The Loss of the Emigrants
The Steamer ' Atlantic ' Was Wrecked Near Halifax, N. S., April1, 1873, And 560 Lives Lost.
FOR months and years, with penury and want
And heart-sore envy did they dare to cope;
And mite by mite was saved from earnings scant,
To buy, some future day, the God-sent hope.
They trod the crowded streets of hoary towns,
Or tilled from year to year the wearied fields,
And in the shadow of the golden crowns
They gasped for sunshine and the health it yields.
They turned from homes all cheerless, child and man,
With kindly feelings only for the soil,
And for the kindred faces, pinched and wan,
That prayed, and stayed, unwilling, at their toil.
They lifted up their faces to the Lord,
And read His answer in the westering sun
That called them ever as a shining word,
And beckoned seaward as the rivers run.
They looked their last, wet-eyed, on Swedish hills,
On German villages and English dales;
Like brooks that grow from many mountain rills
The peasant-stream flowed out from Irish vales.
Their grief at parting was not all a grief,
But blended sweetly with the joy to come,
When from full store they spared the rich relief
To gladden all the dear ones left at home.
'We thank thee, God!' they cried; 'The cruel gate
That barred our lives has swung beneath Thy hand;
Behind our ship now frowns the cruel fate,
Before her smiles the teeming Promised Land!'
Alas! when shown in mercy or in wrath,
How weak we are to read God's awful lore!
His breath protected on the stormy path,
And dashed them lifeless on the promised shore!
His hand sustained them in the parting woe,
And gave bright vision to the heart of each
His waters bore them where they wished to go,
Then swept them seaward from the very beach!
Their home is reached, their fetters now are riven,
Their humble toil is o'er,—their rest has come;
A land was promised and a land is given,—
But, oh! God help the waiting ones at home!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Oh To Be Back Home In Ireland (To Jo)
Oh to be back home in Ireland now that April winds are blowing
And the weather getting milder and the green grass is a growing
And the breath of Spring is in the air and daylight hours grow long
And the skylark o'er the heather sings his merry April song.
Oh to be back home in Ireland the Country of my birth
The Land where I was bred and raised the greenest Land on Earth,
Land of the grassy valleys and scenic heather hills
Of murmuring brooks and rivers and rippling mountain rills.
I have travelled thousands of miles from my home in County Cork
I have been to London City and westward to New York,
I have seen the lights of Paris and the seven hills of Rome
But my heart is always yearning for my Country and my home.
And it's oh to be in Ireland now that April days are here
And the wildborn birds are singing in the Springtime of the year
And the wildflowers are a blooming and new leaves grow on the trees
In the Country I was raised in way beyond Atlantic seas.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Church Building
Uncle Jacob often told us,
Since freedom blessed our race
We ought all to come together
And build a meeting place.
So we pinched, and scraped, and spared,
A little here and there:
Though our wages was but scanty,
The church did get a share.
And, when the house was finished,
Uncle Jacob came to pray;
He was looking mighty feeble,
And his head was awful gray.
But his voice rang like a trumpet;
His eyes looked bright and young;
And it seemed a mighty power
Was resting on his tongue.
And he gave us all his blessing -
'Twas parting words he said,
For soon we got the message
The dear old man was dead.
But I believe he's in the kingdom,
For when we shook his hand
He said, 'Children, you must meet me
Right in the promised land;
'For when I done a moiling
And toiling here below,
Through the gate into the city
Straightway I hope to go.'
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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The Strand
I saw my father’s face last week,
across the gulf of time..
I chanced upon a photograph
That you had left behind.
His hair shock white, his shoulders large
from years of heavy toil,
His eyes pale blue, his hands were rough
from working with the soil.
I thought I saw his face again
Across a crowded room
It must have been a trick of light-
a product of my gloom.
I saw my father’s face last night-
within a vivid dream.
We walked familiar streets of home
in forty year old scenes.
Long vanished homes and people
paraded through my head.
I did not choose to break the mood
or remind him he was dead.
I took my father’s hand last night
We walked a moon lit shore.
The beach’s sand was coarse and black
the surf a subdued roar.
The land behind was all I know,
But the Ocean beckoned me
So together, hand in hand,
We stepped into the sea.
*** *** *** ***
*• a poetic term for a shore (as the area periodically covered and uncovered by the tides)
poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Stolen God--Lazarus To Dives
We do not clamour for vengeance,
We do not whine for fear;
We have cried in the outer darkness
Where was no man to hear.
