One Day I'll Leave This Old Body

One day I’ll leave this old body, This earthen house of clay,
And rise up to be with Jesus, Who is my Hope and Stay.
This earthen shell I’ll leave behind, And those who come to mourn
Will see this house left vacant With earthly rags adorned.
They’ll come to gaze upon it; To remember times gone by,
To visit friends and family, To laugh and, yes, to cry—
But this one thing remember, If one of them is you,
That I’ve gone and left this body, As all of us must do,
And I’ll be waiting over yonder Where Jesus lives and reigns,
For ‘tis there I hope to meet you, Where we’ll never part again.

a. franklin staples, May 11, 2002

The Bones of the Church

The church can be seen as made up of bones
Like any other body,
But the bones that make it up, my friend,
Fit together rather oddly.

Now, first we have the “Wish Bones,”
Those bright and shining stars
Who just sit around and wish that things
Were different than they are.

Then there are the “Jaw Bones,”
Those who are always talking
About whatever it is that’s going on,
Be it mundane or shocking.

They continue to “jaw” about this and that,
And do more harm than good;
They grumble, gossip and complain
Instead of living as they should.

Let’s not forget the “Tail Bones,”
Those who are always late;
Late for worship, late for meetings,
Always making others wait.

Those “Tail Bones” take too literally
The words of Jesus Christ, our Lord,
About the first being last and the last being first,
In the pages of God’s Word.


Those “Tail Bones” cannot take a stand
Or Come to a decision;
They want always to “wait upon the Lord,”
Ignoring the Great Commission.

And, oh yes, there are the “Funny Bones,”
Those so easily offended
At some “terrible” thing the preacher said
At the last service they attended.

“If that’s the way he’s going to preach,
I won’t be going back!,”
Those thin-skinned souls are oft heard to say,
And the preacher takes the flak.

But, Thank God there are the “Backbones,”
Those who do the work,
Who teach the classes, call on the sick;
Their duties they don’t shirk.

And if the preacher needs a hand,
Or maybe even two,
The “Back Bones” will be right there to help
When there is work to do.

Yes, let’s thank God for the “Back Bones;”
They’re the pillars of the church
Who take a stand upon God’s Word
And pitch in to do His Work.

    a. franklin staples

    © 1991 by A. Franklin Staples

On Complaining

 
We're mostly a bunch of complainers;
Too often we're not satisfied
With the state of the weather, in general,
Or the passage of time, or the tide.
For if it isn't too hot, why then it's too cold;
It's either too wet or too dry;
Time's going too fast or it's going too slow;
The water's too low or too high.
The music's too loud or else it's too soft;
The singer can't carry a tune;
The preacher's long-winded or his sermon's too short;
It's either too late or too soon.
There's either too much or there's not enough,
Whether it's snow, food, coffee, or tea;
The pillow's too hard or else it's too soft;
Nothing's ever as good as can be.
Yes, to most of us nothing is perfect:
We can always find room for complaint,
But if someone points out our shortcomings,
We can answer right up, "I'm no saint!"
But that's what you are, my dear brother,
If the blood of God's Son you have claimed —
A saint who will one day be perfect,
With nothing wherewith to be blamed.
So why complain now, brother, sister,
About everything under the sun?
Thank God for each day you are given
And live it for Jesus, the Son.
Give thanks for each situation!
Praise God for the good and the bad,
For Jesus Christ died to save you. —
He's the dearest Friend you ever had.
Don't complain about things and don't grumble.
It's advice that I need to take, too,
For God's perfect Son shed His precious blood
That we might be perfected all through.
And someday He'll make all things perfect,
And no one will ever complain
About things over yonder in glory
Where with Him forever we'll reign.

    a. franklin staples
June 26, 1990

                 Copyright © 1990
    by
    A. Franklin Staples










































































        

How Many Ways

How Many Ways?

How many ways are there to pray,
Or things to say,
To God?

How many innovative phrases
Can we use to voice our praises
To God?

Does God demand that we be creative
In our petitions to Him stated
Before He hears?

Does He not want them simply stated,
From the humble heart related,
Sometimes with tears?

He desires not vain repetition
Of our petition
Or plea.

He simply asks that we give it thought,
Pray as we ought,
Bend knees.

Just simple words are all sufficient
To the Omniscient,
Who's everywhere.

In times of need or deep distress,
He'll surely bless
The humble prayer.

Just how many ways are there to pray,
Or things to say,
To God?


a. franklin staples
June 7, 1994


Copyright © 1994 by a. franklin staples

I AM A CANADIAN

I’ve been debating with myself as to whether to put this one up. It is my wish to assure those of you who take the time to read it that it was written and is presented here without even a hint of prejudice on my part. To include all of the ethnic groups that make up this great country would make it rival some of the epic poems penned by poets far more gifted than I.



    I AM A CANADIAN

I am an Inuit on the Hudson Bay shore;
I hunt and I trap in Canada’s far north;
Of the white man’s handouts, I don’t want any more.
I am a Canadian!

I am a First Nations Cree on the Great Plain
Of southern Alberta, where white men grow grain.
Though some would dispute it, I proudly proclaim:
I am a Canadian!

I am a First Nations Micmac on the far Eastern coast;
Of Canada’s First Peoples, of that I can boast.
My culture is what I value the most.
I am a Canadian!

I am a fisherman, you should understand,
Who once fished for cod off this Newfoundland,
And even though why I often don’t understand,
I am a Canadian!

I am a lumberjack in the New Brunswick woods.
My father spoke French and was oft misunderstood.
My mother spoke English, like all English should -
I am a Canadian!

