More Inspirational Poems




Now listen, my children, I’ll tell you a tale,
How old Jonah, the Prophet, got caught by the Whale,
The Whale caught poor Jonah and bless your dear soul,
He not only caught him but swallowed him whole.

A part of this story is awfully sad,
It is how a big city went to the bad;
When the Lord saw those people with such wicked ways,
He said, “I can’t stand them more’n forty more days.

He spoke to old Jonah and said, “Go and cry
To those hard-hearted people and tell them that I
Give them forty days more to get humbled down,
And if they don’t to it, I’ll tear up their town.”

Jonah heard the Lord speaking and he said, “No,
That’s against my religion and I won’t go:
Those Nineveh people mean noting to me,
And I am against foreign missions you see.”

He went down to Joppa and there in great haste,
He boarded a ship for a different place;
The Lord looked down on that ship and said He,
“Old Jonah is fixing to run off from me.”

He set the winds blowing with squeakes and with squeals
And the sea got rowdy and kicked up its heels;
Old Jonah confessed it was all for his sin;
The crew threw him out and the whale took him in.

The whale said, “Old fellow, don’t you forget,
I am sent here to take you in out of the wet,
You will get punished aright for your sin,”
So he opened his mouth, and poor Jonah went in.

On beds of green seaweed that fish tried to rest;
He said, “I will sleep while my food I digest,”
But he got mighty restless and sorely afraid
And he rumbled inside as the old prophet prayed.

The third day that fish rose up from his bed
With his stomach tore up and a pain in his head;
He said, “I must get to the air mighty quick,
For this filthy backslider is making me sick.”

He winked his big eyes and wiggled his tail
And pulled for the shore to deliver his male;
He stopped near the shore and looked all around,
And vomited old Jonah right up on the ground.

Old Jonah thanked God for His mercy and grace,
And turning around to the whale made a face,
He said, “After three days I guess you have found
A praying man, old fellow, is hard to keep down.”

He stretched himself out with a yawn and a sigh
And sat down in the sun for his clothing to dry;
He thought how much better his preaching would be,
Since from Whale Seminary he had a degree.

When he had rested and dried in the sun,
He started for Nineveh most on the run;
He thanked his dear Father in heaven above
For His tender mercy and wonderful love.

And though he was nearly three days late
He preached from the time he entered the gate,
Till the whole population repented and prayed
And the great hand of justice and vengeance was stayed.

Children, when tempted to disobey, remember this tale,
And if you run from God’s call, look out for the whale;
And should you stay away from the sea,
God may send an elephant after thee.

old-edit-redo[1] - CopyTHE CREATION by James Weldon Johnson (1871-1938)

AND God stepped out on space,
And He looked around and said,
“I’m lonely —
I’ll make me a world.”

And far as the eye of God could see
Darkness covered everything,
Blacker than a hundred midnights
Down in a cypress swamp.

Then God smiled,
And the light broke,
And the darkness rolled up on one side,
And the light stood shining on the other,
And God said, “That’s good!”

Then God reached out and took the light in His hands,
And God rolled the light around in His hands
Until He made the sun;
And He set that sun a-blazing in the heavens.
And the light that was left from making the sun
God gathered it up in a shining ball
And flung it against the darkness,
Spangling the night with the moon and stars.
Then down between
The darkness and the light
He hurled the world;
And God said, “That’s good!”

Then God himself stepped down —
And the sun was on His right hand,
And the moon was on His left;
The stars were clustered about His head,
And the earth was under His feet.
And God walked, and where He trod
His footsteps hollowed the valleys out
And bulged the mountains up.

Then He stopped and looked and saw
That the earth was hot and barren.
So God stepped over to the edge of the world
And He spat out the seven seas;
He batted His eyes, and the lightnings flashed;
He clapped His hands, and the thunders rolled;
And the waters above the earth came down,
The cooling waters came down.

Then the green grass sprouted,
And the little red flowers blossomed,
The pine tree pointed his finger to the sky,
And the oak spread out his arms,
The lakes cuddled down in the hollows of the ground,
And the rivers ran down to the sea;
And God smiled again,
And the rainbow appeared,
And curled itself around His shoulder.

Then God raised His arm and He waved His hand
Over the sea and over the land,
And He said, “Bring forth! Bring forth!”
And quicker than God could drop His hand.
Fishes and fowls
And beasts and birds
Swam the rivers and the seas,
Roamed the forests and the woods,
And split the air with their wings.
And God said, “That’s good!”

