Just sharing.

The Burden


"Why was my burden so heavy?" I slammed the bedroom door and leaned against it. Is there no rest from this life? I wondered. I stumbled to my bed and dropped onto it, pressing my pillow around my ears to shut out the noise of my existence.

"Oh God," I cried, "let me sleep. Let me sleep forever and never wake up!"

With a deep sob I tried to will myself into oblivion, then welcomed the blackness that came over me.

Light surrounded me as I regained consciousness. I focused on its source: The figure of a man standing before a cross.

"My child," the person asked, "why did you want to come to Me before I am ready to call you?"

"Lord, I'm sorry. It's just that... I can't go on. You see how hard it is for me. Look at this awful burden on my back. I simply can't carry it anymore."

"But haven't I told you to cast all of your burdens upon Me, because I care for you? My yoke is easy, and My burden is light.

"I knew You would say that. But why does mine have to be so heavy?"

"My child, everyone in the world has a burden. Perhaps you would like to
try a different one?"

"I can do that?"

He pointed to several burdens lying at His feet. "You may try any of these."

All of them seemed to be of equal size. But each was labeled with a name.

"There's Joan's," I said. Joan was married to a wealthy businessman. She lived in a sprawling estate and dresssed her three daughters in the prettiest designer clothes. Sometimes she drove me to church in her Cadillac when
my car was broken.

"Let me try that one." How difficult could her burden be? I thought.

The Lord removed my burden and placed Joan's on my shoulders. I sank my knees beneath its weight. "Take it off!" I said. ""What makes it so heavy?"

"Look inside."

I untied the straps and opened the top. Inside was a figure of her Mother-in-law, and when I lifted it out, it began to speak.

"Joan, you'll never be good enough for my son," it began. "He never should have married you. You're a terrrible mother to my grandchildren..."

I quickly placed the figure back in the pack and withdrew another. It was Donna, Joan's youngest daughter. Her head was bandaged from the surgery that had failed to resolve her epilepsy. A third figure was Joan's brother.
Addicted to drugs, he had been convicted of killing a police officer.

"I see why her burden is so heavy, Lord. But she's always smiling and
helping others. I didn't realize...."

"Would you like to try another?" He asked quietly.

I tested several. Paula's felt heavy: She was raising four small boys without a father. Debra's did too: A childhood of sexual abuse and a marriage of emotional abuse. When I Came to Ruth's burden, I didn't even
try. I knew that inside I would find arthritis, old age, a demanding full-time job, and a beloved husband in a nursing home.

"They're all too heavy, Lord" I said. ""Give back my own."

As I lifted the familiar load once again, It seemed much lighter than the others.

"Lets look inside" He said.

I turned away, holding it close. "That's not a good idea," I said.

"Why?"

"There's a lot of junk in there."

"Let Me see."

The gentle thunder of His voice compelled me. I opened my burden.

He pulled out a brick.

"Tell me about this one."

"Lord, You know. It's money. I know we don't suffer like people in some countries or even the homeless here in America. But we have no insurance, and when the kids get sick, we can't always take them to the doctor. They've never been to a dentist. And I'm tired of dressing them in hand-me-downs."

"My child, I will supply all of your needs... and your children's. I've given them healthy bodies. I will teach them that expensive clothing doesn't make a person valuable in My sight."

Then He lifted out the figure of a small boy. "And this?" He asked.

"Andrew..." I hung my head, ashamed to call my son a burden. "But, Lord, he's hyperactive. He's not quiet like the other two. He makes me so tired. He's always getting hurt, and someone is bound to think I abuse him. I yell at him all the time. Someday I may really hurt him...."

"My child," He said, "If you trust Me, I will renew your strength, if you allow Me to fill you with My Spirit, I will give you patience."

Then He took some pebbles from my burden.

"Yes, Lord," I said with a sigh. "Those are small. But they're important. I hate my hair. It's thin, and I can't make it look nice. I can't afford to go to the beauty shop. I'm overweight and can't stay on a diet. I hate all my clothes. I hate the way I look!"

"My child, people look at your outward appearance, but I look at your heart. By My Spirit you can gain self-control to lose weight. But your beauty should not come from outward appearance. Instead, it should come from your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in My sight."

My burden now seemed lighter than before.

"I guess I can handle it now" I said.

"There is more," He said. "Hand Me that last brick."

"Oh, You don't have to take that. I can handle it."

"My child, give it to Me." Again His voice compelled me. He reached out His hand, and for the first time I saw the ugly wound.

"But, Lord, this brick is so awful, so nasty, so.....Lord! What happened to Your hands? They're so scarred!"

No longer focused on my burden, I looked for the first time into His face. In His brow were ragged scars-as though someone had pressed thorns into His flesh.

"Lord," I whispered. "What happened to You?"

His loving eyes reached into my soul.

"My child, you know. Hand Me the brick. It belongs to Me. I bought it."

"How?"

"With My blood."

"But why, Lord?"

"Because I have loved you with an everlasting love. Give it to Me."

I placed the filthy brick into His wounded palm. It contained all the dirt and evil of my life: my pride, my selfishness, the depression that constantly tormented me. He turned to the cross and hurled my brick into the pool of blood at its base. It hardly made a ripple.


"Now, My child, you need to go back. I will be with you always. When you are troubled, call to Me and I will help you and show you things you cannot imagine now."

"Yes, Lord, I will call on You."

I reached to pick up my burden.

"You may leave that here if you wish. You see all these burdens? They are the ones that others have left at My feet. Joan's, Paula's, Debra's, Ruth's..... When you leave your burden here, I carry it with you. Remember, My yoke is easy and My burden is light."


As I placed my burden with Him, the light began to fade. Yet I heard Him whisper, "I will never leave you, nor forsake you.

A peace flooded my soul.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.
(Matthew 11:28, NIV)

And upon his outer garment, even upon his thigh, he has a name written,
King of kings and Lord of lords. (Revelation 19:16, NWT)

Whats Important


“What happened here?” Sarah exclaimed in dismay as she surveyed her bedroom. It looked like all of her things had been pulled out and gone through. In the middle of it all sat her little one-year-old daughter, playing contentedly with what she obviously considered the greatest treasure of all: a worthless cardboard jewelry box. Kaitlyn held the box up to her Mommy with a great big baby grin, confident she’d found a treasure her mother would love.