We cried to man and he heard not;
Yet we thought God heard us pray;
But our God, who loved and was sorry -
Our God is taken away.
Ours were the stream and the pasture,
Forest and fen were ours;
Ours were the wild wood-creatures,
The wild sweet berries and flowers.
You have taken our heirlooms from us,
And hardly you let us save
Enough of our woods for a cradle,
Enough of our earth for a grave.
You took the wood and the cornland,
Where still we tilled and felled;
You took the mine and quarry,
And all you took you held.
The limbs of our weanling children
You crushed in your mills of power;
And you made our bearing women toil
To the very bearing hour.
You have taken our clean quick longings,
Our joy in lover and wife,
Our hope of the sunset quiet
At the evening end of life;
You have taken the land that bore us,
Its soil and stone and sod;
You have taken our faith in each other -
And now you have taken our God.
When our God came down from Heaven
He came among men, a Man,
Eating and drinking and working
As common people can;
And the common people received Him
While the rich men turned away.
But what have we to do with a God
To whom the rich men pray?
He hangs, a dead God, on your altars,
Who lived a Man among men,
You have taken away our Lord
And we cannot find Him again.
You have not left us a handful
Of even the earth He trod . . .
You have made Him a rich man's idol
Who came as a poor man's God.
He promised the poor His heaven,
He loved and lived with the poor;
He said that the rich man's shadow
Should never darken His door:
But bishops and priests lie softly,
Drink full and are fully fed
In the Name of the Lord, who had not
Where to lay His head.
This is the God you have stolen,
As you steal all else--in His name.
You have taken the ease and the honour,
Left us the toil and the shame.
You have chosen the seat of Dives,
We lie where Lazarus lay;
But, by God, we will not yield you our God,
You shall not take Him away.
All else we had you have taken;
All else, but not this, not this.
The God of Heaven is ours, is ours,
And the poor are His, are His.
Is He ours? Is He yours? Give answer!
For both He cannot be.
And if He is ours--O you rich men,
Then whose, in God's name, are ye?
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Emigrants’ Monument At Point St. Charles
A kindly thought, a generous deed,
Ye gallant sons of toil!
No nobler trophy could ye raise
On your adopted soil
Than this monument to your kindred dead,
Who sleep beneath in their cold, dark bed.
Like you they left their fatherland,
And crossed th’ Atlantic’s foam
To seek for themselves a new career,
And win another home;
But, alas for hearts that had beat so high!
They reached the goal, but only to die.
Let no rich worldling dare to say:
“For them why should we grieve?
But paupers—came they to our shores,
Want, sickness, death to leave?”
Each active arm, jail of power and health,
And each honest heart was a mine of wealth.
’Twas a mournful end to day-dreams high,
A sad and fearful doom—
To exchange their fever-stricken ships
For the loathsome typhus tomb;
And, ere they had smiled at Canada’s sky,
On this stranger land breathe their dying sigh.
The strong man in the prime of life,
Struck down in one short hour,
The loving wife, the rose-cheeked girl,
Fairer than opening flower,
The ardent youth, with fond hopes elate,—
O’ertaken all by one common fate.
Long since forgotten—here they rest,
Sons of a distant land,—
The epochs of their short career
Mere footprints on life’s sand;
But this stone will tell through many a year,
They died on our shores, and they slumber here.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Desert Ditty
I’m walkin’ through the desert
Sand gets in your toes
Scorpions come bite your feet
And dust gets up your nose
But I’m walkin’ with my baby
We’re travellin’ hand in hand
We’ll make this trip together
And reach the Promised Land
I’m climbin’ up the mountain
Stumblin’ on the rocks,
Little critters bite your flesh
Runnin’ like a fox
But I’m walkin’ with my baby
We’re travellin’ hand in hand
We’ll make this trip together
And reach the Promised Land
I’m walkin’ in the wadi
Dry as prophet bones
Sudden clap of thunder –
Flood sweeps sodden stones
But I’m walkin’ with my baby
We’re travellin’ hand in hand
We’ll make this trip together
And reach the Promised Land
I’m walkin’ through the nighttime
Countin’ on the star
Clouds come coverin’ heaven
Don’t know where we are
But I’m walkin’ with my baby
We’re travellin’ hand in hand
We’ll make this trip together
And reach the Promised Land
We’ll reach the land together
Oh baby you an’ me
We’ll see it from the Golden Heights
From desert to the sea
I’m walkin’ with my baby
We’re travellin’ hand in hand
We’ll make this trip together
And reach the Promised Land!
