The Type

I traveled in thought to the typewriter's shop
And asked if I could observe.
He told me so kindly, "Just pull up a chair;
I'm happy that you I can serve!"

I watched as he typed so quickly with skill,
Not once did he make a mistake.
The noise of the typing resembled the sound
Of music as my ears did intake.

"Excuse me, sir," I queried hesitantly,
"I am a little perplexed.
How is it that when those hammers do strike
The images of letters are fixed?"

The kind man did smile, a little amused,
And that at my ignorance, I think.
"The marks that you see on the paper" said he 
"Are results of the stamps on the brink
Of the tips of the hammers that when thrust down 
Do leave their impressions, unique."

"This one, right here," I pointed to C,
"Does it always remain the same?
Suppose, when it's struck the force is too hard,
It might want to change to an M.

"Or what about H?" I questioned again,
"Does it ever tire of its form? 
Say, an E might be newer, a bit more in style,
A good break away from the norm."

The kind man just nodded as I further inquired,
His eyes with wisdom did glisten.
"How 'bout the RIS, or even the T?"
He sat back in his chair while he listened.

"Would those types fair well if, when given the urge,
They decided they just would not strike,
Or if strike they did, yet messed up the word,
For their neighbor they decided to be like?"

A moment of silence, we were both deep in thought.
Then, quietly, the man said to me,
"The CHRIS, and T,
Are all just where they need to be.

"The C was designed to strike with that force,
Else it's message would be far to faint.
And, as for the H, it simply desires 
It's master's ministry to aid.

"For if those types could and did change
To impress an image if themselves,
The one who would read the manuscript
Would scorn at the product I'd sell.

"For the message I'd give him wouldn't be understood
If those types all went their own way,
And gaps would be left in the story if 
RIST, silent stayed."

So in my thoughts of the typewriter's shop 
I liken myself to a type~
As a Christian, I have the image of Christ
Imprinted upon my own life.

My Master desires His message to share,
A story of forgiveness and love.
The parchment is rolling as He skillfully types
A message sent from above.

There are special spots on the parchment here
He needeth my type to strike,
To imprint a letter, to fill in a word,
To make clear His message of light.

But, suppose, the force is too hard for my stamp,
I don't feel like striking right now,
I don't like the way that my type was made,
"My neighbor is better." I frown.

If I choose not to strike, a void will be left,
The message will be incomplete.
If I strike, yet with selfish design of my own,
The story, one may just delete.

The scorners would mock, the poor search elsewhere,
For His Gospel they wouldn't understand.
But if I rejoice in serving my Master
And cheerfully take my stand,

Ready to serve when I feel His prompting,
Eager to reach out in love,
It is then that the world can clearly see
The message of my Master above.  

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2013

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