Crooked Finger (crookedfingers) wrote,
Crooked Finger
crookedfingers

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love not the world

It is 1:36 PM on a warm sunny cloudy Tuesday afternoon here in West Michigan. It is beginning to feel like Summer these days. We are coming to the end of another Spring Season in our lives.

I got up this morning around 6:35 AM. When I got up I found my wife doing the usual. Carol is sick with a cold these days. Right now we do not know when she will be over this Spring cold? All we can do is cross our fingers and pray for healing for Carol. It could be worse, she could have COVID-19 the red plague.

I spent the morning wandering my cell and writing in my paper diary. Carol went back to bed and I decided to work on planting wild flower seeds in my wild flower garden. So I worked in my garden, got all the seeds planted and now we wait to see what comes up from the earth. After working in my wild flower garden I mowed the front and back yard. When that was all down I came inside cleaned up and wrote in my paper diary. Carol got up and had a meal. I have been reading from a book of stories titled, 'Life Embitters' by Josep Pla Translated from the Catalan by Peter Bush.

There is not much else to report this afternoon. I am thinking of going down into the lower level and laying down to take a nap. I did not stay up late last night. I went to bed around 10:25 PM last night. Before I went to bed I read from a book titled, 'Essayism On Form, Feeling, And Nonfiction' by Brian Dillon.

I will close to drift. There is no way out.

What is the world to me,
With all its vaunted pleasure
When Thou, and Thou alone,
Lord Jesus, art my treasure!
Thou only, dearest Lord,
My soul’s delight shalt be;
Thou art my peace, my rest—
What is the world to me?

The world is like a cloud
And like a vapor fleeting,
A shadow that declines,
Swift to its end retreating.
My Jesus doth abide,
Though all things fade and flee;
My everlasting rock—
What is the world to me?

The world seeks to be praised
And honored by the mighty,
Yet never once reflects
That they are frail and flighty.
But what I truly prize
Above all things is He,
My Jesus, He alone—
What is the world to me?

The world seeks after wealth
And all that Mammon offers,
Yet never is content
Though gold should fill it coffers.
I have a higher good,
Content with it I’ll be:
My Jesus is my wealth—
What is the world to me?

The world is sorely grieved
Whenever it is slighted
Or when its hollow fame
And honor have been blighted.
Christ, Thy reproach I bear
Long as it pleaseth Thee;
I’m honored by my Lord—
What is the world to me?

The world with wanton pride
Exalts its sinful pleasures
And for them foolishly
Gives up the heavenly treasures.
Let others love the world
With all its vanity;
I love the Lord, my God—
What is the world to me?

The world abideth not;
Lo, like a flash ’twill vanish;
With all it gorgeous pomp
Pale death it cannot banish;
Its riches pass away,
And all its joys must flee;
But Jesus doth abide—
What is the world to me?

What is the world to me?
My Jesus is my treasure,
My life, my health, my wealth,
My friend, my love, my pleasure,
My joy, my crown, my all,
My bliss eternally.
Once more, then, I declare—
What is the world to me?
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