Written by Author unknown on . Posted in Poetry.
“It doesn’t really matter
One way or the other—
The hairstyle I have chosen, or
The one that’s on my brother.
It doesn’t really make a difference
If cars are black or white,
Or if I wear a color shade
That you would think too bright.
Written by JoAnna Raber (Age 17) on . Posted in Poetry.
I grumble in the morning, “There’s so much to do,
It’s my turn to do dishes, why couldn’t it be you?”
T he baby is sick with a fever you say;
There goes my hopes of sewing today.
Don’t touch me, don’t bump, I already said “No,
I’m not gonna help you if you’re so slow.”
I complain and I grumble, ‘til I’m all tied in knots.
I’ve been disrespectful to mom, and cross with the tots.
Written by Matthew Kauffman on . Posted in Poetry.
(Mtungi is Swahili for “clay pot.”)
Our water pure from filter flows;
It’s freed from dirt, bacteria, foes
That quickly cause our bowels to churn
Or e’en with fever cause to burn.
You see, in Afric’s burning sun,
Our water sources, every one
Are priceless, vital, treasured gifts;
If river, cistern, e’en sand pits.
Written by Sarah Raber on . Posted in Poetry.
Behold the handmaid of the Lord; be it unto me according to thy word. Lu. 1:38
1.
Though our names and ages vary, yet no title’s necessary,
Old maid, young maid, single ladies—no such titles in God’s Word.
Yet there is a title given when a maiden walks with God,
Read more: Handmaid of the Lord
Written by Krislyn Shank (age 17) on . Posted in Poetry.
You say you are free;
Yet you are bound
To pleasure,
To hate,
To the opinions of your peers.
I say I am bound;
Yet I am free
For service,
For love,
For submission to the will of my God.
And in this my bound liberty,
I am far more free
Than you are
In your liberated bondage.
Written by R., Georgia on . Posted in Poetry.
Lord, I see the pleasures your creation offers:
The sights, the sounds,
The thrills, and passions,
Calling to me as I pass by,
Written by Joel and Karen Heisey on . Posted in Poetry.
Read more: God's People Keep Singing
Written by Marita Horst on . Posted in Poetry.
Like the sweetest rose it came
In a swirling velvet frame;
All my mind could see was that—
Not all, for I saw Christ and stalled—
But this, it lured me, called
As dazzled there I sat.
I scarcely knew what had come
When it was there, but from
Where it came I knew well;
In swelling symphony it sang,
Grabbed all my passions, rang
With lovely, longing swell.
Written by J. from Ky on . Posted in Poetry.
Like fallen leaves so men have died,
And time did quick their name erase;
Like winter scenes they’re passed aside
By those who must give others place.
There are but few whose name lives on
For wealth or pow’r or noble cause;
But none does match the tribute strong
To one for whom the world does pause.