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

Rescued

The story is told

Of a village of old

Inhabited by a king and his realm.

The town was at peace,

 Yet fear did increase

For nearby a fierce dragon would roam.

"To this terrible creature,"

 Folks asked the good teacher,

"What offering to subdue should we give?"

"A goat or a lamb,

A cow or a ram

Will suffice so the people can live.

But if, after time,

 Such gift is not fine,

A person must go in its place ~

Kind or wild,

Noble or child ~

In exchange for the fierce dragon's grace."

So day after day

The offering was made,

A lamb was fed to the beast.

Yet as time progressed,

The dragon distressed

And his hunger only increased.

A goat, then sow,

And finally a cow

Was given in hopes to subdue.

But naught could avail

The beast to repel,

A person would have to do.

The lot was cast

 And as time passed

It fell to one most fair.

The king's own daughter

The beast would slaughter,

So the kingdom the dragon would spare.

This sorrowed the king.

 He tried everything

To spare the princess from death.

No silver or gold,

Nor treasures he sold

Could deliver his daughter's last breath.

So, one fateful day,

 A crowed made their way

To the outskirts of the town.

Dressed as a bride

The princess, beautified,

Was offered to preserve royal crown.

***

With surge of valor

 He donned his armor

And mounted noble his steed.

With confidence,

Through forest dense,

He hastened with all speed.

   He soon caught glimpse,

Yet never winced

At the sight of the dragon fierce.

His courage rose

Without repose~

Such knight as he was scarce.

Then, just before

 That dragon roared

To lunge at princess fair,

No thought for his life,

 The knight rushed in to fight,

The princess' life for to spare.

He fought so bravely,

Never wavering,

Waged war with the savage beast.

Then, finally,

 In victory,

He won and the dragon ceased. 

"What shall I give thee

 For this noble deed?"

The king, astonished, asked. 

"No gift I require,

But this I desire

That all become Christians at last."

***

Such fable is legend,

 Most likely is fiction,

Yet I couldn't help but apply ~

For deep in my spirit,

It seems I can hear it,

As history profoundly replies.

There once was a dragon

That roamed near my town

And haunted me day after day.

In vain was the offering

 Of lambs for slaughtering~

That dragon demanded more pay.

You see, he was Satan,

 An angry beast fearsome,

My life he sought to destroy.

No jewels or silver,

 Nor wealthiest river

Could rescue my soul from his ploy.

Dressed as a bride

I trembled and cried

And followed the road to my death.

This my only choice,

 And that with great force,

To be scorched by the dragon's hot breath.

But, lo! Ere the dragon

 Had lunged at this pagan

A Knight appeared on the scene!

Not just a knight,

 But Prince of great light,

Jesus, the King of all kings!

He fought with great power

Throughout the darkest hour

And conquered sin and the grave.

He took Hell's black key

And won victory!

Yes, this maiden He saved.

Now all that He asks

 Is that I would rest

In His omnipotent grace,

And let my heart sing

 In praise to my King

While humbly seeking His face.

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2013

Father

What other man doth set his sail

To brave through waters deep,

Doth conquer winds and brave the storms,

And, still, his sailors keep?

What other man so valiantly

Doth blaze through valleys dim

A ‘new’ trail, long forgotten,

A quenches fearful whim?

What other man would undertake

To climb the mountain steep,

While multitudes do quickly flee

The hazards know to meet?

What other man runs right into

The front of battle lines,

Forsaking comfort of his own

To spare his family’s lives?

Many men have accomplished such,

And heroes they have been,

But few have fought the spiritual foe

To guard their homes from sin.

We owe a lot to you, father,

Such a man you’ve been to us.

You are the hero in our lives,

We pray that you’ll be blessed.

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2013

A Sister

“Come, gather around Me; 
I have a plan.”

God spoke to the angels 
In that Heavenly Land.

To the beautiful throne 
They quickly drew near,

Excited and anxious, 
Waiting to hear

What the Master Designer 
Had in His mind.

“Is it beautiful?” they wondered, 
“Tender and kind?”

A hush filled the air 
As the Lord spoke again.

