Max M. Johnson

 

The day was depressing, the sky gloomy grey —

The sun would not give even one warming ray.

 

The day was depressing, the sky gloomy grey —

The sun would not give even one warming ray.

I stood on life’s pathway, and watched with intent

The great throngs of people who came and who went.

Their faces bore traces of worry and strain;

And some told of lives filled with heartache and pain.

Many were burdened as onward they thrust, —

These creatures of frailty — wrought of the dust.

 

Their spirits seemed leaden, and dull as the sky;

Not many were happy —these souls who passed  by.

I pondered as onward they strove on their way

And wondered, while watching, “Where wander all they?”

So hopeless and helpless their plight seemed to me,

Like ships without rudders on Life’s churning sea;

So full of despair, of sin, and of lust —

These creatures of frailty — wrought of the dust.

 

Relentlessly onward they moved through the day,

And for each soul who came, a soul went away;

For their lives were all measured — each tick and each tock,

Each pendulum swing of the old steeple clock

Seemed to whisper the warning, —“Near, ever near, —

The day of departure — the last day down here.”

For they lived in a world where death is a must, —

These creatures of frailty —wrought of the dust.

 

Then piercing the gloom, a clear brilliant ray

Shown down from a cross, and formed a pathway,

So narrow a path, but bright as the sun;

And lo! — at the head of the path there stood One

With marks in His hands, His head, feet and side —

The marks of our sin that He bore when He died.

He painfully suffered, the Righteous, the Just,

For creatures of frailty —wrought of the dust.

 

But they seemed unconcerned as they travelled along,

And I stood unbelieving, — it all seemed so wrong —

Here was darkness and gloom and despair all around,

And yet there was light and new life to be found.

But blinded and groping, they went on their way

With never a thought, but just for today;

Searching only for treasures that tarnish and rust,

These creatures of frailty — wrought of the dust.

 

Yet each was a soul for whom Christ had died;

But, strangely, not many had let Him inside.

Perhaps, unaware of their serious plight,

In innocence moving toward blackness of night,

They wended their way; so I cried, “Oh, it’s true —

This pathway of light and of life is for you.”

But their hearts remained cold — without faith, without trust;

These creatures of frailty — wrought of the dust.

 

 

 

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