I want to let go, but I won’t let go.
There are battles to fight,
By day and night,
For God and the right—
And I’ll never let go.

I want to let go, but I won’t let go.
I’m sick, tis true,
Worried and blue,
And worn through and through,
But I won’t let go.

I want to let go, but I won’t let go.
I will never yield!
What! Lie down on the field
And surrender my shield?
No, I’ll never let go!

I want to let go, but I won’t let go.
May this be my song:
“Mid legions of wrong—
Oh, God, keep me strong
That I may never let go!”

Author Unknown

Although things are not perfect

Because of trial or pain

Continue in thanksgiving

Do not begin to blame

Even when the times are hard

Fierce winds are bound to blow

God is forever able

Hold on to what you know

Imagine life without His love

Joy would cease to be

Keep thanking Him for all the things

Love imparts to thee

Move out of “Camp Complaining”

No weapon that is known

On earth can yield the power

Praise can do alone

Quit looking at the future

Redeem the time at hand

Start every day with worship

To “thank” is a command

Until we see Him coming

Victorious in the sky

We’ll run the race with gratitude

Xalting God most high

Yes, there’ll be good times and yes some will be bad, but…

Zion waits in glory…where none are ever sad!

Author Unknown

I watched the flag pass by one day,
It fluttered in the breeze.
A young Marine saluted it,
And then he stood at ease.

I looked at him in uniform
So young, so tall, so proud,
With hair cut square and eyes alert
He’d stand out in any crowd.

I thought how many men like him
Had fallen through the years.
How many died on foreign soil
How many mothers’ tears?

How many pilots’ planes shot down?
How many died at sea
How many foxholes were soldiers’ graves?
No, freedom isn’t free.

I heard the sound of Taps one night,
When everything was still,
I listened to the bugler play
And felt a sudden chill.

I wondered just how many times
That Taps had meant “Amen,”
When a flag had draped a coffin.
Of a brother or a friend.

I thought of all the children,
Of the mothers and the wives,
Of fathers, sons and husbands
With interrupted lives.

I thought about a graveyard
At the bottom of the sea
Of unmarked graves in Arlington.
No, freedom isn’t free.

Author Unknown

Count your blessings instead of your crosses;
Count your gains instead of your losses.

Count your joys instead of your woes;
Count your friends instead of your foes.

Count your smiles instead of your tears;
Count your courage instead of your fears.

Count your full years instead of your lean;
Count your kind deeds instead of your mean.

Count your health instead of your wealth;
Love your neighbor as much as yourself.

Author Unknown

Friends, failure is not final.
God’s saints can sink so low

God sometimes uses failure
To make them higher go.

We cannot judge a person
By failure, slip, or lack.

We cannot judge with justice,
Until he has come back.

We all at times have failures,
‘Tis not how low we fall,

But how we climb up later
That counts the most of all.

by Fred D. Jarvis

There once was an oyster whose story I tell,
Who found that sand had got under his shell;

Just one little grain, but it gave him much pain,
For oysters have feelings although they’re so plain.

Now, did he berate the working of Fate
Which had led him to such a deplorable state?
Did he curse out the government, call for an election?

No; as he lay on the shelf he said to himself,
“If I cannot remove it, I’ll try to improve it.”

So the years rolled by as the years always do,
And he came to his ultimate destiny—stew.

And this small grain of sand which had bothered him so,
Was a beautiful pearl, all richly aglow.

Now this tale has a moral—for isn’t it grand
What an oyster can do with a morsel of sand;

What couldn’t we do if we’d only begin
With all of the things that get under our skin.

Author Unknown

He was going to be all that a mortal should be … tomorrow.
No one should be kinder or braver than he … tomorrow.
A friend who was troubled and weary he knew,
Who’d be glad of a lift and who needed it, too;
On him he would call and see what he could do … tomorrow.

Each morning he stacked up the letters he’d write … tomorrow.
And thought of the folks he would fill with delight … tomorrow.
It was too bad, indeed, he was busy today,
And hadn’t a minute to stop on his way;
More time he would have to give others, he’d say … tomorrow.

The greatest of workers this man would have been … tomorrow.
The world would have known him, had he ever seen … tomorrow.
But the fact is he died and faded from view,
And all that was left when living was through
Was a mountain of things he intended to do … tomorrow.

by Edgar Guest

Last eve I passed a blacksmith’s door,
And heard the anvil ring the vesper chime;
Then looking in, I saw upon the floor
Old hammers, worn with beating years of time.

“How many anvils have you had,” I said,
“To wear and batter all these hammers so?”
“Just one,” said he, and then with twinkling eye,
“The anvil wears the hammers out, you know.”

And so, thought I, the anvil of God’s Word,
For ages skeptic blows have beat upon;
Yet though the noise of falling blows was heard,
The anvil is unharmed … the hammers gone.

Author Unknown

My life is but a weaving
Between my Lord and me.
I cannot choose the colors
He worketh steadily.

Ofttimes He weaveth sorrow,
And I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper
And I, the underside.

Not till the loom is silent
And the shuttles cease to fly
Shall God unroll the canvas
And explain the reason why.

The dark threads are as needful
In the weaver’s skillful hand
As the threads of gold and silver
In the pattern He has planned.

Author Unknown

Note | One version of this poem adds these concluding lines:

He knows, He loves, He cares.
Nothing this truth can dim.
He gives His very best to those
who leave the choice with Him.