FROM THE TRAIL'S END From the trail's end I'm calling Where the sun is smoking hot; Where the twisting, torturous foot path Leads to us— whom God forgot. No one comes to our far country, 'Tis a lone deserted spot; No one here is thought real at mid night, We are those whom God forgot. We are fading, fast decaying; Life has flown, death is our lot, All is desolate waste— Can it be that God forgot? Every flower; the birds, the heavens Tell of hopes that we know not; But the shadows of today, tomorrow Make us sure that God forgot. In the whisper of the breezes, In the silent rooms and thought There are stirrings, strange, insistent But what matters? God forgot. At the trail's end we are waiting, Blindly hope we knbw not what, Only do not let us perish, Thinking still that God forgot. Where skies blend gold with azure, And the restive rivers run— Where the trail burns up at midday, There is sowing to be done. In the tangled jungle fastness There are battles to be fought At the trail's end— tell the story! Tell that God has not forgot! — Clarence Jones TRIBUTE TO DAD Somehow a fellow can't express The feelings he has had, While through the years he's walked and talked And laughed and played with Dad. He cannot put in words the love— The pride that wells within, The admiration in his heart— Whene'er Dad looks at him.
Dad is the hero of his dreams, The king upon the throne, The pattern for that ideal life Which he would make his own. He knows that Dad well understands The conflicts in his breast, And shares the problems he must face, Though often unexpressed. The pressure of his Dad's strong hand, The look deep in his eyes, Speaks volumes to a fellow's heart, When cares of life arise. And when he kneels with Dad in prayer Before the throne of grace, The glory of the unseen world Illumines all the place. How could a fellow go astray, Who with his dad had stood Within the secret place of prayer Before a holy God! And this my constant prayer shall be That until life is done, M y conduct here shall honor him Who proudly calls me "Son." — Avis Christiansen THE GREATEST WONDER Have you ever stopped to think, as I have, The wonder of wonders is not, to me, That Jesus created the sun; To rule by day, and pursue his way, And his trackless journey to run; But the wonder of wonders is, to me, God should for one moment poten tially see, And empty his veins of blood divine, That I, His child, might be. O, wonder of wonders it is to me That Jesus should die on Calvary. Die . . . just for love's sake, And undertake, Out of a sinned like me to make A being to outshine the sun, That forever its journey may run, That He is a mystery, a wonder to me, Enable, me, Lord, to glorify Thee. — Milton Vales
Made with FlippingBook - Online Brochure Maker