Poems & Quotes
Amos 4:10–5:5
Aunt Jane of Kentucky
"How much piecin' a quilt is like livin' a life. Many a time I've set and listened to Parson Page preachin' about predestination and free will and I said to myself, if I could just get up there in the pulpit with one of my quilts, I could make life a heap plainer than Parson's making it with his big words. You see, to make a quilt, you start out with just so much calico. You'll go to the store and pick it out, n' buy it, but the neighbors give you a piece here and a piece there and you'll find you'll have a piece left over every time you cut out a dress and you just take whatever happens to come. That's predestination. But when it comes to cutting the quilt, why, you're free to choose your own pattern. You give the same kind of pieces to two persons and one'll make a nice patch quilt and the other one'll make a wild goose chase. There'll be two quilts made of the same kind of pieces, but just as different as can be. That's the way of living. The Lord sends us the pieces, we can cut 'em out and put them together pretty much to suit ourselves. There's a heap more in the cutting out and the sewing than there is in the calico."
–Eliza Calvert Hall, 1898
Amos 5:4-14
The Driver
While flipping the radio dial...
Must have been 30 years ago,
I heard a voice that made me laugh,
But I listened for a minute or so.
"Hop on the Bible Bus
And come along with me.
I'll guide you through the Book of Life
Which leads to eternity."
"I'm only just the driver,"
I heard this voice on the radio say.
"But there's One who's always with me,
Who will teach you day by day."
I smiled when I heard that gravel voice.
And that accent! Heaven help that poor soul!
But I hopped onto the Bible Bus,
As through the pages it started to roll.
The Bible Bus kept chugging along
With that driver named McGee.
Each time that I'd think I was going to get off
He'd say, "Wait! There's more that I want you to see."
So the years went by. I stayed on that bus.
And so did my family.
And the pages of that Book became real
With the driver named McGee.
At night when I look at the stars that God made,
I think of J. Vernon McGee.
The accent, the voice, his love for our Lord
And the truth he wants us to see.
For me, he's still in the driver's seat.
He retired to heaven, you see.
But his Friend is still in charge of that bus;
The "Friend" of J. Vernon McGee.
McGee has a greater perspective now
As to what is in store for us.
His message, no doubt, he'd proclaim with a shout,
"Stick with my Friend on the Bible Bus."
–Author unknown
Amos 5:18-27
"If I had only served my God like I served my king!"
–Cardinal Woolsey on his deathbed
Amos 6:1-6
It’s Nobody’s Business
It's nobody's business what I drink;
I care not what my neighbors think
Or how many laws they choose to pass,
I'll tell the world I'll have my glass!
Here's one man's freedom cannot be curbed;
My right to drink is undisturbed.
So he drank in spite of law or man,
Then got into his old tin can,
Stepped on the gas and let it go
Down the highway to and fro.
He took the curves at fifty miles
With bleary eyes and a drunken smile.
Not long 'til a car he tried to pass;
Then a crash, a scream and breaking glass.
The other car was upside down
About two miles from the nearest town.
The man was clear, but his wife was caught,
And he needed the help of that drunken sot
Who sat in a maudlin, drunken daze,
And heard the scream and saw the blaze,
But too far gone to save a life
By helping the car from off the wife.
The car was burned, and a mother died,
While a husband wept and a baby cried
And a drunk sat by–and still some think
It's nobody's business what they drink.
–George Y. Hammond
Amos 9:2-15
The Hound of Heaven
I fled Him, down the nights and down the days;
I fled Him, down the arches of the years;
I fled Him, down the labyrinthine ways
Of my own mind; and in the mist of tears
I hid from Him, and under running laughter.
Up vistaed hopes I sped;
And shot, precipitated,
Adown Titanic glooms of chasmèd fears,
From those strong Feet that followed, followed after.
But with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbéd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
They beat–and a Voice beat
More instant than the Feet–
"All things betray thee, who betrayest Me."
I pleaded, outlaw-wise,
By many a hearted casement, curtained red,
Trellised with intertwining charities;
(For, though I knew His love Who followèd,
Yet was I sore adread
Lest, having Him, I must have naught beside.)
But, if one little casement parted wide,
The gust of His approach would clash it to:
Fear wist not to evade, as Love wist to pursue.
Across the margent of the world I fled,
And troubled the gold gateways of the stars,
Smiting for shelter on their clangèd bars:
Fretted to dulcet jars
And silvern chatter the pale ports o' the moon.
I said to Dawn: Be sudden–to Eve: Be soon;
With thy young skiey blossoms heap me over
From this tremendous Lover–
Float thy vague veil about me, lest He see!
I tempted all His servitors, but to find
My own betrayal in their constancy,
In faith to Him their fickleness to me,
Their traitorous trueness, and their loyal deceit.
To all swift things for swiftness did I sue;
Clung to the whistling mane of every wind.
