer, and a file,
His work would not be broken though it fell.

Its strength would bear its strength one dark noel
(The first of all). And in its content’s smile
Was love born now to one day reconcile
On other wood, the darkness to dispel.
His parents smiled as into sleep he fell.
The wood was rough, but it would serve him well.


Photo by Alexander Andrews on Unsplash

Christ Above

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Christ above my heart’s desire.
Christ above my timing.
Christ above all I aspire.
Christ above my rhyming.
Christ above my greatest fears.
Christ above all pleasures.
Christ above my future years.
Christ above all treasures.
Christ above my past mistakes.
Christ above my glory.
Christ above all earthly aches.
Christ above my story.
Christ above all toil and strife.
Christ above whatever.
Christ above this fleeting life
Now and to forever.


Photo by Sebastian Molina fotografía on Unsplash

Commonplace

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God of burning bushes, smoking mountains,
Clouds and flaming pillars in the distance,
God who spoke the earth into existence,
Calling from dry rocks fresh, flowing fountains,
Are you just as present in the present,
In the average and ordinary?
Does your presence with us ever vary
If our days are boring or unpleasant?
For, it seems, our lives are unexciting,
Work and worship in a world of faces–
Seems so commonplace, these common places.
Is it true, O God, you are inviting
Those with ears to hear to live in wonder?
In our silence, might we hear your thunder?


Photo by Jeff Sheldon on Unsplash

The Plagiarists

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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 not we all been plagiarists of God?


Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash