Individual Worth Poems

Individual Worth Poems

WHAT IS RED?

Red is bright and alive, It means stop;
Red is apples and raspberries and little kid’s sneakers
And “wild cherry Lifesavers” .
Red is bold and loud; a fiery sky,
The color of our life’s blood.
What is red?  — Red is my Individual Worth


 

Individual Worth

We are told that every soul is of great worth,
For we are children of God who tread the earth,
Yet Satan whispers to us, “Yes, but not you,
Look at all the stupid things you say and do.”

Look up and see the beauty of the trees,
You are greater and more loved than these,
See every creature that is great or small,
You dearest one, reign over them all.

You are in God’s image, like Him in every way,
Do not be discouraged if you slip each day,
He loves you and helps you, wants you to grow
By the mistakes you make, for He loves you so.

Every ounce of pain and suffering is for good,
Every sin repented of, forgiven, you knew He would,
Do not listen to Satan, the father of all lies,
You can be a queen, so aim higher than the skies.

Look at your potential, look at what you can become,
Fulfill your purpose on the earth and to heaven come,
Where your faith will be rewarded when the battle is won,
And faith will turn to knowledge then your journey’s done.
    -M. Ann Margetson


 

Who? Mx?

 Xvxn though my typxwritxr is an old modxl,
It works quitx wxll, xxcxpt for onx of thx kxys
Thxrx arx forty-onx kxys that function, but
Just onx kxy not working makxs thx diffxrxncx.
Somxtimxs it sxxms that a Branch is
Likx my typxwritxr–that not all thx kxy
Pxoplx arx working propxrly.

You may say, “Wxll, I am only onx pxrson:
I don’t makx or brxak a Branch.”
But a succxssful Branch, to bx xffxctivx,

Rxquirxs thx activx participation of xvxry mxmbxr.
So thx nxxt timx you think your xfforts arx not
Nxxdxd, rxmxmbxr my old typxwritxr and say to
Yoursxlf, “I am a vxry kxy pxrson in our Branch,
And I am nxxdxd vxry much!”


 

The Self We Want To Be

If we but shape our destiny,
We can become the self we want to be,
Not driven by whim, nor base desire,
But by the inner soul’s Celestial fire.

For there lies within our inner spirit,
A still small voice, if we’ll but hear it.
Its purpose is to guide aright,
To bless with wisdom truth, and light.

We dull that voice by sinful ways,
By pride of heart and worldly praise,
By seeking pleasures of the flesh,
Entwining our souls in Satan’s mesh.

We tune our inner souls to God
by holding to the Iron Rod
And as we sorrow much for sin,
Behold, the voice of God beams in

To gently lead us with His sheep,
To green pastures and peaceful sleep,
Where all may learn His saving grace.
And meet our Savior face to face.
What joy, what joy will then be ours,
When we are freed from Satan’s powers
To shape our lives eternally
Toward God’s highest destiny.


 

The Touch of the Master’s Hand

‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But held it up with a smile: “What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”
“A dollar, a dollar”; then, “Two!” “Only two?
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?
Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;
Going for three-” But no,
From the room, far back, a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow;
Then, wiping the dust from the old violin,
And tightening the loose strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet
As a caroling angel sings.
The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, “What am I bid for the old violin?”
And he held it up with the bow.
“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?
Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice,
And going, and gone!” said he.
The people cheered, but some of them cried,
“We do not quite understand
What changed its worth.” Swift came the reply:
“The touch of a master’s hand.”
And many a man with life out of tune,
And battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd,
Much like the old violin.
A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,
A game-and he travels on.
He’s “going” once, and “going” twice,
He’s “going” and almost “gone.”
But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul and the change that’s wrought
By the touch of the Master’s hand.


 

My Individual Worth
by: Jennifer Slyh

 I look into the mirror
And staring back at me
A beautiful young woman
Who sometimes I can’t see.

A soul so great in the sight of the Lord,
I’m a princess of royal birth.
Why can’t I push away worldly ideals
And realize my personal worth?

