I Wish I Had Given Him More

By and by when I look on His face,
Beautiful face, thorn-shadowed face;
By and by when I look on His face,
I’ll wish I had given Him more
More, so much more —
More of my love than I e’er gave before.
By and by when I look on His face,
I’ll wish I had given Him more.

By and by when He holds out His hands,
Welcoming hands, nail riven hands;
By and by when He holds out His hands,
I’ll wish I had given Him more.
More, so much more,
More of my love than I e’er gave before,
By and by when He holds out His hands,
I’ll wish I had given Him more.

In the light of that heavenly place,
Light from His face, beautiful face;
In the light of that heavenly place,
I’ll wish I had given Him more.
More, so much more,
Treasures unbounded for Him I adore,
By and by when I look on His face,
I’ll wish I had given Him more.

“I must work the works of him that sent me, while it is day: the night cometh, when no man can work.” John 9:4

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~ By Grace Reese Adkins / Photo by Sebastian Voortman at Pexels

Less of Me

Let me be a little kinder

Let me be a little blinder to the faults of those of around me

Let me praise a little more 

Let me be when I am weary, Just a little bit more cheery

think a little more of others, and a little less of me 

Let me be a little braver, when temptations make me waver

Let me strive a little harder, to be all that I could be

 Let me be a little meeker, with a brother who is weaker

Let me think more of my neighbour, and a little less of me 

Let me be a little nearer, let me speak a little clearer

of the One who came to love me, who died to set me free 

Let me be when I am weary, just a little bit more cheery

Let me think more of my neighbour, and a little less of me 

Let me climb a little higher, let me think a little purer

Let me help all those around me, who are so much in need 

Let me be a little closer, to be a brother who’s a loser

Let me climb a little higher, In every word and deed. 

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*Base tune and lyrics by Glen Campbell

Afraid of What?

E.H. Hamilton, a Presbyterian missionary to China, wrote the poem below to reflect upon and commemorate the martyrdom of his fellow missionary J.W. Vinson (1880-1931). In October 1931, as Vinson visited some believers 18 miles from his mission station, the area was overwhelmed by a group of 600 bandits. Vinson was taken hostage along with around 150 others. Offered freedom if he would write a letter to the commanding officer of government troops telling them to withdraw, Vinson declined “unless all the hostages are released”. The bandit chief refused and Vinson was shot and killed. His decapitated body was later found by Edward Currie, and he was buried in the small missionary cemetery in Haichow.

As his captors prepared to execute Vinson, waving a gun in his face they asked him, “Are you afraid?”. A girl who witnessed the event later testified that Vison replied, “No. If you shoot, I go straight to heaven.” This incident inspired E.H. Hamilton to write his poem.


Afraid? Of what?
To feel the spirit’s glad release?
To pass from pain to perfect peace,
The strife and strain of life to cease?
Afraid? Of that?

Afraid? Of what?
Afraid to see the Saviour’s face,
To hear His welcome, and to trace,
The glory gleam from wounds of grace,
Afraid? Of that?

Afraid? Of what?
A flash – a crash – a pierced heart;
Brief darkness – Light – O Heaven’s art!
A wound of His a counterpart!
Afraid? Of that?

Afraid? Of what?
To enter into Heaven’s rest,
And yet to serve the Master blessed?
From service good to service best?
Afraid? Of that?

Afraid? Of what?
To do by death what life could not –
Baptise with blood a stony plot,
Till souls shall blossom from that spot?
Afraid? Of that?

Poem by E.H. Hamilton

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By webtruth.org / Photo Great wall of China by Tom Fisk at pexels

His Plan for Me

When I stand at the Judgment Seat of Christ
And He shows me His plan for me,
The plan of my life as it might have been,
Had He had His way; and I see

How I blocked Him here, and I checked Him there
And I would not yield my will,
Will there be grief in my Saviour’s eyes,
Grief though He loves me still?

He would have me rich, and I stand here poor,
Stripped of all but His grace,
While memory runs like a hunted thing
Down the paths I cannot retrace.

Then my desolate heart will well nigh break
With tears that I cannot shed;
I shall cover my face with my empty hands;
I shall bow my uncrowned head.

Lord of the years that are left to me,
I give them to Thy hand;
Take me and break me, mold me to
The pattern Thou hast planned.

