That Old Wedge

It was auction day

As all made their way

To see what the Devil would sell.

The brilliant array

Of tools on display

Was more than number could tell.

There were knives and hammers

And colorful lures

As well as traps in disguise,

A net for men’s hearts

And fiery darts—

The assortment reached to the skies.

But off in a corner,

Set safely of former,

A small, simple wedge sat alone,

Save for a sign

That was posted quite nigh

With “Not For Sale” written in stone.

“Whatever is this?

Why would it be missed?”

One picked up the little old wedge.

“I think I shall ask.”

Through the crowd he then passed

To the owner who sat on a ledge.

“Sir, might I inquire

Why this you desire

Of all your tools of great price?

I pray you to tell

Why its not even for sale;

What makes its value so nice?”

“Ahh! My wedge so you found!

Just hearing the sound

Of that wedge so old and worn

Gives hope in my sight

That I just might

Again blow the victory horn.”

Taking the wedge

He tapped at the edge

And nodded with a grin.

His voice then grew quiet

As he carefully held it,

Then, slyly, he spoke again.

“This wedge is a treasure

To work my own pleasure

Within the heart of man,

Especially in Christians,

The light of the nations,

When my other weapons they ban.

I first set out lures

In hopes to secure

Their fall by means of distraction.

If that succeeds not,

I do what I ought

To end their lives in destruction.

But, oh! Their great God

Hates me on His sod

And keeps them quite from my reach.

Their hearts firm in faith

Will not give me place,

My wicked doctrines to teach.

I might give up there,

Except for this, here,

My little old wedge so sly.

I slowly sneak into

Their hearts, quite subdued,

Then give this tool my best try.

Into a crevasse

I slip this device—

It usually enters with ease.

I pry and I tap,

Then when it is cracked

I insert whatever I please.

The crevasse I look for

When prying a door

Is that of deep weariness.

You know how men,

Every now and then,

Do wish for a spiritual rest.

That’s all I need

To insert and feed

My faithful old wedge so small.

It always has worked,

Save on those still alert

Who on their great God quickly call.

When they do THAT,

Oh, how I do hate!

For then He helps them to praise,

Which closes the door

Into which I could pour

My sly and wicked ways.

But, nevertheless,

I proudly confess

I’ve still won many more fights

By simply waiting

For my prey to start fainting,

Then I quickly slip in this device.

And what is its name

But this I do claim,

To give you but a hint;

My faithful old wedge

With small and sharp edge

Is the Wedge of Discouragement.”

So, beware, my friend

And take care to attend

That tiny crevasse of woe.

The battle is waging,

Yet even in aging

Our armor we must not let go.

At times we’ll get weary,

Some days may be dreary,

Yet our Foe doth only rejoice.

Let’s not let him win

By creeping within;

We’re not left without choice.

Turn fast to the Lord,

Trust in His Word,

Your heart to Him you must pledge.

Think on His goodness!

Praise His forgiveness!

Never, never give place to that Wedge.

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2013