Sarah forced a smile. Her little girl had so much to learn about treasures! Kaitlyn had unceremoniously thrown away or strewn across the room as worthless all Sarah’s important jewelry, keepsakes, letters, and other valuables. On the other hand, Kaitlyn was treating all the unimportant things—such as a roll of toilet paper and the all-enthralling cardboard jewelry box—as great treasures.

“Happy is the man that findeth wisdom, and the man that getteth understanding. For the merchandise of it is better than the merchandise of silver, and the gain thereof than fine gold. She is more precious than rubies: and all the things thou canst desire are not to be compared unto her.” Proverbs 3:13-15

“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant in search of fine pearls, who, on finding one pearl of great value, went and sold all that he had and bought it.” Matthew 13:45-46

The I CAN'T Funeral


Donna's fourth grade classroom looked like many others I had seen in the past. Students sat in five rows of six desks. The teacher's desk was in front and faced the students. The bulletin board featured student work. IN most respects it appeared to be a typically traditional elementary classroom. Yet something seemed different that day I entered it for the first time. There seemed to be an undercurrent of excitement.

Donna was a veteran small-town Michigan school-teacher only two years away form retirement. In addition she was a volunteer participant in a country-wide staff development project I had organized and facilitated. The training focused on language arts ideas that would empower students to feel good about themselves and take charge of their lives. Donna's job was to attend training sessions and implement the concepts being presented. My job was to make classroom visitations and encourage implementation.

I took an empty seat in the back of the room and watched. All the students were working on a task, filling a sheet of notebook paper with thoughts and ideas. The ten-year-old student next to me was filling her page with "I Can'ts".

"I can't kick the soccer ball past second base."

"I can't do long division with more than three numerals."

"I can't get Debbie to like me."

Her page was half full and she showed no signs of letting up. She worked on with determination and persistence.

I walked down the row glancing in student's papers. Everyone was writing sentences, describing things they couldn't do.

"I can't do ten push-ups."

"I can't hit one over the left hand fence."

"I can't eat only one cookie."

By this time the activity engaged my curiosity, so I decided to check with the teacher to see what was going on. As I approached her, I noticed that she too was busy writing. I felt it best not to interrupt.

"I can't get John's mother to come for a teacher conference."

"I can't get my daughter to put gas in the car."

"I can't get Alan to use words instead of fists."

Thwarted in my efforts to determine why students and teacher were dwelling on the negative instead of writing the more positive "I Can" statements, I returned to my seat and continued my observations. Students wrote for another ten minutes. Most filled their page. Some started another.

"Finish the one you're on and don't start a new one,." were the instructions Donna used to signal the end of the activity. Students were then instructed to fold the papers in half and bring them to the front. When the students reached their teacher's desk, they placed their "I Can't" statements into an empty shoe box.

When all of the students papers were collected, Donna added hers. She put the lid on the box, tucked it under her arm and headed out the door and down the hall. Students followed the teacher. I followed the students.

Halfway down the hallway the procession stopped. Donna entered the custodian's room rummaged around and came out with a shovel. Shovel in one hand, shoe box in the other, Donna marched the students out to the school to the farthest corner of the playground. There they began to dig.

They were going to bury their "I Can'ts"! The digging took over ten minutes because most of the fourth graders wanted a turn. When the hole approached three fee deep, the digging ended. The box of "I Can'ts" was placed in a position at the bottom of the hole and then quickly covered with dirt.

Thirty one 10 and 11-year-olds stood around the freshly dug rave site. Each had at least one page full of "I Can'ts" in the shoe box, four feet under. So did their teacher.

At this point Donna announced, "Boys and girls, please join hands and bow your heads." The students complied. They quickly formed a circle around the grave, creating a bond with their hands. They lowered their heads and waited. Donna delivered the eulogy.

"Friends, we gather here today to honor the memory of 'I Can't.' While he was with us here on earth, he touched, the lives or everyone, some more than others. His name unfortunately, has been spoken in every public building- school, city halls, state capitols, and yes, even The White House.

"We have provided 'I Can't' with a final resting place and a headstone that contained his epitaph. His is survived by his brothers and sisters, 'I Can,' 'I Will' and 'I'm Going to Right Away.' They are not as well known as their famous relative and are certainly not as strong and powerful yet. Perhaps some day, with your help, they will make an even bigger mark on the world.

"May 'I Can't' rest in peace and may everyone present pick up their lives and move forward in his absence. Amen."

As I listened to the eulogy I realized that these students would never forget this day. The activity was symbolic, a metaphor for life. It was a right brain experience that would stick in the unconscious and conscious mind forever.

Writing "I Can'ts", burying then and hearing the eulogy. That was a major effort on this part of the teacher. And she wasn't done yet. At the conclusion of the eulogy she turned the students around, marched them back into the classroom and held a wake.

They celebrated the passing of "I Can't" with cookies, popcorn and fruit juices. As part of the celebration, Donna cut a large tombstone from butcher paper. She wrote the words "I Can't" at the top and put RIP in the middle. The date was added at the bottom.

The paper tombstone hung in Donna's classroom for the remainder of the year. On those rare occasions when a student forgot and said, "I Can't", Donna simply pointed to the RIP sign. The student then remembered that "I Can't" was dead and chose to rephrase the statement.

I wasn't one of Donna's students. She was one of mine. Yet that day I learned an enduring lesson from her.

Now, years later, whenever I hear the phrase, "I Can't," I see images of that fourth grade funeral. Like the students, I remember that "I Can't" is dead.

Philippians 4:13 I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.

Remember, this verse says "all" not "a few" things.

The Music of the Storm

The great Conductor lifted His baton
and silence invaded the land.
The symphony started with a thunderous roll,
winds entered at His command.

Heavy laden clouds swiftly moved into place,
causing rivulets to add their song.
As each instrument yielded to the Master's touch
the melody played all night long.

My Lord, the Conductor, has control of each storm;
He will allow nothing to cause me real harm,
and He gives me the comfort of His marvelous grace,
while I listen to the music of the storm.

The Perfect Heart

There is a kingdom and a place not far from where you are right now, and in this kingdom and in this place there are very special people. Now these people are special because they consider their most valuable possession to be their hearts.

