Evening
When the evening comes and the day has slipped through our fingers
When the sunset approaches and strength is past zenith
When your weary back is bent like the hunched horizon,
Bowing under the blanket of night and
Caving up in silhouette--
But the soul still flames in gold, reaching upward wistfully for strength to do what is beyond
Burning yet in ashes to follow his own will.
In evenings like these,
That we ask God
What more, what
More I long to offer,
What can I offer?
Desires our God
The same heart he created
Uniquely formed to offer a you-given love.
Brighter than the sunset gleam are angels at his bidding
Flames of fire and wind swift to heed
But we, our beholden golden gift
Is his created-love to him,
To stand and trust in waning light,
And pray in heaven’s morn.
Beyond my little evening song, stand the same sentiments from John Milton:
- When I consider how my light is spent
- Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
- And that one talent which is death to hide
- Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
- To serve therewith my Maker, and present
- My true account, lest he returning chide;
- "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
- I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent
- That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
- Either man's work or his own gifts; who best
- Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
- Is kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
- And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
- They also serve who only stand and wait."
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