I’ve been given a mission divine,
For which I must strive to fulfill.
And Celestial glory shall be there for me
If I live and obey the Lord’s will.

Then why does life seem so tough at times?
It’s so hard to see how I’ll get through!
Satan is strong, but the Lord’s even stronger
And He’ll be there in all that I do.

So next time I look in the mirror,
I must always remember God’s love.
Then I will see my true beauty
And know I’ve got help from above.


 

Individual Worth
 Anonymous

Is a rich man worth more than a poor man?
Is a stranger worth less than a friend?
Is a baby worth more than an old man?
Your beginning worth more than your end?
Is a president worth more than his assassin?
Does your value decrease with your crime?
Like when Christ took the place of Barabas,
Would you say he was wasting his time?
Well, how much do you think you are worth boy?
Will anyone stand up and say?
Would you say that a man is worth nothing
Until someone is willing to pay?
 I suppose that you think that you matter.
Well how much do you matter . . . to whom?

It’s much easier at night, when with friends and bright lights,
Than much later alone in your room.
Do you think they’ll miss one in a billion?
When you finish this old human race.
Does it really make much of a difference?
When your friends have forgotten your face?
If you heard that your life had been valued,
That a price had been paid on the nail,
Would you ask what was traded?
How much?  And who paid it?
Who was he?  And what was his name?
If you heard his name was called Jesus,
Would you say that the price was too dear?
Held to the cross, not by nails, but by love.
It was you who broke his heart, not the spear.
Would you say you were worth what it cost him?
You say No?  But the price stays the same.
If it doesn’t make you cry, laugh it off, pass Him by.
But remember the day when you throw it away,
That He paid what He thought you were worth.
How much do you think HE is worth boy?
Will anyone stand up and say?
Tell me, what are you willing to give HIM


 

In His Steps

 –Author Unknown

“The road is rough,” I said.
“Dear Lord, there are stones that hurt me so,”
And He said, “Dear child, I understand,
I walked it long ago.”

“But there is a cool green path,” I said,
“Let me walk there for a time.”
“No child,” He gently answered me,
“The green road does not climb.”

“My burden,” I said, “is far too great,
How can I bear it so?”
“My child,” said He, “I remember its weight
I carried my cross, you know.”

“But,” I said, “I wish there were friends with me,
Who would make my way their own.”
“Ah, yes,” said He, “Gethsemane

Was hard to face alone.”

And so I climbed the stony path,
Content at last to know–
That where my master had not gone,
I would not need to go.

And strangely then I found new friends
The burden grew less sore,
And as I remembered–long ago,
He went that way before.


 

The Making of a Pearl

There once was an oyster,
Her story I’ll tell;
Who found all she had
Was some sand in her shell.

She noticed others were proud,
With their pearls all a’glow;
“What happened to me?”
She wanted to know.

She felt left out and alone,
With not much to give.
The piece of sand in her side,
Made it uncomfortable to live.

Well, this sweet little oyster,
With the sand in her side, decided,
“If I cannot remove it,
Then I’ll try to improve it!”
Then she gave all her effort and tried.

Six years have gone by,
For my dear little friend.
Due to her time and efforts,
She had a pearl in the end.

It was beautiful to see,
And actually quite grand;
What that clever oyster did,
With a small grain of sand.


 

Piece By Piece, We Work Together”
by Debbie Anderson (1985)

“What are we?” said the pieces, observing around
The patches of red and of blue.
“Just old scraps thrown in, with nothing profound
Sitting here with nothing to do.”

Then in came the hands of the seamstress,
Searching the box to find
The hues of red here, blue scattered there,
And needing some to combine.

Up from the bottom sweetly waiting,
Came the little brown patch so fair.
All her life never anticipating
That “she” had something to share!

The patch didn’t see what the seamstress knew,
That each piece played it’s own part
To combine with the others and become the whole,
Softly covering and warming the heart.

So like in a box we pieces all sit,
Thinking how we are very alone,
Then the hand of the master arranges the fit
His marvelous work to be shown.

If we work together and arrange by his hand,
The finished product will be
The beautiful child by his gentle command,
Seeking the Lord eternally.