Sunday, June 27, 2010

A Missionaries Poem

By: David Woodward

When you came to answer the heathen cry
And thought you would hear a piteous sigh,
You never expected this-

Men with a satisfied, comfortable air,
Women too busy with gossip to care
For a truth they do not miss.

Did you dream of a host of upraised arms
Beseeching release from pagan alarms,
Only to wake with a start?

Now that you know they are passing your door,
Preferring an idol’s parade much more,
What does it do to your heart?

You are so earnestly giving the Word,
But listening ears seem not to have heard,
No matter how much you repeat.

Strong in the grip of tradition, they sit,
Almost defying you ever to fit
Your shoes on their mental feet.

Patience, my brother before you will learn
Where the silent ache and the anguish turn
To an unknown God to pray.

Bringing the sheaves from the harvest will wait
On sowing and growing at God’s own rate,
A thousand years or a day.

As sure as there’s sin in old Adam’s breed,
So certain it is that you’ll find a lead
Into the devil’s domain.

Keep on believing that He who has won
Your full allegiance has also begun
Seeking the lost who remain.

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