February 2005
poem by Linda Hepner
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Fishers of Men
I had a dream, a varied dream:
Before my ravished sight
The city of my Lord arose,
With all its love and light.
The music of a myriad harps
Flowed out with sweet accord;
And saints were casting down their crowns
In homage to our Lord.
My heart leaped up with untold joy;
Life's toil and pain were o'er;
My weary feet at last had found
The bright and restful shore.
Just as I reached the gates of light,
Ready to enter in,
From earth arose a fearful cry
Of sorrow and of sin.
I turned, and saw behind me surge
A wild and stormy sea;
And drowning men were reaching out
Imploring hands to me.
And ev'ry lip was blanched with dread
And moaning for relief;
The music of the golden harps
Grew fainter for their grief.
Let me return, I quickly said,
Close to the pearly gate;
My work is with these wretched ones,
So wrecked and desolate.
An angel smiled and gently said:
This is the gate of life,
Wilt thou return to earth's sad scenes,
Its weariness and strife,
To comfort hearts that sigh and break,
To dry the falling tear,
Wilt thou forego the music sweet
Entrancing now thy ear?
I must return, I firmly said,
The strugglers in that sea
Shall not reach out beseeching hands
In vain for help to me.
I turned to go; but as I turned
The gloomy sea grew bright,
And from my heart there seemed to flow
Ten thousand cords of light.
And sin-wrecked men, with eager hands,
Did grasp each golden cord;
And with my heart I drew them on
To see my gracious Lord.
Again I stood beside the gate.
My heart was glad and free;
For with me stood a rescued throng
The Lord had given me.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
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You Promised Me
You promised not to hurt me,
You promised things were fine,
You promised that you loved me,
You promised you were mine.
You promised you meant what you said,
About our future love,
You promised that my heart could soar,
You said I was your dove.
You promised we would always laugh,
At our random lines,
You let me think I trusted you,
That you'd break my confines.
I put all my hope in you,
Because you promised me,
That you were my future,
That you would set me free.
poem by Catherine Mancini
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Come Away
(g.bowser/j.jupp)
Published by chappell & co., ltd. - capac
As I walk along the lonely streets
I cant talk to the people that I meet
I see them come, and I see them go
I see them smile, and say hello
Come with me and take my hand
Ooh, fly away to another land, oh yes we will
Come with me and take my hand
Well fly away to another land
Come over here little girl
And Ill show you another world
Where we can be free to do as we want
Live our lives as we please, and say what we like, oh
Come with me and take my hand, ooh
Well fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand, oh
And fly away to another land
Theres so many things that remain to be done
And no one has thought of a way to begin
So follow me into my life
Come with me and take my hand (and take...)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (ooh)
Fly away to another land (fly away to another land)
Come with me and take my hand (take my hand)
Fly away to another land (oh yes we will)
Come with me and take my hand (and take my hand, take my hand)
Fly away to another land (yeah)
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
Come with me and take my hand
Fly away to another land
song performed by by April Wine
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Canada First
To home and Country shouts we raise I
For Home and Land to Heaven we cry !
In Home and Country let us live
For Home and Land we stand to die !
This Land us bred : these Hills are ours :
These Mighty Floods that seaward roll
We know no masters but ourselves
We know no bounds this side the pole !
God gave to us these Reaching Woods :
The Spreading Lakes we sail upon ;
We hold them for our children's right
And who is he intrudes thereon?
And we shall till the Rolling Plains
That reach into the setting sun ;
'Tis our Dominion to extend
To coasts that lave the Great Ocean.
To Home and Country shouts we raise !
For Home and Land to Heaven we cry !
In Home and Country let us live
For Home and Land we stand to die !
poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan
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Dedicated To Dr. W. H. Sheppard
[The returned missionary, who spent twenty years in Africa.]
On, on to the darkest continent,
As the Adriatic sailed,
In Eighteen Hundred and Ninety,
Many sad good-byes were wailed.
When two brave sons left their homes,
Their kindred, yea their blood,
To wade in Africa's unknown,
And overwhelming flood.
A caucasian and a negro,
United heart and soul,
Bound for Ethiopia's soil,
Yea Africa's distant goal.
As from the New York shore
The steamer slowly starts,
Sheppard and Lapsley bade good-bye
To sad but anxious hearts.