In fact some of the people are able to hold their hearts in their hands - a very special gift indeed - and even if a heart gets broken it may be repaired at the local heart specialist. These people believe that all of their actions should flow from their hearts.

Now in this kingdom there lived a young man who claimed to have a perfect heart. He was very proud of his heart because it had no cracks or scars. It was very solid and could not be hurt or penetrated by anything at all. One day the young man was showing his perfect heart to a large group of people - something which he did quite often.

People came from miles around to see his perfect heart and for such occasions he kept it locked in a beautiful glass case. No one in the kingdom dared touch him or his perfect heart. They just looked at him in amazement for there was no one else like him in the entire kingdom.

Suddenly a frail voice arose from the crowd and said: "My heart is more beautiful than yours."

The crowd was quiet for a moment, and finally the young man laughed at such a claim for he was sure perfection was the most beautiful thing in the world. When his laughter subsided, he said to the person with the frail voice: "Come out of the crowd and show me your beautiful heart.

Compare it to mine!" The young man was sure there could be no comparison, but he enjoyed the attention immensely. Slowly the source of the frail voice appeared as a little old man emerged from the crowd. He was bent with age and his face was covered with lines that told the story of a long and sometimes difficult life.

The young man spoke arrogantly to him saying: "Let me see your heart, Old Man, so I can compare it to mine." The old man did not speak - he simply showed his heart to everyone in the crowd. He did not keep his heart in a fine glass case, but he carried it with him at all times.

He merely stood before the crowd gently holding his heart in his old wrinkled hands. The young man immediately began to laugh when he saw the old heart. "That is the ugliest heart I've ever seen. Why it's made of pieces that don't even fit together perfectly. You are a fool, Old Man!" When he said this, everyone laughed.

The old man began to speak again, and his frail voice could hardly be heard by the people in the crowd. "Many years ago my heart was like yours. Yes, it was perfect - but that was before I knew the meaning of love. My heart had no cracks.

It had never been hurt. It was just another part of me, but soon I began to learn what love was all about and that's when my heart began to change." The young man began to laugh, but a little girl in the crowd cried out: "Be quiet and let this old man tell us his story."

So the young man stopped laughing, and the old man continued to speak as his heart tottered back and forth in his hands. "No, my heart does not look perfect because it is not my heart alone. You see whenever I love another person, I give him a piece of my heart and he gives me a piece of his. We cannot be separated - not even by death.

In fact, when someone I love dies, part of me dies with them and yet at the same time part of that person lives on in me, and I am able to share that person's love and life with others.

So to you, my heart may look very ugly and funny because of the strange shapes that it is made of, but to me it is beautiful because I carry within my heart the love of many people whom I have loved and who have loved me in return.

By the standards of the world it is not perfect, but the heart does not exist by worldly standards..... It lives because of love, and is measured by love." He looked at the young man and said: "Yes, your heart is perfect to look at, but it has not yet known real love, so it lacks the beauty that only love can provide."

The crowd stood silent, and waited for the young man to respond when finally he said: "Old Man, you have explained the various odd shapes that make up your heart, but you have not explained the meaning of the ugly cracks."

Again the old man spoke with a sigh: "Whenever you love someone you take a risk, and sometimes it can cause a great deal of pain because we can hurt one another so easily - but love is not known unless those risks are taken.

The cracks that you see are reminders of the times when I have been hurt by one of the persons I have loved, or when I have hurt one of them. Some take their love away and remove themselves from your heart and remove you from their hearts. It is things like this that cause those cracks to appear.

Yes, it sometimes hurts to love, but you must keep on loving even when it is painful. Love can be a cause of both laughter and of tears, and sometimes you can't understand the cause of either the laughter or the tears. They are just a part of your real love - and, throughout, you continue to hold your friends in your heart which is the most delicate and sensitive part of your entire self.

By this time the young man was crying very hard, for he had come to realize he was always so busy with his perfect heart that he had never loved anyone nor had he allowed anyone to love him. He removed his heart from his special glass case and held it in his hand.

It was very cold and hard to touch. Tears flowed over his heart, and he was extremely sad because he did not know the meaning of real love. He only knew about perfection. Just as he was about to leave the crowd and go away from the kingdom to hide forever, he noticed the old man hobbling toward him.

The young man looked up and saw the old man reaching towards the oddly shaped heart that was in his wrinkled venerable hands. The old man had removed a very ancient piece of his heart and offered it to the young man. He said: "This is a piece of my heart. I give it to you out of real love. Please accept it."

The young man reached out to accept the piece of the old man's heart. He quickly tried to make it a part of his own, but he soon realized that there was no room for it. He was puzzled for a moment until he looked at the old man and saw the answer in his caring eyes. Then the young man nervously removed a piece of his own heart and offered it to the old man.

Now the old man's heart was so oddly shaped that the piece he had given to the young man did not fit perfectly into his heart, but the young man simply set it in its place and looked at it through tears of real joy. For the first time in his life he really felt happy and he realized his heart was no longer cold and hard but it was now soft and warm. He finally had a happy heart - one that new the meaning of love.

The young man and the old man set their hearts in their rightful places and they were both very happy. The crowd cheered and cried aloud.

The young man told his teacher that he wanted to follow him for the rest of his life, but the wise old man said: "No, my son, you must not follow me. Now that you have learned of real love you must go forth and share it with others. You must share your love, as I have shared mine, throughout the kingdom."

The young man felt very sad again, and he was sure that his heart was beginning to break, but the old man spoke again: "You must remember that we always carry one another in our hearts no matter where we go. That's what makes them so beautiful, and we will always be together because of that." The young man knew the old man was right. He walked up to him. They embraced and then went off in different directions to spread the meaning of real love throughout the kingdom.

The young man may still be found traveling throughout the kingdom telling his story about the meaning of real love. He has never returned his heart to the glass case. Now he keeps it in its rightful place willing to show it to all who wish to see it. Night and day he rejoices over his heart, now oddly shaped but very beautiful.

If you ever meet him, he will surely tell you this story of how he learned that love is so much more beautiful than perfection. Perhaps you have already met him - if not look around - he may be close to you right now for there is a kingdom and a place not far from where you are right now... and in this kingdom there are very special people

[video=youtube_share;r4d4UXSJXig]https://youtu.be/r4d4UXSJXig[/video]

The Pretty One

This was the last litter of puppies we were going to allow our
Cocker Spaniel to have. It had been a very long night for me.
Precious, our only black Cocker was having a very difficult time
with the delivery of her puppies.

