Not in the show of human strength, not in the human pride
Of great achievements, lofty goals, where human souls have tried
To seize the crown, to claim the prize before the race they ran,
Is found the height and depth of the true measure of a man.
Not in the slime of evil schemes to rule the souls of men,
Not in the noblest sacrifice to prove to God again
That man is good and will ascend apart from Heaven�s plan,
No, not in guile or greatness is the measure of a man.
On mighty men and monarchs God bestows not His decree,
But He exalts the humble to a place of high degree.
Not for the wise and learned do God�s eyes the nations scan,
But He would call for children�s hearts from which to make a man.
Because for man to be a man, God says, �Become a child.�
And gives to him a child�s heart, unstained and undefiled,
And gives a child�s hunger to be taught, to understand
What it takes in life to make the measure of a man.
For to the heart that knows deep need for strength beyond its own,
A humble heart that seeks to turn from sins known and unknown,
A trusting heart that gladly takes the guiding of God�s hand,
He gives the wisdom to attain the measure of a man.
And it takes God to make a man what man was meant to be�
A king who serves the ones he rules, a king indeed is he,
A priest to God whose prayers move God to do the most He can,
And finds the God within him is the measure of a man.
For it takes God within a man to seize the prize, the crown,
To let the God within arise as his life is laid down,
And by that sacrifice God�s love can guide and bless the land,
Unveiling in full beauty His true measure of a man.
�Ruthann Wallace
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Looking for we know not what, going out we know not where,
Like wind-blown leaves down empty streets, our restless hearts drift here and there.
A moment comes, we know not when, a cry is born within the soul,
For someone who can speak the hope that life still has a worthy goal.
And Someone comes, we know not Who, until He stills our anguished cry,
And tells us why we're born to live, and why though living, yet we die.
It is He who knows the cause our restless hearts can find no peace,
And why we're blown down empty streets by winds that never seem to cease.
He alone can answer to the hollow emptiness inside,
And slay the ghosts of vain pursuits that haunt the places where we died.
He knows the wanderings and cries of souls that all their lives are torn,
Caught between the dreams and lies, yet seek the truth for which they're born.
It is the Lord Who speaks away the veil that dulls our sight of Him,
And in the light of holy Truth, the dreams and lies die as they dim
So that the Cross, what happened there is now the call of God to come
And leave behind the wasted life He suffered so to save us from,
A call to come and start anew to find contentment, live and grow
In friendship, love, and care of Him whose voice our hearts have come to know.
And thus we find the God that seals our hearts to His and makes us whole,
Gives the highest destiny to every restless heart and soul,
Of knowing Him Who put within the cry for cause to live or hope,
Of seeing Him Who is to us the Peace for which we blindly grope,
No more to be like drifting leaves, blown about until we're gone,
But resting, trusting Him Who calls to bring us through and lead us on.
�Ruthann Wallace
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Yesterday you fought the serpent nobly, fought him well,
The power of God was in you as you stormed the gates of Hell.
You wrestled as you threw him down and with your mighty sword,
You slew him in the name and in the power of your Lord.
Then weary, worn, and tired from the battle and its strain,
You sought a place to rest where you could gather strength again.
You slept in peace rejoicing, but you didn't realize
That when you shed your armor you were watched by other eyes.
They stole your helmet, sword and shield in darkness of the night,
Then snared you for you then had nothing left with which to fight.
They beat you, made you grovel in your sin and guilt condemned;
Pitiless they scorned you with no grace to give or lend.
But God whose mercy bought you when you used to be His foe,
Remembers you are formed of dust as all who dwell below.
His mercy never ceasing, carried on its crimson tide,
Still saves from condemnation and the curse of guilt inside.
For mercy brought you into God and never shut the door,
And asks you to come boldly when you're needy, weak and poor.
And mercy reaches far beyond your sin and guilt and shame,
And loves without condition and comforts without blame.
A thousand times your soul may fall, yet rise in righteousness,
For Jesus' blood will never fail to cleanse, restore, and bless.
With nothing but God's mercy you can arm to fight once more,
With greater faith for victory than e're you had before.
Yes, you can rise in power, knowing this if you should fall,
It was for men of dust that blood was even shed at all.
And in the blest assurance that to fail is not the end,
Face all the snares and serpents unstained and uncondemned.
�Ruthann Wallace
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Let it not be the winter of my soul, Lord, that You come.
Let it not be in coldness of the sins that I have done.
Let it not be in deadness of a heart that's turned away
To give itself to pleasure and a careless wish for play.
O Lord, come not in winter when the howling winds descend
To blur the sweet remembrances we shared as friend with Friend.
Lord, let it be in springtime, when my heart, just like the earth,
Celebrates the wonder of awakening and birth...
In springtime when all things are new and love is still so young,
And all the vows we whisper are songs waiting to be sung.
But come not in the winter, when the stark and silent void,
Mocks the dreams of life that once together we enjoyed.
Or let it be in summer, in the richness of full bloom,
When fruit and flower splash and blend like weaving on a loom,
When wisdom brings its sure reward for patience through the years,
Of mighty trees,full grown from seeds, though sown in youthful tears.
But Lord, come not in winter, in the gray dawn of defeat,
When like a barren tree I yield no fruit for You to eat.
Lord, even come in autumn, in the harvest of my days,
When like the autumn splendor, joy has set my heart ablaze,
And my head bows low in worship like the golden autumn grain,
Before the Lord of Harvest when You visit Earth again.
But Lord, come not in winter, when dark snow has marked the grave,
Where faith was slain while I became a fugitive and slave.
Through the seasons You have taught in different ways anew,
The wealth of grace that causes life to be a praise to You,
While deep within the drawing to return where I came from,
Creates afresh the ageless call, "Come! O Lord Jesus, come!"
For all the universe awaits the end of earthly woe,
So Lord, come not in winter, but come quickly even so.
�Ruthann Wallace
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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