Elect of Elohim

The following poem, by Orson F. Whitney, is a beautiful and clear presentation of the grand council in heaven, and the eventst that took place there.  So great is the importance of this grand council, and the roles we played there, and how wonderful it is, as Latter-day Saints, to be blessed with such a clear understanding of that time long ago.

Elect of Elohim
Orson F Whitney

In solemn counsel sat the Gods
From Kolob’s height supreme
Celestial light blazed forth afar,
Over countless kokobeam.

And faintest tinge the fiery fringe
Of that resplendent day
Lumed the dark abysmal realm
Where earth in chaos lay.

“Father”, the voice like music fell
clear as the murmuring flow
of mountain streamlet trickling down
from heights of virgin snow

“Father”, it said “Since one must die
thy children to redeem
from worlds all formless now and void
where myriad life shall teem

and mighty Michael foremost fall
that mortal man may be
and chosen Savior yet must send
lo, here am I, send Me”.

“I ask, I seek no recompense,
save that which then were mine
Mine be the willing sacrifice
The endless glory thine.”

Still rang that voice, when sudden rose
Aloft a towering form
Proudly erect, as lowering peak
Loomed by the gathering storm

A presence bright and beautiful
With eye of flashing fire
With lips whose haughty curl bespoke
A sense of inward ire.

“Send Me”, it said, it’s courtly smile
And scarce concealed disdain
And none shall hence from heaven to earth
That shall not rise again.

My saving plan exemption scorns,
Mans will, nay, mine alone
As recompense I claim the right
To sit on yonder throne.

Ceased Lucifer, the breathless hush
Resumed and denser grew,
All eyes were turned the general gaze
One common magnet drew

A moment there was solemn pause,
Listened eternity
While rolled from lips omnipotent
The Fathers firm decree.

Jehovah, my messenger son Ahman,
Thee I send
And one shall go thy face before
While twelve thy steps attend

And many more on that far shore
Thy pathway shall restore
That I the first the last may come
And earth My glory share

By arm divine, both mine and thine
The lost shalt thou restore
That man redeemd with God may be
As God forever more

On thee alone mans fate depends
The fate of beings all
Thou shalt not fail though thou art free
Free, but too great to fall.

Return and to the parent fold
This wandering planet bring
And earth shall hail thee conqueror
And heaven proclaim thee king

Twas done, from congregations vast
Tulmoltus murmurs rose
Waves of conflicting sound
As when two meeting seas oppose

Twas finished, but the heavens wept
And still their annals tell
How one was choice of Elohim
Over one who fighting fell.
 

P. S.  This poem can be found in the book “The Holy Temple”, by Boyd K. Packer.

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If – by Rudyard Kipling

Today I wanted to share with you what has come to be my all-time favorite poem.

 

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too:
If you can wait and not be tired of waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise;

If you can dream-and not make dreams your master;
If you can think-and not make thoughts your aim,
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
and treat those two impostors just the same:
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ‘em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and -toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breath a word about your loss:
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings-nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And-which is more-you’ll be a Man, my son!

 

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La Envoi, by Rudyard Kipling

La Envoi
Rudyard Kipling

When Earths last  picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critics have died
Then faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an eon or two
Till the master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew.

Then all who were good will be happy
They will sit in a golden chair
And splash at a ten legue canvas
With brushes of comets hair
We shall have real saints to draw from
Magdalene Peter, and Paul
We shall work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all 

And only the Master shall praise us
And only the Master shall blame
Then no one will work for money
And no one will work for fame
But each for the joy of the working
And each in his separate star
Shall draw the thing as he sees it
For the master of things as they are.

 

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The touch of the master’s hand

‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer thought
it was hardlyworth his while
to waste much time with the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

“Give me a dollar, and who’ll make it two?
Only two dollars. Who’ll make it three?
Three dollars twice and that’s a good price,
but who’s got a bid for me?

The air was hot and the people just stood
as the sun was setting low.
Then from the back of the crowd a gray-haired man
came forward and picked up the bow.

He wiped the dust from the old violin,
and he tightened up the strings.
Then he played out a melody,
pure and sweet as the angels sing.

The music ended and the auctioneer,
with a voice that was quiet and low,
said “what is my bid for the old violin?”,
and he held it up with the bow.

“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?
Only two thousand, who’ll make it three?”
Three thousand twice, that’s a good price,
but who’s got a bid for me?”

And the people called out, “what made the change?
We don’t understand.”
So the auctioneer stopped and said with a smile,
“’twas the touch of the master’s hand.”

Now many a man and his life out of tune
is battered and scarred with sin.
And he’s auctioned cheap to a thankless world,
much like the old violin.
 
But then the master comes and the foolish crowd,
they never understand
the worth of a soul or the change that is wrought
by the touch of the master’s hand.

author unknown

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Faith – a poem

Faith
Edgar A. Guest

It is faith that bridges the land of breath
To the realms of the souls departed,
That comforts the living in days of death,
And strengthens the heavy-hearted.

It is faith in his dreams that keeps a man
Face front to the odds about him,
And he shall conquer who thinks he can,
In spite of the throngs who doubt him.

Each must stand in the court of life
And pass through the hours of trial;
He shall be tested by the rules of strife,
And tried for his self-denial.

Time shall bruise his soul with the loss of friends,
And frighten him with disaster;
But he shall find when the anguish ends
That, of all things, faith is master.

So keep your faith in the God above,
And faith in the righteous truth,
It shall bring you back to the absent love,
And the joys of a vanished youth.

You shall smile once more when your tears are dried,
meet trouble and swiftly rout it,
For faith is the strength of the soul inside,
And lost is the man without it.

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The Spider and the Fly

The Spider and the Fly,
a fable, by Mary Howitt

“Will you walk into my parlor?” said the spider to the fly;
“‘Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things to show when you are there.”

“O no, no,” said the little fly, “to ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;
Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the spider to the fly.
“There are pretty curtains drawn around, the sheets are fine and thin,
And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll snugly tuck you in.”

“O no, no,” said the little fly, “for I’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed.”

Said the cunning spider to the fly, “Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection I’ve always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that’s nice;
I’m sure you’re very welcome; will you please to take a slice?”

“O no, no,” said the little fly, “kind sir, that cannot be;
I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, and I do not wish to see.”

“Sweet creature!” said the spider, “you’re witty and you’re wise,
How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf,
If you’ll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself.”

“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, “for what you’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good-morning now, I’ll call another day.”

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon be back again:
So he wove a subtle web, in a little corner sly,
And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing,
“Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing:
Your robes are green and purple; there’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead.”

Alas, alas! How very soon this silly little fly,
Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by.

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue;
Thinking only of her crested head-poor foolish thing!  At last,
Up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast.

He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den,
Within his little parlor; but she ne’er came out again!

And now, dear little children, who may this story read,
To idle, silly, flattering words, I pray you ne’er give heed;
Unto an evil counselor close heart, and ear, and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale of the Spider and the Fly.

Rusty

That’s not my job (poem)

Margaret added a poem to the comments over on the “That’s not my job” post (with the funny images of prime examples of this pervasive mindset).  I thought it warrented it’s own post.  Thanks Margaret

That’s Not My Job
By Author Unknown

This is a story told about four people named, Somebody, Everybody, Anybody and Nobody.

There was one important job to be done.

Everybody was sure that Somebody would do it, but Nobody did it. Somebody got angry about it because it was Everybody’s job. Everybody thought Anybody could do it. Nobody realized that Everybody wouldn’t do it.

It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody when Nobody did what Anybody could have done.

P.S.  If anybody knows the author of this poem, please let me know so I can give them due credit.  They deserve it.

Rusty

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