On, on, as the steamer glides,
'Mid the rippling water's whirl,
On to the wild and savage land,
The darkest in the world.
Yet, in that darkened land
Were millions, yea unfed,
Who never had been told
Of Christ the living bread.
But God had sent a message,
To these men so brave,
To go in Ethiopia's land,
And try these souls to save.
Gladly they heeded His command,
To go 'mid danger and strife,
And work in that distant land,
Yes, at the cost of life.
And so in Ethiopia's wild,
These two men so brave,
Prayed for Ethiopia's child,
Struggling a soul to save.
For weeks, yes, months they struggled,
Working day and night,
Until at last, how happy,—
There came a ray of light.
One soul had come to Christ,
One made to understand,
The blessed Savior's voice,
And heed to His command.
These leaders true and brave,
Prayed to Him on high a prayer,
To thank Him for this blessing,
And for His tender care.
But ere many months had passed.
There came a sad, sad day,
A cloud o'er Africa's land was cast,
For one had passed away.
A leader now was gone,
One whom they did love,
Rev. Lapsley had been called
To that home above.
His comrade also missed him,
For he was left alone,
To dwell in Ethiopia's land,
Afar from friends and home.
A work he had left unfinished,
Which he had resolved to do,
But Sheppard decided by God's aid
To carry the work on through.
So he started out one day,
With Africa's savage band,
Determined to make his way
To the Forbidden Land.*
Months they spent on the way,
To carry a ray of light
To Heathen who knew no day,
In a land where all was night.
After toiling daily,
With Ethiopia's sons,
Many were brought to Christ,
A victors crown was won.
They built a house of worship,
And toiled day after day,
Soon Ethiopia's sons
Had learned the narrow way.
They, too, began to preach,
And teach their fellowmen,
And for these blessings great
Their prayers did upward blend.
And in this land so dark,
Where never had been light,
The lame, in Christ, were made to walk.
The blind were given sight.
To Sheppard they gave great praise,
He'd ventured on their soil,
And Ethiopia's sons had raised
Thro' years of earnest toil.
For twenty years he struggled,
In Africa's darkened land,
Giving them the light
As they heeded his command.
Way off in Africa's land,
Let us in fancy look,
To see a heathen band,
Who'd never seen a book,—
Now preaching Christ and teaching,
With minds all free and bright,
All Hail to thee, oh Sheppard,
Who carried them the light.
A great work thou hast done,
To thee we give great praise,
Many laurels thou hast won
For thy remaining days.
poem by Maggie Pogue Johnson
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Native Title
You are welcome to our country
When full respect is paid
To those who souls grew out from where
Their ancestors were laid
This land is our protector
This land our path in life
This land is our great comforter
This land is hurt by strife
Feel the heart that beats within it
As the seasons come and go
Feel the energy within it
From which everything does grow
This land will guide your footsteps
This land will feed you well
This land needs loving kindly
This land is not to sell
This land is just our country
This land is just our home
For its not just who owns this land
But whom this land does own.
poem by David Keig
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Harold Land
Harold land with a wave of his hand said goodbye to all that.
He paid his bills and stopped the milk, then put on his hat.
He tried to say his last farewells as quickly as he could,
Promising that he would return, but doubted that he would,
Doubted that he would, doubted.
Now hes marching soldiers in the rain as on to war they rode.
A long thin line of human mind, damnation as their load.
In the mud in coldness dark, hed shiver out his fear,
What disappointing sights hed seen instead of ones so dear,
Instead of ones so dear, so dear.
Going home, hes going home to the land he loved so well.
Going home, he fought for two years, never fell.
Going home, hes going home,
Going home. hes going home.
Harold land with a wave of his hand stood sadly on the stage,
Clutching red ribbons from a badge, but he didnt look his age.
Only two years had passed between his leaving home and back;
He had lost his love and youth while
Leading the attack, leading the attack.
In conversation it could be said,
Well after war your heart is dead.
Well its not hard to understand,
There is no heart in harold land.
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Harold Land
Harold land with a wave of his hand said goodbye to all that.
He paid his bills and stopped the milk, then put on his hat.
He tried to say his last farewells as quickly as he could,
Promising that he would return, but doubted that he would,
Doubted that he would, doubted.
Now hes marching soldiers in the rain as on to war they rode.
A long thin line of human mind, damnation as their load.
In the mud in coldness dark, hed shiver out his fear,
What disappointing sights hed seen instead of ones so dear,
Instead of ones so dear, so dear.