Then God walked around,
And God looked around
On all that He had made.
He looked at His sun,
And He looked at His moon,
And He looked at His little stars;
He looked on His world
With all its living things,
And God said, “I’m lonely still.”

Then God sat down On the side of a hill where He could think;
By a deep, wide river He sat down;
With His head in His hands,
God thought and thought,
Till He thought, “I’ll make me a man!”
Up from the bed of the river
God scooped the clay;
And by the bank of the river
He kneeled Him down;

And there the great God Almighty
Who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky,
Who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night,
Who rounded the earth in the middle of His hand;
This Great God,
Like a mammy bending over her baby,
Kneeled down in the dust
Toiling over a lump of clay
Till He shaped it in His own image;

Then into it He blew the breath of life,
And man became a living soul.
Amen. Amen.



I remember a summer in which I said, “It is the ocean that I need.” So I went to the ocean but when I got there the ocean said, “It is not in me.” The ocean did not do for me what I thought it would.

Then I said, “The mountains will rest me.” So I went to the mountains and when I awoke in the morning there stood the grand mountain that I wanted so much to see, but the mountain said, “It is not in me.” The mountains did not satisfy.

Ah, what I really needed was the ocean of God’s love and the high mountains of His truth within me. Jesus, the creator of the oceans and mountains is our greatest need, and our restlessness within can only be met by believing in Jesus and walking with Jesus through God’s Word and the Holy Spirit.
—Adapted, original author unknown

old-edit-redo[1] - CopySUPPOSE

Suppose it were your birthday
And all your friends would come
And gather round your fireplace
There in your happy home.

They come with smiles and gladness,
And bring their presents, too.
But when they start to share them,
There’s not a one for you.

They give them to each other,
A grand and costly lot,
But for the guest of honor,
They somehow just forgot.

You say such things don’t happen,
Nor should it ever be;
It seems too crude and cruel,
For folks like you and me.

But friend, have you considered
Just this is what men do?
Not, of course, to humans,
But of our Lord ’tis true.

We celebrate His birthday
With all our pomp and style;
But give to one another
And grieve Him all the while.

‘Tis Christ we claim to honor
At this glad Christmastime;
Don’t spend on friends the dollars
And give Him not a dime.

To give to one another
Indeed is very nice;
But best of all to Jesus,
For Him let’s sacrifice.

His cause too long has suffered
By thoughtless, selfish men.
Let’s bring the firstfruits to JesusAnd give our best to Him.
—Fred D. Jarvis


 I’ll go where you want me to go, dear Lord,
Real service is what I desire;
I’ll say what you want me to say, dear Lord –
But don’t ask me to sing in the choir.

I’ll say what you want me to say, dear Lord,
I like to see things come to pass;
But don’t ask me to teach girls and boys, dear Lord –
I’d rather just stay in my class.

I’ll do what you want me to do, dear Lord,
I yearn for the kingdom to thrive;
I’ll give you my nickels and dimes, dear Lord –
But please don’t ask me to tithe.

I’ll go where you want me to go, dear Lord,
I’ll say what you want me to say;
I’m busy just now with myself, dear Lord –
I’ll help you some other day.”


They say that I am growing old
I’ve heard them tell it times untold
In language plain and bold –
But I am not growing old.
This frail old shell in which I dwell
Is growing old, I know full well –
But I am not the shell.

What if my hair is turning grey?
Grey hairs are honorable, they say.
What if my eyesight’s growing dim?
I still can see to follow Him
Who sacrificed His life for me
Upon the cross of Calvary.

What need I care if time’s old plow
Has left her furrows on my brow?
Another house not made with hands
Awaits me in the glory lands.

What though my tongue refuse to talk
And though I falter in my walk?
I still can tread the narrow way,
I still can watch and praise and pray.

What though my hearing’s not so keen
As in the past it might have been?
I still can hear my Saviour say
In whispers sweet, This is the way.

The outer man — do what I can
To lengthen out his life’s short span –
Will moulder and return to dust
As everything in nature must.
But the inner man, the Scriptures say,
Is growing stronger every day.

Then how can I be growing old
When safe within my Saviour’s fold?
‘Ere long my soul shall fly away
And leave this tenement of clay.