But whether they swept, smoothly fleet,
The long savannahs of the blue;
Or whether, Thunder-driven,
They clanged his chariot 'thwart a heaven,
Plashy with flying lightnings round the spurn o' their feet:–
Fear wist not to evade as Love wist to pursue.
Still with unhurrying chase,
And unperturbéd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy,
Came on the following Feet,
And a Voice above their beat–
"Naught shelters thee, who wilt not shelter Me."
I sought no more that after which I strayed
In face of man or maid;
But still within the little children's eyes
Seems something, something that replies,
They at least are for me, surely for me!
I turned me to them very wistfully;
But just as their young eyes grew sudden fair
With dawning answers there,
Their angel plucked them from me by the hair.
"Come then, ye other children, Nature's–share
With me" (said I) "your delicate fellowship;
Let me greet you lip to lip,
Let me twine you with caresses,
Wantoning
With our Lady-Mother's vagrant tresses,
Banqueting
With her in her wind-walled palace,
Underneath her azured dais,
Quaffing, as your taintless way is,
From a chalice
Lucent-weeping out of the dayspring."
So it was done:
I in their delicate fellowship was one–
Drew the bolt of Nature's secrecies.
I knew all the swift importings
On the wilful face of skies;
I knew how the clouds arise
Spuméd of the wild sea-snortings;
All that's born or dies
Rose and drooped with; made them shapers
Of mine own moods, or wailful or divine;
With them joyed and was bereaven.
I was heavy with the even,
When she lit her glimmering tapers
Round the day's dead sanctities.
I laughed in the morning's eyes.
I triumphed and I saddened with all weather,
Heaven and I wept together,
And its sweet tears were salt with mortal mine;
Against the red throb of its sunset-heart
I laid my own to beat,
And share commingling heat;
But not by that, by that, was eased my human smart.
In vain my tears were wet on Heaven's grey cheek.
For ah! we know not what each other says,
These things and I; in sound I speak–
Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.
Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth;
Let her, if she would owe me,
Drop yon blue bosom-veil of sky, and show me
The breasts o' her tenderness:
Never did any milk of hers once bless
My thirsting mouth.
Nigh and nigh draws the chase,
With unperturbèd pace,
Deliberate speed, majestic instancy;
And past those noised Feet
A voice comes yet more fleet–
"Lo! naught contents thee, who content'st not Me."
Naked I wait Thy love's uplifted stroke!
My harness piece by piece Thou hast hewn from me,
And smitten me to my knee;
I am defenceless utterly.
I slept, methinks, and woke,
And, slowly gazing, find me stripped in sleep.
In the rash lustihead of my young powers,
I shook the pillaring hours
And pulled my life upon me; grimed with smears,
I stand amid the dust o' the mounded years–
My mangled youth lies dead beneath the heap.
My days have crackled and gone up in smoke,
Have puffed and burst as sun-starts on a stream.
Yea, faileth now even dream
The dreamer, and the lute the lutanist.
Even the linked fantasies, in whose blossomy twist
I swung the earth a trinket at my wrist,
Are yielding; cords of all too weak account
For earth with heavy griefs so overplussed.
Ah! is Thy love indeed
A weed, albeit an amaranthine weed,
Suffering no flowers except its own to mount?
Ah! must–
Designer infinite!–
Ah! must Thou char the wood ere Thou can'st limn with it?
My freshness spent its wavering shower i' the dust;
And now my heart is as a broken fount,
Wherein tear-drippings stagnate, spilt down ever
From the dank thoughts that shiver
Upon the sighful branches of my mind.
Such is; what is to be?
The pulp so bitter, how shall taste the rind?
I dimly guess what Time in mists confounds;
Yet ever and anon a trumpet sounds
From the hid battlements of Eternity;
Those shaken mists a space unsettle, then
Round the half-glimpséd turrets slowly wash again.
But not ere him who summoneth
I first have seen, enwound
With glooming robes purpureal, cypress-crowned;
His name I know, and what his trumpet saith.
Whether man's heart or life it be which yields
Thee harvest, must Thy harvest-fields
Be dunged with rotten death?
Now of that long pursuit
Comes on at hand the bruit;
That Voice is round me like a bursting sea:
"And is thy earth so marred,
Shattered in shard on shard?
Lo, all things fly thee, for thou fliest Me!
Strange, piteous, futile thing!
Wherefore should any set thee love apart?
Seeing none but I makes much of naught" (He said),
"And human love needs human meriting:
How hast thou merited–
Of all man's clotted clay the dingiest clot?
Alack, thou knowest not
How little worthy of any love thou art!
Whom wilt thou find to love ignoble thee,
Save Me, save only Me?
All which I took from thee I did but take,
Not for thy harms,
But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.
All which thy child's mistake
Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:
Rise, clasp My hand, and come!"
Halts by me that footfall:
Is my gloom, after all,
Shade of His hand, outstretched caressingly?
"Ah, fondest, blindest, weakest,
I am He Whom thou seekest!
Thou dravest love from thee, who dravest Me."
–Francis Thompson