Going home, hes going home to the land he loved so well.
Going home, he fought for two years, never fell.
Going home, hes going home,
Going home. hes going home.
Harold land with a wave of his hand stood sadly on the stage,
Clutching red ribbons from a badge, but he didnt look his age.
Only two years had passed between his leaving home and back;
He had lost his love and youth while
Leading the attack, leading the attack.
In conversation it could be said,
Well after war your heart is dead.
Well its not hard to understand,
There is no heart in harold land.
song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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God's Uplifted Hand
For most of Her history, by many nations Israel has truly been hated,
Sure it looks bleak, but the will of The Lord will not be frustrated.
For this little tiny nation in the Middle East is not just any land,
This is the very land promised by God to the descendants of Abraham.
And God promised to bless and or curse those that bless or curse you,
This is something that God has always done and will continue to do.
Israel is so special to God that in the Bible God calls Her His Wife,
This special endearment through the years has caused Her much strife.
But after being delivered from Egypt, their faith gave way to fears,
This is the reason that they wandered in the desert for forty years.
After all the faithless died in the desert, The Lord again drew near,
And after The Lord defeated two kings, the nations shook with fear.
After Moses had died the leadership was passed to Joshua with Caleb,
For these are the two men who did not cower and were allowed to live.
Now Joshua was used in a mighty way, following God's Uplifted Hand,
And three days later Joshua began the capture of God's Promised Land.
In five years Joshua captured much of the land through God's means,
Later some of the land still to be taken was that of the Philistines.
Now three thousand years later the Philistines are back in the land,
However God will redeem all of Israel with His own Uplifted Hand.
(Copyright © 06/2002)
Where Is My Family At?
I sit at home by myself,
I think of days gone by,
Of family members who left me,
Then I begin to cry.
I repent unto Jesus,
I'm not suppose to look back,
I feel so lonely now and then,
But where is my family at?
I hear a soft still voice,
My son Franklin try to understand,
Your family is not behind you,
But waiting in the promise land.
Behind you is a thing called past,
Where nothing exist at all,
You think of days gone from you,
Events in time do you recall.
Trust in me my little one,
Never let go of my hand,
I am leading you to your family,
Over in my promised land.
Never a tear in there eyes,
Happy smiles for ever more,
Hold my hand, it will not be long,
We will arrive on Heavens shore.
Author
Franklin Spriggs
August 20,2008
poem by Franklin Spriggs
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Her Letter
"I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;
My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,
And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . .
You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.
You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart;
'Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey.
I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart,
Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."
"Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea;
'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I.
You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three;
But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by.
I know it's cruel hard for you, you've bairnies of your own;
I know the siller's hard to win, and folks have used you ill:
But oh, think of your mother, lad, that's waiting by her lone!
And even if you canna come -- just write and say you will."
"Aye, even though there's little hope, just promise that you'll try.
It's weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you'll come next year.
I'm thinking there will be no `next'; I'm thinking soon I'll lie
With all the ones I've laid away . . . but oh, the hope will cheer!
You know you're all that's left to me, and we are seas apart;
But if you'll only say you'll come, then will I hope and pray.
I'm waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that's in my heart
Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away."
poem by Robert William Service
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The Captain’s Well
From pain and peril, by land and main,
The shipwrecked sailor came back again;
And like one from the dead, the threshold cross'd
Of his wondering home, that had mourned him lost.
Where he sat once more with his kith and kin,
And welcomed his neighbors thronging in.
But when morning came he called for his spade.
'I must pay my debt to the Lord,' he said.
'Why dig you here?' asked the passer-by;
'Is there gold or silver the road so nigh?'
'No, friend,' he answered: 'but under this sod
Is the blessed water, the wine of God.'
'Water! the Powow is at your back,
And right before you the Merrimac,
'And look you up, or look you down,
There 's a well-sweep at every door in town.'
'True,' he said, 'we have wells of our own;
But this I dig for the Lord alone.'
Said the other: 'This soil is dry, you know.
I doubt if a spring can be found below;
'You had better consult, before you dig,
Some water-witch, with a hazel twig.'
'No, wet or dry, I will dig it here,
Shallow or deep, if it takes a year.
'In the Arab desert, where shade is none,
The waterless land of sand and sun,
'Under the pitiless, brazen sky
My burning throat as the sand was dry;
'My crazed brain listened in fever dreams
For plash of buckets and ripple of streams;
'And opening my eyes to the blinding glare,
And my lips to the breath of the blistering air,
'Tortured alike by the heavens and earth,
I cursed, like Job, the day of my birth.