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Poem by Martha Snell Nicholson / Picture by slon.pics

I arise today

I arise today

Through God’s strength to pilot me;

God’s might to uphold me,

God’s wisdom to guide me,

God’s eye to look before me,

God’s ear to hear me,

God’s word to speak for me,

God’s hand to guard me,

God’s way to lie before me,

God’s shield to protect me,

God’s hosts to save me

From snares of the devil,

From temptations of vices,

From every one who desires me ill,

Afar and a near,

Alone or in a multitude.

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~ unknown author / Picture by Hakan Tahmaz

Only One Life

Two little lines I heard one day, Traveling along life’s busy way;
Bringing conviction to my heart, And from my mind would not depart;
Only one life, ’twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Only one life, yes only one, Soon will its fleeting hours be done;
Then, in ‘that day’ my Lord to meet, And stand before His Judgment seat;
Only one life,’ twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Only one life, the still small voice, Gently pleads for a better choice
Bidding me selfish aims to leave, And to God’s holy will to cleave;
Only one life, ’twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Only one life, a few brief years, Each with its burdens, hopes, and fears;
Each with its days I must fulfill, living for self or in His will;
Only one life, ’twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last.

When this bright world would tempt me sore, When Satan would a victory score;
When self would seek to have its way, Then help me Lord with joy to say;
Only one life, ’twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Give me Father, a purpose deep, In joy or sorrow Thy word to keep;
Faithful and true what e’er the strife, Pleasing Thee in my daily life;
Only one life, ’twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Oh let my love with fervor burn, And from the world now let me turn;
Living for Thee, and Thee alone, Bringing Thee pleasure on Thy throne;
Only one life, “twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last.

Only one life, yes only one, Now let me say, “Thy will be done”;
And when at last I’ll hear the call, I know I’ll say ’twas worth it all”;
Only one life,’ twill soon be past, Only what’s done for Christ will last.

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By C.T Studd / Photo by veeterzy from Pexels

When I Say I’m a Christian

When I say, “I am a Christian”
I’m not shouting, “I’ve been saved!”
I’m whispering, “I get lost sometimes
That’s why I chose this way”

When I say, “I am a Christian”
I don’t speak with human pride
I’m confessing that I stumble –
needing God to be my guide

When I say, “I am a Christian”
I’m not trying to be strong
I’m professing that I’m weak
and pray for strength to carry on

When I say, “I am a Christian”
I’m not bragging of success
I’m admitting that I’ve failed
and cannot ever pay the debt

When I say, “I am a Christian”
I don’t think I know it all
I submit to my confusion
asking humbly to be taught

When I say, “I am a Christian”
I’m not claiming to be perfect
My flaws are far too visible
but God believes I’m worth it

When I say, “I am a Christian”
I still feel the sting of pain
I have my share of heartache
which is why I seek God’s name

When I say, “I am a Christian”
I do not wish to judge
I have no authority
I only know I’m loved.

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©1988 Carol Wimmer All Rights Reserved / Picture from Pexels

Child of God Wait Patiently


Child of God Wait Patiently

O child of God, wait patiently when dark thy path may be,

And let thy faith lean trustingly on Him who cares for Thee;

And though the clouds hang drearily upon the brow of night,

Yet in the morning joy will come, and fill thy soul with light.

O child of God, He loveth thee, and thou art all His own;

With gentle hand He leadeth thee, thou dost not walk alone;

And though thou watchest wearily the long and stormy night,

Yet in the morning joy will come, and fill thy soul with light.

O child of God, how peacefully He calms thy fears to rest,

And draws thee upward tenderly, where dwell the pure and blest;

And He who bendeth silently above the gloom of night,

Will take thee home where endless joy shall fill thy soul with light.

By Fanny Crosby

Unfolding The Rosebud

It is only a tiny rosebud,
A flower of God’s design;
But I cannot unfold the petals
With these clumsy hands of mine.

The secret of unfolding flowers
Is not known to such as I.
GOD opens this flower so sweetly,
When in my hands they fade and die.

If I cannot unfold a rosebud,
This flower of God’s design,
Then how can I think I have wisdom
To unfold this life of mine?

