Yesterday was a great day, let’s keep it going! Only 24 hours left 😀 to nominate my book Cracked Daisy. You do not need an Amazon Account, you only need to sign in with an email and create a pasword. Thank you, thank you! 😀
Cracked DaisyHurry, Hurry, Hurry! Read all about it!!
They say that I am growing old.
I’ve heard them tell it times untold,
In language plain and bold–
But I’m NOT growing old.
This frail old shell in which I dwell
Is growing old, I know full well–
But I am not the shell.
What if my hair is turning grey?
Grey hairs are honorable, they say.
What if my eyesight’s growing dim?
I still can see to follow Him
Who sacrificed His life for me
Upon the Cross of Calvary.
What should I care if Time’s old plow
Has left its furrows on my brow?
Another house not made by hand,
Awaits me in the Glory Land.
What though I falter in my walk?
I still can tread the Narrow Way,
I still can watch and praise and pray.
My hearing may not be so keen
As in the past it may have been,
Still, I can hear my Saviour say
In whispers soft, “This is the way.”
The outward man–do what I can
To lengthen out his life’s short span–
Shall perish, and return to dust,
As everything in nature must.
The inward man, the Scriptures say,
Is growing stronger every day.
Then how can I be growing old
When safe within my Saviour’s fold?
Ere long my soul shall fly away,
And leave this tenement of clay.
“This robe of flesh I’ll drop, and rise
To seize the everlasting prize”–
I’ll meet you on the Streets of Gold,
And PROVE that I’m not growing old.
BY –Clyde Brigner
I watched the flag pass by one day.
It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine saluted it,
And then he stood at ease.
I looked at him in uniform
So young, so tall, so proud,
With hair cut square and eyes alert
He’d stand out in any crowd.
I thought how many men like him
Had fallen through the years.
How many died on foreign soil?
How many mothers’ tears?
How many pilots’ planes shot down?
How many died at sea?
How many foxholes were soldiers’ graves?
No, freedom isn’t free.
I heard the sound of taps one night,
When everything was still
I listened to the bugler play
And felt a sudden chill.
I wondered just how many times
That taps had meant “Amen,”
When a flag had draped a coffin
Of a brother or a friend.
I thought of all the children,
Of the mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands
With interrupted lives.
I thought about a graveyard
At the bottom of the sea
Of unmarked graves in Arlington.
No, freedom isn’t free.