'Then something tender, and sad, and mild
As a mother's voice to her wandering child,
'Rebuked my frenzy; and bowing my head,
I prayed as I never before had prayed:
'Pity me, God! for I die of thirst;
Take me out of this land accurst;
'And if ever I reach my home again,
Where earth has springs, and the sky has rain,
'I will dig a well for the passers-by,
And none shall suffer from thirst as I.
'I saw, as I prayed, my home once more,
The house, the barn, the elms by the door,
'The grass-lined road, that riverward wound,
The tall slate stones of the burying-ground,
'The belfry and steeple on meeting-house hill,
The brook with its dam, and gray grist mill,
'And I knew in that vision beyond the sea,
The very place where my well must be.
'God heard my prayer in that evil day;
He led my feet in their homeward way,
'From false mirage and dried-up well,
And the hot sand storms of a land of hell,
'Till I saw at last through the coast-hill's gap,
A city held in its stony lap,
'The mosques and the domes of scorched Muscat,
And my heart leaped up with joy thereat;
'For there was a ship at anchor lying,
A Christian flag at its mast-head flying,
'And sweetest of sounds to my homesick ear
Was my native tongue in the sailor's cheer.
'Now the Lord be thanked, I am back again,
Where earth has springs, and the skies have rain,
'And the well I promised by Oman's Sea,
I am digging for him in Amesbury.'
His kindred wept, and his neighbors said
'The poor old captain is out of his head.'
But from morn to noon, and from noon to night,
He toiled at his task with main and might;
And when at last, from the loosened earth,
Under his spade the stream gushed forth,
And fast as he climbed to his deep well's brim,
The water he dug for followed him,
He shouted for joy: 'I have kept my word,
And here is the well I promised the Lord!'
The long years came and the long years went,
And he sat by his roadside well content;
He watched the travellers, heat-oppressed,
Pause by the way to drink and rest,
And the sweltering horses dip, as they drank,
Their nostrils deep in the cool, sweet tank,
And grateful at heart, his memory went
Back to that waterless Orient,
And the blessed answer of prayer, which came
To the earth of iron and sky of flame.
And when a wayfarer weary and hot,
Kept to the mid road, pausing not
For the well's refreshing, he shook his head;
'He don't know the value of water,' he said;
'Had he prayed for a drop, as I have done,
In the desert circle of sand and sun,
'He would drink and rest, and go home to tell
That God's best gift is the wayside well!'
poem by John Greenleaf Whittier
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Message
Waking from tender sleep,
My neighbour's little child
Put out his baby hand to me,
Looked in my face, and smiled.
It seemed as if he came
Home from a happy land,
To tell me something that my heart
Would surely understand.
Somewhere, among bright dreams,
A child that once was mine
Had whispered wordless love to him,
And given him a sign.
Comfort of kindly speech,
And counsel of the wise,
Have helped me less than what I read
In those deep-smiling eyes.
Sleep sweetly, little friend,
And dream again of heaven:
With double love I kiss your hand,--
Your message has been given.
poem by Henry Van Dyke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Future Middle East
Today the future in the Middle East, as we hear, sounds very bleak.
As people with a deceptive heart, are looking for a brand new start,
Moving many men to understand, a crucial need to remap the land.
This to eradicate the Land of Israel, totally justified by a wicked will.
The tiny land men call Palestine, will be subdued by a force Divine.
The promise given to Abraham, by the will of God will forever stand.
The terror that now rules the land, will be eliminated by God’s Hand.
The Lord Himself shall intervene, with His presence upon the scene.
The present land on the world scene, was the land of the Philistines.
That ancient land was conquered by, Joshua’s army for God on high.
It was never subdued totally friend, but that mistake was not the end.
Eternal God, whose land this is, through King David took care of this.
For God put David on the Throne, in that land which is Israel’s home,
As the King of the Promised Land, that God had granted to Abraham.
God swore to David as the King, the reign he began was everlasting.
He reigned as King in Jerusalem, where all shall see God’s Own Son.
The land will be subdued for sure, by Jesus Christ, Messiah and Lord.
Never again shall it be the same, after Jesus Christ begins His Reign.
Christ will purge The Promised Land, for the descendents of Abraham.
Then all of Israel shall live secure, under the Reign of Christ our Lord.
(Copyright ©01/2006)