So I’ll trust in Him for His leading
Each moment of every day.
I will look to Him for His guidance
Each step of the pilgrim way.

The pathway that lies before me,
Only my Heavenly Father knows.
I’ll trust Him to unfold the moments,
Just as He unfolds the rose.

By Helen Steiner Rice

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**Photo by Jovana Nesic

Take Time To Be Holy

Take time to be holy, speak oft with thy Lord;

Abide in Him always, and feed on His Word.

Make friends of God’s children, help those who are weak,

Forgetting in nothing His blessing to seek.

Take time to be holy, the world rushes on;

Spend much time in secret, with Jesus alone.

By looking to Jesus, like Him thou shalt be;

Thy friends in thy conduct His likeness shall see.

Take time to be holy, let Him be thy Guide;

And run not before Him, whatever betide.

In joy or in sorrow, still follow the Lord,

And, looking to Jesus, still trust in His Word.

Take time to be holy, be calm in thy soul,

Each thought and each motive beneath His control.

Thus led by His Spirit to fountains of love,

Thou soon shalt be fitted for service above.

*Words by William D. Longstaff

I Hear The Sound Of Rustling

I hear the sound of rustling in the leaves of the trees,

The Spirit of the Lord has come down on the earth.

The Church that seemed in slumber has now risen from its knees

And dry bones are responding with the fruits of new birth.

Oh this is now a time for declaration,

The word will go to all men everywhere;

The Church is here for healing of the nations,

Behold the day of Jesus drawing near.

My tongue will be the pen of a ready writer,

And what the Father gives to me I’ll sing;

I only want to be His breath,

I only want to glorify the King.

And all around the world the body waits expectantly,

The promise of the Father is now ready to fall.

The watchmen on the tower all exhort us to prepare

And the church responds – a people who will answer the call.

And this is not a phase which is passing,

It’s the start of an age that is to come.

And where is the wise man and the scoffer?

Before the face of Jesus they are dumb.

A body now prepared by God and ready for war,

The prompting of the Spirit is our word of command.

We rise, a mighty army, at the bidding of the Lord,

The devils see and fear, for their time is at hand.

And children of the Lord hear our commission

That we should love and serve our God as one,

The Spirit won’t be hindered by division

In the perfect work that Jesus has begun.

Lyrics by Ronnie Wilson

The Touch of the Master’s Hand

The Touch of the Master’s Hand

T’was battered and scarred, and the auctioneer

thought it hardly worth his while

To waste his time on the old violin,

but he held it up with a smile.

“What am I bidden, good folks”, he cried,

“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”

A dollar, a dollar, then two! Only two?

Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?

Three dollars, once;, three dollars, twice;

Going for three . . .”

But, no,

From the room far back, a grey-haired man

Came forward and picked up the bow;

Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,

And tightening up the strings,

He played a melody pure and sweet

As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,

With a voice that was quiet and low, said:

“What now am I bid for this old violin?”

As he held it up with the bow.

“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?”

“Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?”

“Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice;

And going and gone”, said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,

“We do not quite understand, what changed its worth?”

Swift came the reply;

“The Touch of the Master’s Hand.”

And many a man with life out of tune

And battered and scarred with sin,

Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd

Much like the old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine;

A game – and he travels on.

He’s going once, and going ‘twice,

He’s ‘going and almost gone’.

But the Master comes and the foolish crowd

Never can quite understand

The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought

By The Touch of the Master’s Hand.

Myra Brooks Welch (1877 – 1959)

Peace Prayer of Saint Francis

Peace Prayer of Saint Francis

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace:
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
where there is sadness, joy.

O divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console,
to be understood as to understand,
to be loved as to love.
For it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.
Amen.

Footprints In The Sand

FOOTPRINTS IN THE SAND

One night I dreamed a dream.
As I was walking along the beach with my Lord.
Across the dark sky flashed scenes from my life.
For each scene, I noticed two sets of footprints in the sand,
One belonging to me and one to my Lord.

After the last scene of my life flashed before me,
I looked back at the footprints in the sand.
I noticed that at many times along the path of my life,
especially at the very lowest and saddest times,
there was only one set of footprints.

This really troubled me, so I asked the Lord about it.
“Lord, you said once I decided to follow you,
You’d walk with me all the way.
But I noticed that during the saddest and most troublesome times of my life,
there was only one set of footprints.
I don’t understand why, when I needed You the most, You would leave me.”