“I’m creating a treasure, 
A valuable friend,

A vessel I’ll use to 
Spread love and good cheer,

A brother’s companion, 
A listening ear,

For I’m making a sister 
And, though human she’ll be,

I will patiently mold her  
To bring glory to Me.

A sister whose wisdom
 Flows from above,

A sister who’s pure, 
Has a heart of love,

A sister who’s peaceable, 
Gentle and true,

Easy to be 
Entreated, too.

One full of mercy and 
Full of good full of good fruits,

Without partiality, 
Without hypocrisy,

A sister, Lord, with a heart for You.”

Lord, You’ve placed me here 
In this family,

I know You’ve designed me 
A vessel to be.

I read in Your Word 
Your plan for my life,

Yet my heart is selfish
 And full of strife.

So I ask You, dear Savior, 
Help me to bring

Glory to Thy name, 
Teach me to be

A sister whose wisdom 
Flows from above,

A sister who’s pure, 
Has a heart of love,

A sister who’s peaceable, 
Gentle and true,

Easy to be 
Entreated, too.

One full of mercy and 
Full of good full of good fruits,

Without partiality, 
Without hypocrisy,

A sister, Lord, with a heart for You.

Whether you be 
A sister at home

With siblings around you 
Who call you their own.

Or, maybe to other 
Believers you are

A sister in Christ, 
Sharing God’s love and care.

May our Father in Heaven 
Grant wisdom to thee,

Fill you with His goodness, 
And help you to be

A sister whose wisdom 
Flows from above,

A sister who’s pure, 
Has a heart of love,

A sister who’s peaceable, 
Gentle and true,

Easy to be 
Entreated, too.

One full of mercy and 
Full of good full of good fruits,

Without partiality, 
Without hypocrisy,

A sister, Lord, with a heart for You.

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2013

* You can listen to this song by clicking on this link: A Sister Youtube

When I Think of Grandma

When I think of Grandma…

I think of all the times

We’d snuggle up so cozy

And hear stories of all kinds.

I think of yummy haystacks

And pumpkin pies so good,

I smell Thanksgiving turkey

And dream of tasty food.

I remember playing Yahtzee,

Fun visits to the zoo,

Or looking through an album

As she’d laugh and say, “That’s you!”

There are many things I think of

When Grandma comes to mind,

Such memories are precious,

There’s gold in them I find.

But what inspires me the most

When I think of Grandma dear,

Are the testimonies of the Lord

And how He’s been so near.

She’s battled fears and doubts,

And walked through valleys dark,

She’s made mistakes along the way

And wished storm clouds to part.

But God has been so faithful,

He has never let her down,

He’s walked along beside her

And kept her safe and sound.

Her nights have turned to dawning,

Her fears to joy and peace,

Her valleys became mountain tops,

Her mistakes revealed His grace.

My Grandma’s faith inspires me

To press on to greater heights.

Her prayers and love she has for God

Gives me a passion to know Christ.

Grandma, God has used you

In such a mighty way.

And now, with utmost pleasure,

I wish you a great birthday!

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2013

Picaro

Dedicated to my little pet mouse, Picaro. 12/1/12 ~2/8/13

A little friend I needed,

A fury friend so small,

A friend full of intelligence

Who could jump so very tall.

So, one sweet night my father

Handed me a box,

I peeked inside then squealed with joy,

It wasn’t any fox.

‘Twas the cutest mouse I’d ever seen,

No larger than a key,

It jumped around like popcorn,

Resembled a small monkey.

I called him “little Picaro”

(The name was of Spanish tongue)

It meant “little monkey”

Which fit my friend so young.

Great delight was brought me

By this, my tiny friend,

As well as fun amusement of which

He seemed to find no end.

But then, one day, Picaro,

Knowing he’d lived his course,

Curled up within his bed to sleep,

To rise again no more.

I’ll miss my tiny friend a lot,

But I’m thankful for the days

Our Creator let me enjoy this pet
Before we parted ways. 

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2013

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 R, I, S, 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 C, H, R, I, S, 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 

R, I, S, T, 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