God makes not good men wantons, but doth bring
Them to the field, and, there, to skirmishing:
With trials those, with terrors these He proves,
And hazards those most, whom the most He loves:
For Sceva, darts; for Cocles, dangers; thus
He finds a fire for mighty Mutius;
Death for stout Cato; and besides all these,
A poison, too. He has for Socrates;
Torments for high Attilius; and, with want,
Brings in Fabricius for a combatant:
But, bastard-slips, and such as He dislikes,
He never brings them once to th' push of pikes.

God made the wicked Grocer
For a mystery and a sign,
That men might shun the awful shops
And go to inns to dine;
Where the bacon's on the rafter
And the wine is in the wood,
And God that made good laughter
Has seen that they are good.

The evil-hearted Grocer
Would call his mother " Ma'am,"
And bow at her and bob at her,
Her aged soul to damn,
And rub his horrid hands and ask
What article was next,
Though mortis in articulo
Should be her proper text.

His props are not his children,
But pert lads underpaid,

God made Him birds in a pleasant humor;
Tired of planets and suns was He.
He said, " I will add a glory to summer,
Gifts for my creatures banished from Me! "

He had a thought and it set Him smiling,
Of the shape of a bird and its glancing head,
Its dainty air and its grace beguiling:
" I will make feathers, " the Lord God said.

He made the robin: He made the swallow;
His deft hands moulding the shape to His mood;
The thrush, the lark, and the finch to follow,
And laughed to see that His work was good.

God made a little gentian;
It tried to be a rose
And failed, and all the summer laughed.
But just before the snows
There came a purple creature
That ravished all the hill;
And summer hid her forehead,
And mockery was still.
The frosts were her condition;
The Tyrian would not come
Until the North evoked it.
" Creator! shall I bloom? "

GOD IS LOVE ; his mercy brightens
All the path in which we rove;
Bliss he wakes and woe he lightens;
God is wisdom, God is love.

Chance and change are busy ever;
Man decays, and ages move;
But his mercy waneth never;
God is wisdom, God is love.

E'en the hour that darkest seemeth,
Will his changeless goodness prove;
From the gloom his brightness streameth,
God is wisdom, God is love.

He with earthly cares entwineth
Hope and comfort from above;
Everywhere his glory shineth;
God is wisdom, God is love.

God how is it that we surrender
to love giving it the keys to our city
carrying candles to it and incense
falling down at its feet asking
to be forgiven
Why do we look for it and endure
all that it does to us
all that it does to us?

God He rejects all Prayers that are sleight,
And want their Poise: words ought to have their weight.

God hath two wings, which He doth ever move,
The one is Mercy, and the next is Love:
Under the first the Sinners ever trust;
And with the last he still directs the Just.

God hath been patient long. In eons past
— He plowed the waste of Chaos. He hath sown
— The furrows with His worlds, and from His throne
— Showered, like grain, planets upon the Vast.
What meed of glory hath He from the past?
— Shall He not reap, who hears but prayer and groan?
— The harvest waits. . . . He cometh to His own, —
— He who shall scythe the starry host at last.
When the accumulated swarms of Death
— Glut the rank worlds as rills are choked by leaves,
— Then shall God flail the million orbs, as sheaves

God has no end of material
For poets, priests and kings;
But what He needs is volunteers
To do the little things.
There are many men who're ready
To lead in battle and in strife;
But very few are willing to do
The little things of life.
The widow's mite was a little thing
From a money point of view;
But He who reads our inmost hearts,
Sees more than mortals do.