I asked the Lord to help my neighbor,
And carry the gospel to distant lands.
And to comfort the sick, but He said to me,
"If you love Me, be My hands."

I asked the Lord to go to the dying,
And the orphan in the street,
And visit the prisoner, but He said to me,
"If you love Me, be My feet."

I asked the Lord to look to the poor,
And watch over each babe that cries,
And see each man's need, but He said to me,
"If you love Me, be My eyes."

I said to the Lord, " I want to serve You,
But I don't know where to start."
"To love is the answer," He said to me,
"If you love Me, be My heart.

©1998, G. Shirie Westfall

THE COLD WITHOUT

Six humans trapped by happenstance,
in bleak and bitter cold.
Each one possessed a stick of wood,
or so the stories told.

Their dying fire in need of logs,
the first man held his back.
For of the faces round the fire,
he notices one was black.

The next man looking across the way,
saw one not of his church.
And could not bring himself to give,
the fire his stick of birch.

The third one sat in tattered clothes,
he gave his coat a hitch.
Why should his log be put to use,
to warm the idle reach.

The rich man just sat back and thought,
of the wealth he had in store.
And how to keep what he had earned,
from the lazy shiftless poor.
The black man's face bespoke revenge,
as the fire past from his sight.
For all he saw in his piece of wood,
was a chance to spite the white.

The last man of his forlorn group,
did nought except for gain.
Giving only to those who gave,
was how he played the game.

Their logs held tight in death still hand
gave proof of human sin,
They did not die from the cold without,
they died from the cold within.