I laid on the floor beside her large four-foot square cage
watching her every movement. I was watching and waiting just in
case we had to rush her to the veterinarian.

After six hours the puppies started to appear. The first born
was a black and white party dog. The second and third puppies
were tan and brown in color.

The fourth and fifth were also spotted black and white. "One,
two, three, four, five," I counted to myself as I walked down
the hallway to wake up Judy and tell her that everything was
fine. As we walked back down the hallway and into the spare
bedroom, I noticed a sixth puppy had been born and was now lying
all by itself over to the side of the cage.

I picked up the small puppy and laid it on top of the large pile
of puppies, which were whining and trying to nurse on the
mother. Instantly Precious pushed the small puppy away from
rest of the group and refused to recognize it as a member of her
family.

"Something's wrong," said Judy. I reached over and picked up
the puppy. My heart sank inside my chest when I saw the little
puppy was hare-lipped and could not close its little mouth.

We had gone through this once before last year with another one
of our cockers. That experience like to have killed me when the
puppy died and I had to bury it. If there was any way to save
this animal I was going to give it my best shot.

All the puppies born that night, with the exception of the small
hare-lipped pup, were very valuable because of their unusual
coloring. Most would bring between five to seven hundred
dollars each.

The next day I took the puppy to the vet. I was told nothing
could be done unless we were willing to spend about a thousand
dollars to try and correct the defect. He told us that the
puppy would die mainly because it could not suckle.

After returning home Judy and I decided that we could not afford
to spend that kind of money without getting some type of
assurances from the vet that the puppy had a chance to live.
However, that did not stop me from purchasing a syringe and
feeding the puppy by hand, which I did every day and night,
every two hours, for more than ten days.

The fifth week I placed an ad in the newspaper, and within a
week we had taken deposits on all of the pups, except the one
with the deformity.

The little guy had learned to eat on his own as long as it was
soft canned food.

Late that afternoon I had gone to the store to pick up a few
groceries. Upon returning I happened to see the old retired
school teacher, who lived across the street from us, waving at
me. She had read in the paper that we had puppies for sale and
was wondering if she might buy one from us for her grandson.

I told her all the puppies had been sold, but I would keep my
eyes open for anyone else who might have a cocker spaniel for
sale. I also mentioned we never kept a deposit should someone
change their mind, and if so I would let her know.

Within days all but one of the puppies had been picked up by
their new owners.

This left me with one brown and tan cocker, as well as the
smaller hare-lipped puppy.

Two days passed without me hearing anything from the gentleman
who had placed a deposit on the tan and brown pup. So I
telephoned the school teacher and told her I had one puppy left
and that she was welcome to come and look at it.

She advised me that she was going to pick up her grandson and
would come over about eight o'clock that evening. Judy and I
were eating supper when we heard a knock on the front door.

When I opened the door, the man who had placed a $100 deposit
on the dog was standing there. We walked inside where I filled
out the paperwork, he paid me the balance of the money, and I
handed him the puppy.

Judy and I did not know what to do or say if the teacher showed
up with her grandson. Sure enough at exactly eight o'clock the
doorbell rang. I opened the door and there was the school
teacher with her grandson standing behind her. I explained to
her the man had come for the puppy just an hour before and there
were no puppies left.

"I'm sorry, Jeffery. They sold all the puppies," she told her
grandson.

Just at that moment, the small puppy left in the bedroom began
to yelp.

"My puppy! My puppy!" yelled the little boy as he ran out from
behind his grandmother.

I just about fell over when I saw that the small child was hare-
lipped. The boy ran past me as fast as he could down the
hallway to where the puppy was still yelping. When the three of
us made it to the bedroom, the small boy was holding the puppy
in his arms. He looked up at his grandmother and said, "Look
Grandma. They sold all the puppies except the pretty one, and
he looks just like me."

Well, old Grandma wasn't the only one with tears in her eyes
that day. Judy and I stood there, not knowing what to do.

"Is this puppy for sale?" asked the school teacher.

"My grandma told me these kind of puppies are real expensive and
that I have to take real good care of it," said the little boy
who was now hugging the puppy.

"Yes, ma'am. This puppy is for sale."

The lady opened her purse, and I could see several one-hundred
dollar bills sticking out of her wallet. I reached over and
pushed her hand back down into her purse so that she would not
pull her wallet out.

"How much do you think this puppy is worth?" I asked the boy.

"About a dollar?" He replied.

"No. This puppy is very, very expensive; more than a dollar."
I told him.

"I'm afraid so." said his grandmother.

The boy stood there pressing the small puppy against his cheek.

"We could not possibly take less than two dollars for this
puppy," Judy said squeezing my hand. "Like you said, 'It's the
pretty one'". She continued.

The school teacher took out two dollars and handed it to the
young boy.

"It's your dog now, Jeffery. You pay the man."

I think it must be a wonderful feeling for any young person to
look at themselves in the mirror and see nothing, except "The
pretty one."

There is a light that shines beyond all things on earth, beyond
the highest, the very highest heavens. This is the light that
shines in your heart.

The Portrait of a Rich Man's Son


Years ago, there was a very wealthy man who, with his devoted young son, shared a passion for art collecting. Together they travelled around the world, adding only the finest art treasures to their collection. Priceless works by Picasso, Van Gogh, Monet and many others adorned the walls of the family estate. The widowed elder man looked on with satisfaction as his only child became an experienced art collector. The son's trained eye and sharp business mind caused his father to beam with pride as they dealt with art collectors around the world.

As winter approached, war engulfed the nation, and the young man left to serve his country. After only a few short weeks, his father received a telegram. His beloved son was missing in action. The art collector anxiously awaited more news, fearing he would never see his son again. Within days, his fears were confirmed. The young man had died while rushing a fellow soldier to a medic. Distraught and lonely, the old man faced the upcoming Christmas holidays with anguish and sadness. The joy of the season - a season that he and his son had so looked forward to - would visit his house no longer.

On Christmas morning, a knock on the door awakened the depressed old man. As he walked to the door, the masterpieces of art on the walls only reminded him that his son was not coming home. As he opened the door, he was greeted by a soldier with a large package in his hand. He introduced himself to the man by saying, "I was a friend of your son. I was the one he was rescuing when he died. May I come in for a few moments? I have something to show you."