This robe of flesh I’ll drop, and rise
To gain the everlasting prize
And I’ll meet you on the streets of gold
To prove that I am not growing old.
—John E. Roberts


My mother says she does not care About the color of my hair, Nor if my eyes are blue or brown Nor if my nose turns up or down It doesn’t really matter.

And mother says she does not care If I am dark or if I am fair, Or if I’m thin or if I’m fat She doesn’t fret o’er things like that It doesn’t really matter.

But if I cheat or tell a lie, Or say mean things to make folks cry, Or if I’m rude or impolite And do not try to do the right Then THAT does really matter.

It isn’t looks that make one great But character that seals your fate. It’s within your heart, you see That makes or mars your destiny And that does REALLY matter. —anonymous

There’s a little secret
Worth its weight in gold,
Easy to remember,
Easy to be told;
Changing into blessing
Every curse we meet,
Turning hell to heaven,
This is all—keep sweet.

Make us kind and gentle,
Harmless as the dove;
Giving good for evil,
Meeting hate with love;
What though trials press us,
What though tempests beat,
Naught can move or harm us
If we just keep sweet.

Sweet when things are bitter,
Sweet when hearts are sad;
Giving songs for sighing,
Making others glad;
In the quiet household,
On the bustling street,
Everywhere and always,
Jesus, keep us sweet.

Fountain in the desert,
Song amid the night,
Beacon in the darkness,
Star of hope and light;
Sunshine mid the tempest,
Shadow from the heat–
Like the Blessed Master,
Make us, keep us, sweet.
—A.B. Simpson


The sun has gone to rest beneath the lake,
And one by one the little stars awake;
But do not think because it slips from view,
The sun has bid the earth a last adieu.
We say the sun has “gone to rest” when night
Drops a veil that dims the mortal sight;
But it has risen on another world,
The petals of its golden bloom unfurled,
And there the robin in the treetop sings,
And warmth and light awake all waiting things.

And so “at rest” is what we sometimes say
Of that dear one who gently slipped away;
But he has simply vanished from the earth
To find elsewhere a new and glorious birth;
Lost to our sight a little tearful while,
His tender voice, his quick and eager smile.
But surely as the faithful, rising sun
Returns to bless our eyes, so will this one
Be waiting when the dawn of dawns appears,
So put away your sorrow and your tears,
And know that you will see him face to face,
Whose light already shines in that far place.
—Lois Parrish


There are loved ones who are missing
From the fireside and the feast;
There are faces that have vanished,
There are voices that have ceased;
But we know they passed forever
From our mortal grief and pain,
And we thank Thee, O our Father,
For the blessings that remain.

Thanksgiving, oh, thanksgiving
That their love once blessed us here,
That so long they walked beside us
Sharing every smile and tear;
For the joy the past has brought us
But can never take away,

For the sweet and gracious memories
Growing dearer every day,
For the faith that keeps us patient
Looking at the things unseen,
Knowing Spring shall follow Winter
And the earth again be green,
For the hope of that glad meeting
Far from mortal grief and pain–
We thank Thee, O our Father–
For the blessings that remain.

For the love that still is left us,
For the friends who hold us dear,
For the lives that yet may need us
For their guidance and their cheer,
For the work that waits our doing,
For the help we can bestow,
For the care that watches o’er us
Wheresoe’er our steps may go,
For the simple joys of living,
For the sunshine and the breeze,
For the beauty of the flowers
And the laden orchard trees,
For the night and for the starlight,
For the rainbow and the rain–
Thanksgiving, O our Father,
For the blessings that remain.
—Annie Johnson Flint


“Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile;
‘What am I bidden, good folk?’ he cried,
‘Who’ll start the bidding for me?
A dollar – one dollar – then two, only two–
Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?
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 lossened 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, ‘Now 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,’ cried he;
The people cheered, but some of the cried,
‘We do not understand;
What change its worth?’ Quick 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 a 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


I’d rather see a sermon than hear one any day,
I’d rather one would walk with me than merely tell the way;
The eye’s a better pupil and more willing than the ear,
Fine counsel is confusing, but example’s always clear;
The best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds,
For to see good put in action is what everybody needs.

I soon can learn to do it, if you’ll let me see it done,
I can watch your hands in action, your tongue too fast may run;
The lectures you deliver may be very wise and true,
But I’d rather get my lessons by observing what you do;
I may not understand  the high advice you give,
But there’s no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.


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