Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
— John 15:13,KJV
Header Image (book)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.
— John 15:13,KJV
If any man come to me, and hate not his father, and mother, and wife, and children, and brethren, and sisters, yea, and his own life also, he cannot be my disciple. Luke 14:26
ReplyDeleteThose who leave family and life itself behind and serve their G_d and thereby this GREAT nation, are both underappreciated and must never be forgotten. Thank you, Veterans, for your service. By your generous actions, you have proven yourselves the greatest LOVERS and benefactors of G_d and mankind.
God bless their memories AOW... Blessed Memorial Day weekend my friend!!! xoxox:)
ReplyDeleteIf You Served, then I thank you. Thank you very sincerely for your service. Have a great Holiday.
ReplyDeleteIf I had the right -- or the temerity -- to give this poem a name, I would call it “To Those Left Behind.” Emily never gave titles to her poems, they are always identified by simply the first line.
ReplyDeleteWe think always of the brave men who fell in battle on Memorial day, but too little attention has been paid –– I feel –– to the widows and orphans, mothers, fathers, younger siblings and close friends forced to suffer the pain of losing a loved one.
After all, for the dead it is over –– their suffering, one would hope, is at an end. Those left behind, however, must somehow carry on and find find new purpose in living. This poem, I feel, addresses their situation eloquenty.
We grow accustomed to the Dark ––
When Light is put away ––
As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
To witness her Good bye ––
A Moment –– We uncertain step
For newness of the night ––
Then –– fit our Vision to the Dark ––
And meet the Road - erect ––
And so of larger –– Darknesses ––
Those Evenings of the Brain ––
When not a Moon disclose a sign ––
Or Star –– come out –– within ––
The Bravest –– grope a little ––
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead ––
But as they learn to see ––
Either the Darkness alters ––
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight ––
And Life steps almost straight.
~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
As the daughter, widow, granddaughter-in-law, niece, great-granddaughter of veterans, I never forget.
ReplyDeleteGOD bless those who have the selflessness to place something and others above themselves...it's called, "agape".
tmw
Thanks for the reminder of the sacrifice. We must never forget. When young, we always wore a poppy replica that was sold I believe by the VFW.
ReplyDeleteGreater love has no one than this: to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. John 15:13
ReplyDeleteToday at Weasel Zippers:
ReplyDeleteTHE FINAL INSPECTION
The soldier stood and faced God,
Which must always come to pass.
He hoped his shoes were shining,
Just as brightly as his brass.
“Step forward now, you soldier,
How shall I deal with you?
Have you always turned the other cheek?
To my Church have you been true?”
The soldier squared his shoulders and said,
“No, Lord, I guess I ain’t.
Because those of us who carry guns,
Can’t always be a saint.
I’ve had to work most Sundays,
And at times my talk was tough.
And sometimes I’ve been violent,
Because the world is awfully rough.
But, I never took a penny,
That wasn’t mine to keep…
Though I worked a lot of overtime,
When the bills just got too steep.
And I never passed a cry for help,
Though at times I shook with fear.
And sometimes, God, forgive me,
I’ve wept unmanly tears.
I know I don’t deserve a place,
Among the people here.
They never wanted me around,
Except to calm their fears.
If you’ve a place for me here, Lord,
It needn’t be so grand.
I never expected or had too much,
But if you don’t, I’ll understand.”
There was a silence all around the throne,
Where the saints had often trod.
As the soldier waited quietly,
For the judgement of his God.
“Step forward now, you soldier,
You’ve borne your burdens well.
Walk peacefully on Heaven’s streets,
You’ve done your time in Hell.”
I remember as a kid friends and neighbors dying in Viet Nam. I attended one funeral and will never forget the impact it had on me. Watching the precision and reverence of the military conducting the funeral, the sound of Taps, the family, the flag ...
ReplyDeleteDebbie
Right Truth
http://www.righttruth.typepad.com
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDelete__________The Dead ____________
ReplyDeleteBlow out, you bugles, over the rich Dead!
There's none of these so lonely and poor of old,
But, dying, has made us rarer gifts than gold.
These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy, and that unhoped serene,
That men call age; and those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality.
Blow, bugles, blow! They brought us, for our dearth,
Holiness, lacked so long, and Love, and Pain.
Honour has come back, as a king, to earth,
And paid his subjects with a royal wage;
And Nobleness walks in our ways again;
And we have come into our heritage.
~ Rupert Brooke (British Poet, died at age 27 in World War One)
~ Rupert brooke
I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
ReplyDeleteAnd Mourners to and fro
Kept treading –– treading –– till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through -
And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum ––
Kept beating –– beating –– till I thought
My mind was going numb––
And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space –– began to toll,
As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race,
Wrecked, solitary, here ––
And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down ––
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing –– then ––
~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
My favorite poem about death and immortality...
ReplyDelete"Death, Be Not Proud" by John Donne (published in 1633)
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
When I was in 6th or 7th grade, everyone in my class was required to memorize the above sonnet. We also had to write an interpretation.
"Even though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him ..."
ReplyDelete