As the two began to talk, the solider told of how the man's son had told everyone of his not to mention his father's love of fine art. "I'm an artist," said the soldier, "and I want to give you this." As the old man unwrapped the package, the paper gave way to reveal a portrait of the man's son. Though the world would never consider it the work of a genius, the painting featured the young man's face in striking detail.

Overcome with emotion, the man thanked the soldier, promising to hang the picture above the fireplace.

A few hours later, after the soldier had departed, the old man set about his task. True to his word, the painting went above the fireplace, pushing aside thousands of dollars of paintings. And then the man sat in his chair and spent Christmas gazing at the gift he had been given.

During the days and weeks that followed, the man realized that even though his son was no longer with him, the boy's life would live on because of those he had touched. He would soon learn that his son had rescued dozens of wounded soldiers before a bullet stilled his caring heart. As the stories of his son's gallantry continued to reach him, fatherly pride and satisfaction began to ease the grief. The painting of his son soon became his most prized possession, far eclipsing any interest in the pieces for which museums around the world clamoured.

He told his neighbours it was the greatest gift he had ever received.

The following spring, the old man became ill and passed away. The art world was in anticipation. With the collector's passing, and his only son dead, those paintings would be sold at an auction. According to the will of the old man, all of the art works would be auctioned on Christmas day, the day he had received his greatest gift. The day soon arrived and art collectors from around the world gathered to bid on some of the world's most spectacular paintings. Dreams would be fulfilled this day; greatness would be achieved as many would claim "I have the greatest collection."

The auction began with a painting that was not on any museum's list. It was the painting of the man's son.

The auctioneer asked for an opening bid. The room was silent. "Who will open the bidding with $100?" he asked.

Minutes passed. No one spoke. From the back of the room came, "Who cares about that painting? It's just a picture of his son. Let's forget it and go on to the good stuff." More voices echoed in agreement. "No, we have to sell this one first," replied the auctioneer. "Now, who will take the son?"

Finally, a friend of the old man spoke.
"Will you take ten dollars for the painting? That's all I have. I knew the boy, so I'd like to have it." "I have ten dollars. Will anyone go higher?" called the auctioneer. After more silence, the auctioneer said, "Going once, going twice. Gone." The gavel fell. Cheers filled the room and someone exclaimed, "Now we can get on with it and we can bid on these treasures!"

The auctioneer looked at the audience and announced the auction was over. Stunned disbelief quieted the room. Someone spoke up and asked, "What do you mean it's over? We didn't come here for a picture of some old guy's son What about all of these paintings? There are millions of dollars of art here! I demand that you explain what's going on here!."

The auctioneer replied, "It's very simple. According to the will of the father, whoever takes the son..gets it all."

Puts things into perspective, doesn't it? Just as those art collectors discovered on that Christmas day, the message is still the same - the love of a Father - a Father whose greatest joy came from his son who went away and gave his life rescuing others. And because of that Father's love..whoever takes the Son gets it all.

Dear friends, brothers and sisters in Christ, this story illustrated the love of our Father in Heaven, our GOD, for us. He sacrificed His beloved Son and whosoever would believe in Him will not perish but have everlasting life. The is the greatest gift of love to each one of us.

[video=youtube_share;oLiqi_XJzzw]https://youtu.be/oLiqi_XJzzw[/video]

The Road Of Life


At first, I saw God as my observer, my judge, keeping track of the things I did wrong, so as to know whether I merited heaven or hell when I die. He was out there sort of like a president. I recognized His picture when I saw it, But I really didn't know Him.

But later on when I met Christ, it seemed as though life were rather like a bike ride, but it was a tandem bike, and I noticed that Christ was in the back helping me pedal.

I don't know just when it was that he suggested we change places, but life has not been the same since. When I had control, I knew the way. It was rather boring, but predictable... It was the shortest distance between two points.


But when He took the lead, He knows the delightful long cuts, up mountains, and through rocky places at breakneck speeds, it was all I could do to hang on! Even though it looked like madness, He said, "Pedal!"

I worried and was anxious and asked, "Where are you taking me?" He
laughed and didn't answer, and I started to learn to trust. I forgot my boring life and entered into the adventure. And when I'd say, "I'm scared," He'd lean back and touch my hand.

He took me to people with gifts that I needed, gifts of healing, acceptance, and joy. They gave me gifts to take on my journey, my Lord's and mine.

And we're off again. He said, "Give the gifts away; they're extra baggage, too much weight." So I did, to the people we met, and I found that in giving I received, and still our burden was light.

I did not trust him at first, in control of my life. I thought He'd wreck it; but he knows bike secrets, knows how to make it bend to take sharp corners, knows how to jump to clear high rocks, knows how to fly to shorten scary passages.

And I am learning to shut up and pedal in the strangest places, and
I'm beginning to enjoy the view and the cool breeze on my face with my delightful constant companion, Jesus Christ.

And when I'm sure I just can't do anymore, He just smiles and says....
"Pedal."

The Room


In that place between wakefulness and dreams,
I found myself in the room. There were no distinguishing features.
save for the one wall covered with small index card files .
They were like the ones in libraries that list titles by author or subject in alphabetical
order. But these files , which stretched from floor to ceiling and
seemingly endlessly
in either direction, had very different headings. As I drew near the wall of files , the first to catch my attention was
one that read "People I Have Liked". I opened it and began
flipping through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to realize that
I recognized the names written on each one.

And then without being told, I knew exactly where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude catalog system for my
life. Here were written the actions of my every moment, big and
small, in a detail my memory couldn't match.

A sense of wonder and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred
within me as I began randomly opening files and exploring their
content. Some brought joy and sweet memories; others a sense of
shame and regret
so intense that I would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching. A file named "Friends" was next to one
marked "Friends I Have Betrayed."

The titles ranged from the mundane to the outright weird.

"Books I Have Read", "Lies I Have Told", "Comfort I Have Given",
"Jokes I Have Laughed At". Some were almost hilarious in their exactness:
"Things I've Yelled at My Brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at:
"Things I Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered Under
My Breath at My Parents". I never ceased to be surprised by the contents.
Often there were many more cards than I expected. Sometimes fewer than
I hoped.