He whispered, “My precious child, I love you and will never leave you
Never, ever, during your trials and testings.
When you saw only one set of footprints,
It was then that I carried you.

by Margaret Fishback Powers

The Modernist Preacher

The Modernist Preacher

He was an ordained minister, but modern in his views.
He preached his twisted doctrines to people in the pews.
He would not hurt their feelings, whatever the cost would be,
But for their smiles and friendship and compliments sought he.
His church was filled with wicked souls that should be saved from sin,
But never once he showed the way or tried a soul to win.
He preached about the lovely birds that twitter in the trees,
The babbling of the running brooks, the murmuring of the seas.

He quoted fancy poetry that tickled listening ears
When sorrow came to some, he tried to laugh away their tears.
His smooth and slippery sermons made the people slide to hell.
The harm he did by preaching goes beyond what we can tell.
He took our Holy Bible, and preached it full of holes,
The Virgin Birth, said he, can’t be believed by honest souls,
The miracles of Jesus and the resurrection tale
For educated ones like us, today, cannot avail.
We’re living in an age, said he, when wisdom rules and reigns,
When man’s intelligence is great and superstition wanes.

He said, we’re all God’s children who live upon this earth,
No message of salvation, no need of second birth.
His coat was bought with money that he had wrongly gained,
For through his twisted sermons his wealth he had obtained.
He was just like the Roman soldiers that watched at Jesus’ grave,
For money in abundance, to them, the people gave;
It all was theirs by telling what was a sinful lie–
A resurrected Saviour, they too, were to deny.

The day at last had come for the minister to die,
When to his congregation, he had to say good-bye.
His form lay cold and lifeless, his ministry was past,
His tongue with all its poison was hushed and stilled at last.
His funeral was grand; he was lauded to the skies–
They preached him into heaven where there are no good-byes.
Upon the lonely hill, underneath the shady trees,
His form was laid to rest in the whispering of the breeze.

A tombstone was erected with words: “He is at rest,
He’s gone to heaven’s glories to live among the blest.”
His body now is lifeless, but Ah! His soul lives on,
He failed to enter in where they thought that he had gone.
The letters on the tombstone or that sermon some had heard,
Could not decide his destiny, ’twas not the final word.
He still had God to deal with, the one who knows the heart;
While others entered heaven, he heard the word, “Depart.”

He pauses for a moment upon the brink of hell;
He stares into a depth where he evermore will dwell.
He hears the cries and groanings of souls he had misled,
He recognizes faces among the screaming dead.
He sees departed deacons which he had highly praised.
Their fingers pointing at him as they their voices raised:
“You stood behind the pulpit, and lived in awful sin,
We took you for a saint, but a liar you have been.”
Accusing cries! He hears them, “Ah! You have been to blame,
You led us into darkness when you were seeking fame.”

“You preached your deadly doctrine, we thought you knew the way.
We fed you and we clothed you, we even raised your pay.
You’ve robbed us of a home where no tear-drops ever flow,
Where days are always fair and the heavenly breezes blow.
Where living streams are flowing, and saints and angels sing,
Where everyone is happy, and hallelujahs ring.
We’re in this place of torment, from which no soul returns;
We hear the cry of lost ones, we feel the sizzling burns;
Give us a drop of water, we’re tortured in this flame;
You failed to preach salvation to us through Jesus’ name.”

The preacher turns in horror, he tries to leave the scene,
He knows the awful future for every soul unclean,
But there he meets the devil, whom he has served so well,
He feels the demon powers as they drag him into hell.
Throughout eternal ages, his groans, too, must be heard.
He, too, must suffer torment–he failed to heed God’s Word.
He feels God’s wrath upon him, he hears the hot flames roar,
His doctrine now is different, he ridicules no more.

By Oscar C. Eliason

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*A Clear Gospel Message

The Weaver

The Weaver

“My life is but a weaving
Between my God and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He weaveth steadily.

Oft’ times He weaveth sorrow;
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I the underside.

Not ’til the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Will God unroll the canvas
And reveal the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned

He knows, He loves, He cares;
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives the very best to those
Who leave the choice to Him.”

By Grant Colfax Tullar