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Posted on 07/14/2004 2:58:04 AM PDT by JustAmy
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That's what I was thinking.
I read both copies. Amy was a little twitchy fingered when she clicked POST. Admit it you forgot mosquitoes.
I wish Father Noah had forgotten mosquitoes.
Amen
Read: Isaiah 53
The chief priests accused Him of many things, but He answered nothing. —Mark 15:3
Bible In One Year: Psalms 10-12; Acts 19:1-20
The story Silver Blaze by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle centers around a clue of silence. Detective Sherlock Holmes investigates the theft of a prized racehorse, which had been guarded by a watchdog. In gathering evidence, Holmes learns that the dog didn’t bark during the intrusion. The detective deduces that the dog knew the culprit, and this leads to solving the crime.
For anyone investigating the identity of Jesus, the Bible holds many clues. One of them is His silence. Centuries before Jesus lived, the prophet Isaiah wrote of Him:“As a sheep before its shearers is silent, so He opened not His mouth”(53:7). The significance of this remained obscure until Jesus was brought before His accusers and“answered nothing” (Mark 15:3).
It’s a small but important piece of evidence, especially when combined with other clues: His birth in Bethlehem (Micah 5:2; Luke 2:4), His Davidic lineage (Isaiah 11:10; Luke 3:31), and the casting of lots for His clothes (Psalm 22:18; John 19:23-24). These and more than 200 other fulfilled prophecies provide overwhelming evidence of the identity of Jesus.
He is the Messiah, the Son of God, the Savior of all who put their faith in Him. —Dave Egner
Believing Christ died—that’s history; believing Christ died for me—that’s salvation.
Mornin', everybody ! Happy Wednesday !
Have a cup while you Freep !
Beating wings...
Copyright © 2004
by Sandor Botor
Poetry
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
-- Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
Thank you for the lovely poem and graphic.
LOL!
Aawwww...
* crawling on hands and knees, looks up and speaks in voice of desperation *
I need food, breakfast food...
Mosquitos And Gnats
-- by William Cline Copyright 1998 -- bigtrucker@worldnet.att.net
The buzzing of a mosquito
The sting of a gnat
The barking of dogs,
The howling of cats.
The buzzing of a saw,
The honking of a horn.
The whistle of a train,
The sting of a thorn.
These things are life,
They happen each day.
Sometimes it's serious,
Other times it's gay.
The moon comes up,
The sun goes down.
Lights blink on,
Folks go downtown.
Today it will snow,
Tomorrow it will rain.
Tuesday was joy,
Saturday was pain.
All week we work,
Evenings we play.
Saturdays we shop,
Sundays we pray.
We speak to friends,
And pay our bills.
And try to go hunting,
Or fishing in the hills.
We always get up,
If we happen to fall.
We have our troubles,
Both large and small.
The soup boils over,
The car won't start.
Some of us are bright,
Lots of us smart.
Our money is getting shorter,
But we hardly care.
We'll cross that bridge,
When we get there.
We buy new shoes,
When the old ones are worn.
Then we discover,
Our coat is all torn.
People stop by,
To tell us their woes.
Why they want to tell us,
The Lord only knows.
We plan some day,
To travel the earth.
But we stay in one spot,
From the time of our birth.
The women get married,
So do the men.
Then they wish they weren't,
So they can play again.
These are some,
Of the things I see.
Just look around,
If you don't believe me.
"This title is strange,"
I bet you'll say.
But I could have called it.
"Our World Today".
I'm King Of Swat
-- by Gerald Bosacher Copyright 1998 -- sent in by DrWryme@aol.com
I do not kill instinctively,
and never once, maliciously.
But Mosquitoes who choose to sample me,
I quickly squish with hand clap glee.
Taking joy from sadistic swat,
denies compassion which I've got
but manage to suppress a lot
while sleeping naked when it's hot!
Mosquitos who might try to drain
that wine of life from my blood vein
should heed this rhyme and wise refrain
from picking me for their champagne.
Send both to NicknamedBob so he can fix his poem.
I hear ya been lookin' for me. LOL
Let's play. : )
; )
Who did that nice photo?
Good Morning! I just thought I'd stop by while checking email this morning. It's the last day that I'll be working days this month...I'm moving to evenings for a while. I guess a plus is that it's quieter at night! I hope you are having a good Wednesday.
Thank y'all so much for the beautiful poem and graphic!
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