I was overwhelmed by the sheer volume of the life I had lived.
Could it be possible
that I had the time in my 20 years to write each of these thousands or even millions of cards? But each card confirmed
this truth.

Each was written in my own handwriting. Each signed with my signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "Songs I Have Listened To",

I realized the files grew to contain their contents. The cards were
packed tightly, and yet after two or three yards, I hadn't found
the end of the
file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the quality of music, but more by the vast amount of time I knew that file
represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts",

I felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file out only an inch,
not willing to test its size, and drew out a card. I shuddered at
its detailed content. I felt sick to think that such a moment had
been recorded.

An almost animal rage broke on me.

One thought dominated my mind: "No one must ever see these cards!
No one must ever see this room! I have to destroy them!"
In an insane frenzy I yanked the file out. Its size didn't matter now.
I had to empty
it and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge a single card.
I became desperate and pulled out a card, only to find it as strong
as steel when I tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file to its slot.

Leaning my forehead against the wall, I let out a long, self-pitying
sigh. And then I saw it. The title bore "People I Have Shared the
Gospel With". The handle was brighter than those around it, newer,
almost unused. I pulled on its handle and a small box not more than
three inches long fell into my hands. I could count the cards it
contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep.

Sobs so deep that
the hurt started in my stomach and shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I cried out of shame, from the overwheming
shame of it all. The rows of file shelves swirled in my tear-filled eyes. No
one must ever, ever know of this room. I must lock it up and hide the key.

But then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here! Oh, anyone but Jesus. I watched helplessly as He
began to open the files and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch
His response. And in the moments I could bring myself to look at His
face, I saw a sorrow deeper than my own. He seemed to intuitively go
to the worst boxes. Why did He have to read every one?

Finally He turned and looked at me from across the room.

He looked at me
with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face with my hands and began
to cry again. He walked over and put His arm around me. He could
have said so many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried
with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.

Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file and, one by one,
began to sign His name over mine on each card.

"No!" I shouted rushing to Him.

All I could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card from Him.
His name shouldn't be on these cards. But there it was, written in red
so rich, so dark, so alive. The name of Jesus covered mine.
It was written with His blood.

He gently took the card back.

He smiled a sad smile and began to sign the cards.
I don't think I'll ever understand how He did it so
quickly, but the next instant it seemed I heard Him close the last
file and walk back to my side. He placed His hand on my shoulder and
said, "It is finished."

I stood up, and He led me out of the room. There was no lock on
its door. There were still cards to be written.

The Right Place


God has a way of allowing us to be in the right place at the right time. I was walking down a dimly lit street late one evening when I heard muffled screams coming from behind a clump of bushes. Alarmed, I slowed down to listen and panicked when I realized that what I was hearing were the unmistakable sounds of a struggle: heavy grunting, frantic scuffling and tearing of fabric.

Only yards from where I stood, a woman was being attacked. Should I get involved? I was frightened for my own safety and cursed myself for having suddenly decided to take a new route home that night. What if I became another statistic? Shouldn't I just run to the nearest phone and call the police?

Although it seemed an eternity, the deliberations in my head had taken only seconds, but already the cries were growing weaker. I knew I had to act fast. How could I walk away from this? No, I finally resolved, I could not turn my back on the fate of this unknown woman, even if it meant risking my own life. I am not a brave man, nor am I athletic.

I don't know where I found the moral courage and physical strength--- but once I had finally resolved to help the girl, I became strangely transformed. I ran behind the bushes and pulled the assailant off the woman.

Grappling, we fell to the ground, where we wrestled for a few minutes until the attacker jumped up and escaped. Panting hard, I scrambled upright and approached the girl, who was crouched behind a tree, sobbing. In the darkness, I could barely see her outline, but I could certainly sense her trembling shock.

Not wanting to frighten her further, I at first spoke to her from a distance. "It's OK," I said soothingly. "The man ran away. You're safe now." There was a long pause and then I heard the words uttered in wonder, in amazement. "Dad, is that you?" And then, from behind the tree, stepped my youngest daughter, Katherine.

Do all the good you can. In all the ways you can. In all the places you can. At all times you can. To all the people you can. For as long as you can

The Legend of the Sand Dollar



There's a lovely little legend
That I would like to tell
Of the birth and death of Jesus
Found in this lovely shell.


If you examine closely
You'll see that you find here
Four nail holes and a fifth one
Made by a Roman's spear.


On one side the Easter Lily
In its center is the star
That appeared unto the shepherds
And led them from afar.


The Christmas Poinsettia
Etched on the other side
Reminds us of His Birthday
Our Happy Christmastide.

Now break the center open
And here you will release
The five while doves awaiting
To spread Good Will and Peace.


This simple little symbol
Christ left for you and me
To help us spread His Gospel
Through all Eternity

Flat


The tire was flat.

Church was just letting out as I stood in the street and looked
at my mother’s tire; it was flat. It was 90 degrees as the sun
beamed down.

A small cigarette lighter powered air pump labored away trying
to raise the flattened tire. I told my mother to take my Jeep
and go home, and I would take care of the tire.

I listened as air hissed out as fast as the pump put it in.
I found the hole and backed the car up so the hole was on the
bottom. The weight of the car stopped the leak and allowed the
tire to fill. With the tire full but leaking, I pulled off.

I didn’t know of any gas stations with mechanics in the
neighborhood, but I figured I could drive until I found one.
I stayed off the expressway in case the tire went flat.

After ten minutes of driving, I found nothing open on a Sunday
afternoon. I pulled into a gas station to pump up the nearly
flat tire again.

As the pump was pumping, there was one man pumping gas.
“Do you know where I can get a tire plugged around here?” I asked.
“There’s a place right there,” he said pointing.

“Right where?” I asked, wondering where the place could be since
he was pointing to the street and direction that I had just
driven from.

“It’s next to the liquor store, it’s on the right but you have
to look hard to see it.”

“Are they open now on Sunday?” I asked.
“Yes, they’re open,” he replied.

I thanked him and set out to find the repair shop. I was
somewhat skeptical that I could have passed a tire repair shop
while desperately looking for a tire repair shop.

I passed the liquor store and there on the right, down a gravel
road was a tire repair shop. Men covered in black grease were
hard at work. They were a welcome sight as the air continually
hissed from the tire.

In ten minutes, I was on my way.


This reminded me so much of life.

