Making Bread by Grace Noll Crowell

Some labour gathers to itself a light:
This I have found where, women, making bread,
Perform anew an ancient, simple rite
That men and little children may be fed.
Something about the handling of white flour
Is beautiful: the thought of sun on wheat -
The shining silver of a quick, late shower -
A great mill glimmering through the harvest heat -

And old as time- a fadeless picture still:
The gold of grain crushed fine beneath a stone -
Two women grinding at an ancient mill,
And one is taken - one is left alone -
Oh, always, somewhere - women have made bread
That men and little children might be fed.

The Evening Meal By Grace Noll Crowel

The preparation of the evening meal
By any woman, anywhere, may be
A ceremony, beautiful to see,

Recalling clear, sweet evenings long ago
At Emmaus, or Bethany, when One
Beloved guest had come at set of sun.

And oh, that other quiet evening meal
Within an upper room - the grace He said
Above the scarlet wine, the broken bread!

An evening meal is such a gracious thing,
It matters not how plain may be the fare
So long as love and loyalty are there.

The supper hour - a magnet drawing home
The ones who have the need of food and rest!
All women know this hour of the day is best.

Our Master by John Greenleaf Whittier

Immortal Love, forever full,
Forever flowing free,
Forever shared, forever whole,
A never-ebbing sea!

Our outward lips confess the name
All other names above;
Love only knoweth whence it came
And comprehendeth love.

Blow, winds of God, awake and blow
The mists of earth away!
Shine out, O Light Divine, and show
How wide and far we stray!

Hush every lip, close every book,
The strife of tongues forbear;
Why forward reach, or backward look,
For love that clasps like air?

We may not climb the heavenly steeps
To bring the Lord Christ down
In vain we search the lowest deeps,
For Him no depths can drown.

Nor holy bread, nor blood of grape,
The lineaments restore
Of Him we know in outward shape
And in the flesh no more.

He cometh not a king to reign;
The world's long hope is dim;
The weary centuries watch in vain
The clouds of heaven for Him.

Death comes, life goes; the asking eye
And ear are answerless;
The grave is dumb, the hollow sky
Is sad with silentness.

The letter fails, and systems fall,
And every symbol wanes;
The Spirit over-brooding all
Eternal Love remains.

And not for signs in heaven above
Or earth below they look,
Who know with John His smile of love,
With Peter His rebuke.

In joy of inward peace, or sense
Of sorrow over sin,
He is His own best evidence,
His witness is within.

No fable old, nor mythic lore,
Nor dream of bards and seers,
No dead fact stranded on the shore
Of the oblivious years;--

But warm, sweet, tender, even yet
A present help is He;
And faith has still its Olivet,
And love its Galilee.

The healing of His seamless dress
Is by our beds of pain;
We touch Him in life's throng and press,
And we are whole again.

Through Him the first fond prayers are said
Our lips of childhood frame,
The last low whispers of our dead
Are burdened with His name.

Our Lord and Master of us all!
Whate'er our name or sign,
We own Thy sway, we hear Thy call,
We test our lives by Thine.

Thou judgest us; Thy purity
Doth all our lusts condemn;
The love that draws us nearer Thee
Is hot with wrath to them.

Our thoughts lie open to Thy sight;
And, naked to Thy glance,
Our secret sins are in the light
Of Thy pure countenance.

Thy healing pains, a keen distress
Thy tender light shines in;
Thy sweetness is the bitterness,
Thy grace the pang of sin.

Yet, weak and blinded though we be,
Thou dost our service own;
We bring our varying gifts to Thee,
And Thou rejectest none.

To Thee our full humanity,
Its joys and pains, belong;
The wrong of man to man on Thee
Inflicts a deeper wrong.

Who hates, hates Thee, who loves becomes
Therein to Thee allied;
All sweet accords of hearts and homes
In Thee are multiplied.

Deep strike Thy roots, O heavenly Vine,
Within our earthly sod,
Most human and yet most divine,
The flower of man and God!

O Love! O Life! Our faith and sight
Thy presence maketh one
As through transfigured clouds of white
We trace the noon-day sun.

So, to our mortal eyes subdued,
Flesh-veiled, but not concealed,
We know in Thee the fatherhood
And heart of God revealed.

We faintly hear, we dimly see,
In differing phrase we pray;
But, dim or clear, we own in Thee
The Light, the Truth, the Way!

The homage that we render Thee
Is still our Father's own;
No jealous claim or rivalry
Divides the Cross and Throne.

To do Thy will is more than praise,
As words are less than deeds,
And simple trust can find Thy ways
We miss with chart of creeds.

No pride of self Thy service hath,
No place for me and mine;
Our human strength is weakness, death
Our life, apart from Thine.

Apart from Thee all gain is loss,
All labor vainly done;
The solemn shadow of Thy Cross
Is better than the sun.

Alone, O Love ineffable!
Thy saving name is given;
To turn aside from Thee is hell,
To walk with Thee is heaven!

How vain, secure in all Thou art,
Our noisy championship
The sighing of the contrite heart
Is more than flattering lip.

Not Thine the bigot's partial plea,
Nor Thine the zealot's ban;
Thou well canst spare a love of Thee
Which ends in hate of man.

Our Friend, our Brother, and our Lord,
What may Thy service be?--
Nor name, nor form, nor ritual word,
But simply following Thee.

We bring no ghastly holocaust,
We pile no graven stone;
He serves thee best who loveth most
His brothers and Thy own.

