Weekly Contest
No contests this week.
Classic poem of the day
Christ has no hands but our hands
To do His work today;
He has no feet but our feet
To lead men in His way;
He has no tongues but our tongues
To tell men how He died;
He has no help but our help
To bring them to His side.
We are the only Bible
The careless world will read;
We are the sinner's Gospel,
We are the scoffer's creed;
We are the Lord's last message,
Given in deed and word;
What if the type is crooked?
What if the print is blurred?
What if our hands are busy
With work other than His?
What if our feet are walking
Where sin's allurement is?
What if our tongues are speaking
Of things His lips would spurn?
How can we hope to help Him
And hasten His return?
member poem of the day
Once you were there, close by my side
Then away on a steed you did ride
Now nothing’s normal and nothing is right
Just like an ogre, you ruined my life
They think that I’m evil, do you know that I’m not?
How did you feel as you watched me get caught?
You once let me in, but now I’m shut down
Your face draws a blank, your eyes tear me down
Tomorrow I’ll burn on a stake made of wood
To cleanse the whole town, to make it all good
You stand all alone, up there on that hill
Somehow I love you, I know I do still
You watch from afar and don’t try to help me
That gives me more pain then the flame at my feet
I gave to you freely, much more than did most
Now it’s too late, I’m dead on a post
I should have saw it in the leaves that I read
I chose to ignore it with you in my bed
And you overlooked my cures and my spells
For being
Weekly Contest
No contests this week.