We are often deflated, the essence of life slowly leaking out
and each time we pump up it isn’t long before we’re flat again.

We are straining, crying, praying, hoping, pleading for the
answer and often we pass right by the answer. Life is slowly
leaking out towards the flatline and we pass right by because we
don’t see the road, the place or the men on the right.

I could not find it on my own; I had to seek the answer from
someone who knew, from someone familiar with the territory.
When I did hear the answer, I was doubtful that I could have
missed it because it was so close. I measured it; it was 750 feet
from where I asked the question, but I couldn’t see from where I
was standing. Someone had to point the way.

Your answer is also closer than you think.
It’s on the right side.
Some of you will have to bypass the liquor store to get to it.
When you get there they will be waiting to help you.
They will be waiting to help you stop the leak.
They will be waiting to fill you with breath.

And they will be open on Sunday.

[video=youtube_share;P1SfQJb6GcE]https://youtu.be/P1SfQJb6GcE[/video]

Children obey your parents in the Lord, for this is right. Honour your father and mother................

........... Fathers do not exasperate your children, instead, bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.

Ephesians 6 vv 1-4.


Like Father, Like Son

I have followed in your footsteps,
you have taught me many things,
shown me many more.

Like, what it was to be a caring son,
takes to be a devoted father,
means to be a loving grandfather.

I will never forget all you taught me,
always treasure what you have shown me.
In life, it is less important what you are,
than what you become.

I can become, as a caring son,
devoted a father, loving a grandfather,
It will be your legacy I keep.

The Trail of the Martyr

The words seemed to bring a startling chill to the hot and humid summer air. "You, Simon Mariot, will be charged with the following accounts of crime. If you are convicted, you will be sentenced to death by the fiery stake. Are you clear on this?"

"Yes." The man deeply prayed inside himself. He knew that if he was to go home, the Lord would except him with open arms.

"You are charged with the following: Preaching the Gospel of Jesus Christ in restricted areas, smuggling Bibles to people in the prison court yard, continuing after warnings to smuggle the Bible into camps and areas also restricted, preaching in the streets, and refusing to conform to the King's Religion. Do you hereby acknowledge that you are guilty of one or more of these crimes?"

He could not--would not--deny spreading the gospel to the lost souls of that country. He knew that "blessed are the persecuted for Christ's sake, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven." He knew that a place awaited him in glory. That mansion that the Lord was building for him. His answer came without hesitation.

"Yes."

The head Officer spoke to his soldiers, "Lead him to the courtyard, the trial shall begin!"

They grabbed him by his arms, jerked them behind his back, and locked him in shackles and chains. They led him away, and the righteous criminal prayed as he walked into the courtyard.

The people gathered in hoards. How dare someone break the Law of Religion. How dare anyone preach a message opposite of what they believed. They surely wanted to be there to see him punished. The voices echoed in the air as if it was an enclosed building. The eyes stared at the figure before them with hate. Though religious they claimed to be, they had a hatred for the man before them. They couldn't tolerate a challenge to their principles.

Order came and the court was in session; the trial was ready to begin.

"We are gathered here under criminal conduct performed by the figure before you. He does not deny that he committed even one of the charges that will be presented.

The prosecution may step forward." It did, and with a hateful stare to the yet-convicted. The prosecution started in. "Now, Mariot, have you not," he was yelling already, "preached against the wills and laws of the land everyday that you have been in our country?"

He would not deny. "Yes, I have spread the truth to the people of this land." Those words infuriated the prosecution, and those attending. Talking began to get loud. The judge yelled for order and the crowd quieted.

"Yes, you say, and do not deny. Did you not know that it was against the law to preach your blasphemous message? Wait, let me rephrase the question. Did you know that it was against our law to preach the message you have, or anything against our belief?"

"Yes, I did know."

"Do you think you do not have to obey the laws of our land?"

"I cannot deny my Lord."

"So, even now, you refuse to change and deny your God to spare your life. You crazy fool!"

"Wait, let the case be carried out."

"Is it not true that you intentionally, against the order of the High Priest of our land, proceeded to smuggle copies of your Bible into prisons and homes?"

"It is true. I shall not deny the name of my Lord, even unto my death."

The prosecution was even more furious. How dare their power to kill be mocked by fearlessness!

The eyes of the men before him were hellish, like the hell he knew existed, and that he knew he wouldn't go to. They seemed to glow with an evil red. He wasn't scared, he knew that if he didn't have Jesus in his heart, he would have surely given up by now, just for the look in their eyes. It would be that frightening if he wasn't a Christian.

"Begin his punishment! We find him guilty! He is sarcastic and blasphemous against our religion and we will not have it! Let your God save you, if he is so awesome!"

They grabbed him by the arms and led him to a pole that was straight up out of the ground. On each side were cuff-like rings that were to opened and out around his wrist. He saw it coming and didn't resist. He knew it would be painful but he just prayed. Lord, I will not deny you, and if I have to, I will stand up to this test of my faith. I will not deny you. Be with me, Lord.

Just as his Savior had taken stripes for him years ago, he took the beating of his back with as much grace as he could. The first strike came the hardest and the second lessened little. The flesh that covered his back was instantly ripped open in a strip of ripped flesh and blood. The whip contained pieces of bone and as it wrapped around his naked upper torso, it dug into his ribs. As they pulled back on the whip, it ripped the flesh and jerked his body to the side it struck. Blood ran down his sides and back. Each strike became less painful only because he began to grow numb.

Eleven lashes later, they paused to provide another chance for him to convert to their religion. If he did, he would survive and they would allow his wounds to heal, even treat him with the medical attention available.

"Do you deny your God and accept ours? This is one more chance to spare your life, blasphemer! Do you accept!?"

His body hung limp and weak, yet with strength he managed to answer, "I...will...never deny my...God. Even unto death."

The accusers were furious again. One of the soldiers in charge ordered a bucket of water to be brought to the site. Salt water.

"Throw it on him!"

The carrier hesitated, but in fear of his life, did as instructed. He took the bucket back with a full swing and then threw the water onto the back of the accused.

He screamed out in pain. A scream so shrill no one could remember having heard a worse sound. The crowd was silenced by what they witnessed. It was as if they went from condemning to pardoning. They couldn't say anything, they just watched in horror. Some even began to weep.