Thy litanies, sweet offices
Of love and gratitude;
Thy sacramental liturgies,
The joy of doing good.

In vain shall waves of incense drift
The vaulted nave around,
In vain the minster turret lift
Its brazen weights of sound.

The heart must ring Thy Christmas bells,
Thy inward altars raise;
Its faith and hope Thy canticles,
And its obedience praise!

A Godly Woman by Janice Etter

The Bible speaks to everyone who follows in the Way,
But some parts are specific in the things they have to say.
The fathers are encouraged, and those alone in life,
And there are admonitions for the mother and the wife.

I always linger over these; they speak to my estate.
They offer me direction in the small things and the great.
To be a godly woman is the goal I want to reach,
And so I need to study what the Scriptures have to teach.

A woman who is called to be a mother and a wife,
Who takes the cross and purposes to live a godly life,
Is ever growing in the faith she’s chosen to profess,
And there are certain qualities she covets to possess.

The godly woman stays at home, her duties keep her there.
She rises while it yet is night and gives herself to prayer.
Her days are full of service and her heart is full of love;
Her mind is full of gratitude and praise for God above.

Though not employed outside the home, she has no mind to shirk,
She eats not bread of idleness, but fruit of honest work.
Her brother and her sister, her parents and her neighbor,
Her husband and her children share the blessing of her labor.

The love her husband feels for her is easy to reflect,
And she not only loves him, but she gives him her respect.
In her his heart may safely trust; she does him only good;
When he confides his inner thoughts, he finds them understood.

She’s mindful, too, of Eden, where the woman was deceived.
She knows it’s not her place to teach, as others have believed,
Nor to usurp authority, but listen with subjection,
In meekness and humility, accepting his direction.

When all the church assembles in a solemn, formal way,
The godly woman listens to what the brethren have to say;
And if she hears a statement made that makes her sit up straighter,
The question forming in her mind she asks her husband later.

Still, there is a congregation where her voice is often heard,
And her children are attentive as she teaches them the Word,
When she sits within her house, and when she walks along the way;
When she lays them down at night and when she rises with the day.

The godly woman is discreet, not seeking other’s praise;
She’s modest in appearance, and she’s modest in her ways.
She isn’t prone to gossip, but her neighbors know she cares,
And any help her hands can give is certain to be theirs.

The godly woman isn’t gay; she’s left that all behind.
She’s pleasant and she’s cheerful, but she has a sober mind.
Her covered head, her simple dress, her modest mien are one;
Her singular adornment is the good that she has done.

When years of faithful laboring have bent her body low,
She’ll teach the younger women in the way that they should go.
And verily, I say to you, she’ll have a rich reward.

Oh, make of me that woman, Lord! And guide me in that way.
Behold, thou art the potter, and I the softened clay.
Encourage me where I am right; rebuke me where I’m wrong.
I read these Scriptures often and I ponder on them long.

Lord, Make A Regular Man Out Of Me by Edgar Guest

This I would like to be- braver and bolder, 
Just a bit wiser because I am older, 
Just a bit kinder to those I may meet, 
Just a bit manlier taking defeat; 
This for the New Year my wish and my plea- 
Lord, make a regular man out of me. 

This I would like to be- just a bit finer, 
More of a smiler and less of a whiner, 
Just a bit quicker to stretch out my hand 
Helping another who's struggling to stand, 
This is my prayer for the New Year to be, 
Lord, make a regular man out of me.  

This I would like to be- just a bit fairer, 
Just a bit better, and just a bit squarer, 
Not quite so ready to censure and blame, 
Quicker to help every man in the game, 
Not quite so eager men's failings to see, 
Lord, make a regular man out of me. 

This I would like to be- just a bit truer, 
Less of the wisher and more of the doer, 
Broader and bigger, more willing to give, 
Living and helping my neighbor to live! 
This for the New Year my prayer and my plea- 
Lord, make a regular man out of me. 

Myself by Edgar Guest

I have to live with myself, and so,
I want to be fit for myself to know;
I want to be able as days go by,
Always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don't want to stand with the setting sun
And hate myself for the things I've done.


I don't want to keep on a closet shelf
A lot of secrets about myself,
And fool myself as I come and go
Into thinking that nobody else will know
The kind of man I really am;
I don't want to dress myself up in sham.


I want to go out with my head erect,
I want to deserve all men's respect; 
But here in this struggle for fame and pelf,
I want to be able to like myself.
I don't want to think as I come and go
That I'm bluster and bluff and empty show.


I never can hide myself from me,
I see what others may never see,
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself- and so,
Whatever happens, I want to be 
Self-respecting and conscience free.

It Couldn't Be Done by Edgar Guest

Somebody said that it couldn't be done,
  But he with a chuckle replied
That "maybe it couldn't," but he would be one
  Who wouldn't say so till he'd tried.
So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin
  On his face.  If he worried he hid it.
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
  That couldn't be done, and he did it.

Somebody scoffed: "Oh, you'll never do that;
  At least no one ever has done it";
But he took off his coat and he took off his hat,
  And the first thing we knew he'd begun it.
With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,
  Without any doubting or quiddit,
He started to sing as he tackled the thing
  That couldn't be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,
  There are thousands to prophesy failure;
There are thousands to point out to you, one by one,
  The dangers that wait to assail you.
But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,
  Just take off your coat and go to it;
Just start to sing as you tackle the thing
  That "cannot be done," and you'll do it.