Share Flipboard Email. Mary Fairchild is a full-time Christian minister, writer, and editor of two Christian anthologies, including "Stories of Cavalry.
Updated March 02, By May Hastings Nottage. In the silence that falls on my spirit When the clamor of life loudest seems, Comes a voice that floats in tremulous notes Far over my sea of dreams. I remember the dim old vestry, And my father kneeling there; And the old hymns thrill with the memory still Of my father's voice in prayer.
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I can see the glance of approval As my part in the hymn I took; I remember the grace of my mother's face And the tenderness of her look; And I knew that a gracious memory Cast its light on that face so fair, As her cheek flushed faint—O mother, my saint! Ah, the years have held dear voices, And melodies tender and rare; But tenderest seems the voice of my dreams— My father's voice in prayer. Dad's hands were king-size and strong. With his hands, he built our home and fixed all the broken things.
Dad's hands gave generously, served humbly, and loved mom tenderly, unselfishly, completely, unendingly. With his hand, Dad held me when I was small, steadied me when I stumbled, and guided me in the right direction. When I needed help, I could always count on Dad's hands. Sometimes Dad's hands corrected me, disciplined me, shielded me, rescued me. Dad's hands protected me.
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Dad's hand held mine when he walked me down the aisle. His hand gave me to my forever love, who, not surprisingly, is very much like Dad. Dad's hands were the instruments of his great big, rugged-tender heart. Dad's hands were strength. Dad's hands were love. With his hands he praised God.
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And he prayed to the Father with those big hands. Dad's hands. They were like Jesus' hands to me. Thank you for the laughter, For the good times that we share, Thanks for always listening, For trying to be fair.
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Thank you for your comfort , When things are going bad, Thank you for the shoulder, To cry on when I'm sad. This poem's a reminder that All my life through, I'll be thanking heaven For a special dad like you.
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By Merrill C. To you, O son of mine, I cannot give A vast estate of wide and fertile lands; But I can keep for you, the whilst I live, Unstained hands. I have no blazoned scutcheon that insures Your path to eminence and worldly fame; But longer than empty heraldry endures A blameless name. I have no treasure chest of gold refined, No hoarded wealth of clinking, glittering pelf; I give to you my hand, and heart, and mind— All of myself. I can exert no mighty influence To make a place for you in men's affairs; But lift to God in secret audience Unceasing prayers.
I cannot, though I would, be always near To guard your steps with the parental rod; I trust your soul to Him who holds you dear, Your father's God. By Jaime E. Many duties lie before you, Trials oft your strength shall test; But you need not fret or worry, If you only do your best. Do your best, get not disheartened; Though the task seem hard and long, God is ever near to help you; He can make the weakest strong. Tell Him of the work accomplished, Ask His help to do the rest; He can smooth the path before you, If you only do your best.
And I thank Him for the dark. I shall meet God when the night overwhelms my flickering light; Then He'll lead me to the morning, Far away from cloud and storming, Where, I'll praise Him for the night. If a deed, however humble, helps you on your way to go, Seek the one whose hand has helped you. Seek him out and tell him so. If your heart is touched and tender Towards sinner, lost and low, It might help him to do better If you could only tell him so. Oh, my sisters, oh, my brothers, As o'er life's rough path you go, If God's love has saved and kept you, Do not fail to tell men so.
Monotonous task, confining, dusty, slow! And while I gazed, something I longed to know. His neighbor stared, as my request was made. One keen stroke more. He paused, then raised his head.
To the Humble Poet Edgar A Guest If all the flowers were roses, If never daisies grew, If no old-fashioned posies Drank in the morning dew, Then man might have some reason To whimper and complain, And speak these words of treason, That all our toil is vain. If all the stars were Saturns That twinkle in the night, Of equal size and patterns, And equally as bright, Then men in humble places, With humble work to do, With frowns upon their faces Might trudge their journey through. But humble stars and posies Still do their best, although They're planets not, nor roses, To cheer the world below.
And those old-fashioned daisies Delight the soul of man; They're here, and this their praise is: They work the Master's plan. Though humble be your labor, And modest be your sphere, Come, envy not your neighbor Whose light shines brighter here.
Does God forget the daisies Because the roses bloom? Shall you not win His praises By toiling at your loom? Have you, the toiler humble, Just reason to complain, To shirk your task and grumble And think that it is vain Because you see a brother With greater work to do? No fame of his can smother The merit that's in you. Lies, transgressions and failures, dishonesty, cruelty or greed, All are accounted as villains in our desire to succeed. The trap is well focused and simple, enticing a man in its grip, Enabling the nature of evil, eventually the innocent slip.
He merely plants a desire, persuasively sends its allure, Man falls prey to temptation, the strangle hold is secure. Man does not struggle for freedom, unaware that he's caught in a vice, He travels the road to destruction, the curse and the terrible price.
But wait! God made the way of salvation, sin has been conquered through grace; The door to redemption has opened, God has reserved man a place. Man only needs to accept it, Christ paid the price, now it's free; But, only valid if taken, then man achieves liberty. Sin can no longer subdue man, faith holds a firm upper hand, Empowered by the Spirit's protection, sin is unable to stand. We have no knowledge of what life might bring, there is no assurance of even one thing. Lessons that should have been learned from the past are disregarded, that theory can't last.
We're in an era with freedom of choice - it's a new age, everyone has a voice. Who is He? What's He ever done? In this world of misery, does He help anyone? Children are dying because no one cares; folks become poorer because no one shares. Where is the justice when war kills our youth? Why would you claim, "Hold forth to the truth?