The piercing screams of pain continued as they threw another bucket of water onto his back. Then the highest ranking soldier ordered it stopped. "Enough. Surely he will deny now, and end his suffering." He turned his attention to the pain-ridden man. "Do you? This is your last chance. Do you deny?"

With barely a whisper, he answered, "No, I cannot." His body fell limp and unconscious.

The lead soldier was furious. The sun blazed onto them with terrible heat that decided his next move. "Move him to a prison cell, he will be burned tomorrow in the mid-day heat so that he may not only scorch from the flames, but the sun's heat as well."

And that was that. The soldiers moved the body to an empty cell and laid Simon Mariot, the man who would not give up his belief, on his stomach. They let him be, either to die in the night, or the next afternoon. Either way, they had no emotion attached to this human that lay before them as they left him alone.

Night fell and talk spread of the afternoon's trial. Some had wanted the man to be killed then, some had thought he should be allowed to leave the country. It all depended on who heard who. The talks were quiet, for if a soldier heard, he would have them killed. Between the people themselves, opinions were heard loud and clear.

The sun rose with a mystifying light. Simon had gone from an unconscious sleep, to excruciating pain during the night. He could not move but lay on his back feeling the sting of air on his bones. And now, the sun came in through the small barred window of his cell and shone in his eyes. He cried out to God to take him home, if that was His will, before falling unconscious.

He was awakened by the clanking of chains, which he soon realized were to be for himself. He looked up, dazed from sleep, and finally focused on two Roman soldiers. He remembered them from the day before. The same faces, not those of concern, but of duty. Simon Mariot, about to be marched to his death, prayed silently to the God he would not deny.

The soldiers stood him up and locked the chains around his wrists and ankles. There were voices coming from outside the cell. The soldiers left, and Simon was standing alone in the cell. He hadn't realized it before, but he wasn't the only one in the prison. He looked behind him and saw another man looking through the cell window at him. At this point the Lord spoke to his heart, "Go pray with this man, he desires to know me as you know me. He has heard about your faith." Simon obeyed, and before he knew it, he was right in front of the window.

"My friend, what occupies your thoughts?"

"I have heard of your faith to your god. The religion that is taught here I do not relate to. I feel as though I am not only a prisoner for the crimes I have done, but there seems to be no forgiveness in these beliefs that we are forced to accept. I have heard you talk about the forgiveness of your god. And how great his love is. That he sent his son to die for your sins. I want to know your god. But will he forgive and accept me?"

"My God, will be your God, and just as He has given His son for me, He has given his son for you. All you need do is ask him into your life and you will be forgiven of you sins. He will then be Lord of your life."

"What do I do? Will you help me?"

"Yes, I will pray with you."

"My name is Peter." Simon led him in the sinners prayer. Peter was now a Christian, another man who might have to give his life for the cause of Christ. But he was willing to by the confession he had just made. It was amazing, though. Hours had actually gone by and it was afternoon. The Lord had provided a way to lead a soul to Him. He had provided a way where there would have been none. And now it was time to carry out the Lord's plan.

The soldiers were back. This time with more hate. They grabbed him with more force than even the day before and out the prison doors they went. Simon tried to keep his eyes closed as they led him to the stake. He could feel the intense heat of the sun even now in the shade.

The stake was now before him. The soldiers unshackled his ankles and his wrists and led him up a two step staircase. With his back to the tall object of death, they tied his arms around the stake and behind him with large ropes that had been soaking in gasoline. His end was near. Simon prayed silently. Lord take me now, into Your hands goes my spirit. With that he bowed his head and gave up his soul. The Lord took the breath from his mouth just as the flames began to engulf him. As those who persecuted him watched and saw what they thought was the rightful punishment of a criminal, Simon Mariot's soul was in Paradise.

Back in the prison cell, three more people gave their heart to the Lord from the witnessing of Peter while the stake was ablaze. This was it. The trail of the martyr that started with Peter, was continuing with these three souls, and the souls that were soon to be saved. The country was now an open sea, and there were now four new souls to take a step of faith onto that water.

This is not the end, for the Trail of the Martyr shall continue as long as one is willing to give life for the cause of Christ and witness to lost souls...........

The Vessel


The Master was searching for a vessel to use; On the shelf there were many - which one would He choose? "Take me", cried the gold one, "I'm shiny and bright, I'm of great value and I do things just right. My beauty and luster will outshine the rest And for someone like You, Master, gold would be the best!"

The Master passed on with no word at all; He looked at a silver urn, narrow and tall; "I'll serve You, dear Master, I'll pour out Your wine And I'll be at Your table whenever You dine, My lines are so graceful, my carvings so true, And my silver will always compliment You."

Unheeding the Master passed on to the brass, It was wide mouthed and shallow, and polished like glass. "Here! Here!" cried the vessel, "I know I will do, Place me on Your table for all men to view."

"Look at me", called the goblet of crystal so clear, "My transparency shows my contents so dear, Though fragile am I, I will serve You with pride, And I'm sure I'll be happy in Your house to abide."

The Master came next to a vessel of wood, Polished and carved, it solidly stood. "You may use me, dear Master", the wooden bowl said, "But I'd rather You used me for fruit, not for Bread!"

Then the Master looked down and saw a vessel of clay. Empty and broken it helplessly lay. No hope had the vessel that the Master might choose, To cleanse and make whole, to fill and to use.

"Ah! This is the vessel I've been hoping to find, I will mend and use it and make it all Mine." "I need not the vessel with pride of its self; Nor the one who is narrow to sit on the shelf; Nor the one who is big mouthed and shallow and loud; Nor one who displays his contents so proud; Not the one who thinks he can do all things just right; But this plain earthy vessel filled with My power and might."

Then gently He lifted the vessel of clay. Mended and cleansed it and filled it that day. Spoke to it kindly. "There's work you must do, Just pour out to others as I pour into you

Time

Life is just a moment in time -
a little dot in space
When you are born, you begin to die
every second, a hundred years
so relative, so absolute
You can't escape
the rapid passing of seconds,
nor can you turn back
the wheels of Time;
you can't even pause the toothed gears
aligned up in the heavens

The great ancient Clock
is ticking off moments, life-spans and ages,
seemingly unaware of the multiple dangers
man does experience
through the running out of sand
inside the hour-glass in His hand ...

Inspirational sharing. Thank you.