I am an immigrant from Old-world Hong Kong.
I am so very happy to feel I belong
To this great, friendly country so free and so strong.
I am a Canadian!

I am un habitant, French, from Quebec.
Too long I’ve been looked upon as a “pain-in-the-neck.”
I’m looking for dignity, honour, respect -
I am a Canadian!

I am a coal miner from Cape Breton Island,
Proud of my roots in old Scotland’s Highlands,
But as this land is your land, it also is my land -
I am a Canadian!

I am a white-collar worker in Ontario.
My forefathers were English and Irish, you know,
But I’ll tell everybody, wherever I go:
I am a Canadian!

In Prince Edward Island’s fertile red mud,
I grow potatoes, the dependable “spud.”
Whether you call me “Mac” or “Percy” or “Bud,”
I am a Canadian!

I am a real live Indian Sikh.
It’s not French or English but Punjabi I speak.
It is this country’s peace and its freedom I seek -
I am a Canadian!

I am Japanese and live in Vancouver, B. C.
I am glad to live here in this land of the free
Even though things haven’t always been so good for me.
I am a Canadian!

I live in Nova Scotia and my skin is black.
My forefathers were slaves, to which I’ve no wish to go back.
Let’s keep this great country on the right track!
I am a Canadian!

I live in New Brunswick. I’m from Loyalist stock.
You know I speak English by the way that I talk,
But when all’s said and done, it should come as no shock -
I am a Canadian!

I am a Metis, on the Red River claim.
I’ve both Scottish and First Nation blood in my veins.
Though often misused yet I still will proclaim:
I am a Canadian!

I am a wheat farmer in Saskatchewan.
The Ukraine is where my ancestors are from,
But in this great country is where I belong -
I am a Canadian!

I am a Canadian! What wonderful words.
Let’s proudly proclaim it. Let it be heard
The whole world over. May our hearts all be stirred.
I AM A CANADIAN!

    a. franklin staples

November 4, 1992

Copyright © 1992 by a. franklin staples

ON MAKING A BANANA SPLIT

ON MAKING A BANANA SPLIT

Make a banana split? Why, that’s like asking someone to make an apple crumble or an apple crisp or a blueberry buckle (who ever really saw that happen?), to say nothing of that equally difficult task of making a lemon square! In fact, the idea is so preposterous that one is almost inclined to question the sanity of a person who would even suggest such a thing. Make a banana split, indeed. Why, the task is so difficult and the probability of success in the undertaking so remote that it is unlikely that anyone will ever be successful in making a BANANA SPLIT  - at least all by itself.

    a. franklin staples

October 15, 1993

Copyright © 1993 by a. franklin staples

Just A Lump of Clay

    An Introduction

Genesis 3:19 says, “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, til thou return unto the ground; for out of it thou wast taken: for dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return.”

    As I grow older, the subject of death is more and more brought to mind. The death of my father, my wife’s father and, more recently, my mother, as well as the passing of other close relatives and friends, has served to increase the thought time that I devote to the subject.
    It is not my intent to be morbid but rather to emphasize that we, as Christians, need to be more realistic in our treatment and perception of physical death. When my father-in-law died in 1987, I remember saying something to this effect to my eldest son: “We should remember that the body in that coffin is not Grampy. It’s just a piece of clay.”
    Now, that’s sometimes hard for us to grasp, and when it’s your grandfather or your grandmother or your father or mother or you sister or your brother or your son or your daughter or your wife or your husband, or some other close relative or good friend whose coffin your gazing into, that’s not most likely to be your perception. So, perhaps misunderstanding the point I was making or where I was coming from, my son replied, “It’s a pretty special piece of clay,” and of course it was.
    The fact remains, however, if you can bring yourself to be entirely objective about it, and every true believer in the Lord Jesus Christ should, that the body lying in that coffin is really nothing more than a conglomeration of earthly minerals (clay, if you will) that temporarily bears the physical image of the person who once occupied it. Fail to, neglect to, or be unable to pump it full of embalming chemicals, and it will show obvious signs of chemical deterioration and physical decay before the sun sets on the first day of death, for dust it is and unto dust it begins immediately to return. The person who once inhabited it is no longer in it. The soul and spirit have departed (Genesis 35:18).
    As Rev. Norman Trafton, an old and dear friend of mine, so aptly put it when his wife Dorothy went to be with the Lord, “She has gone beyond us and we wouldn’t wish her back.”
    That is the subject of this poem.

    Just A Lump of Clay

Just a lump of clay - That’s all we leave behind;
Just an empty shell of dust - No spirit, no soul, no mind -
For the spirit returns to God Who gave the life and took
To await the resurrection, As He promised in His Book.
Just a lump of clay - That’s how it all began -
God moulded it and fashioned it And made into man.
He breathed into it the breath of life; Man became a living soul -
Made in God’s image they were back then, Before sin took its toll.
Just a lump of clay That will soon turn back to dust,
But the spirit and the soul live on If in Jesus Christ we trust,
For God Himself, in Jesus Christ, Came down to earth one day
To live a perfect sinless life In such a lump of clay;
To die for man on Calvary’s cross; To be sin for all mankind;
To rise triumphant over death - No clay was left behind!
And one day soon, perhaps today, He’ll return with trumpet sound,
And all who’ve died secure in Him Will rise up from the ground.
In brand new bodies they will rise To live and reign with Him,
From mortal clay their bodies changed, No longer marred by sin;
And those alive will be changed, too, On that grand and glorious day,
And we’ll all know then what can be done With just a lump of clay.

    a. franklin staples

March 6, 1991

© 1991 by A. Franklin Staples