THE CLOCK OF LIFE


The clock of life is wound but once. And no man has the power to tell just when the hands will stop, On what day - or what hour.



Now is the only time you have, So live it with a will.
 Don't wait until tomorrow - The hands may then be still.


Author - Unknown

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Always a silent hurt,
many a silent tear,
but always a beautiful memory,
of one we loved so dear.

God gave us strength to bear it,
and courage to take the blow,
but what it meant to lose you,
no one will ever know.

Author Unknown

………………………………………………………………………………………..

"Every time an old person dies, it's like a library burning down." – Alex Haley

………………………………………………………………………………………….

THE DASH

I read of a man who stood to speak at a funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on the tombstone from the beginning…to the end.
He noted that first came the date of birth and spoke of the following date with tears
but said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time they spent alive on earth
and now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own, the cars…the house…the cash.
What matters is how we lived and loved and how we spend our dash.
So, think about this long and hard; are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left that still can be rearranged.
To be less quick to anger and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives like we've never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect and more often wear a smile…
remembering that this special dash might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy is being read, with your life's actions to rehash,
would you be proud of the things they say about how you lived your dash?

Author - Linda Ellis

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

THE CENSUS TAKER
It was the first day of census, and all through the land;
The pollster was ready ... a black book in hand.
He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride;
His book and some quills were tucked close by his side.
A long winding ride down a road barely there;
Toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air.
The woman was tired, with lines on her face;
And wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place.
She gave him some water ... as they sat at the table;
And she answered his questions ... the best she was able.
He asked of her children ... Yes, she had quite a few;
The oldest was twenty, the youngest not two.
She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red;
his sister, she whispered, was napping in bed.
She noted each person who lived there with pride;
And she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the color, the age ...
The marks from the quill soon filled up the page.
At the number of children, she nodded her head;
And saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead.
The places of birth she "never forgot";
Was it Kansas? or Utah? or Oregon ... or not?
They came from Scotland, of that she was clear;
But she wasn't quite sure just how long they'd been here.
They spoke of employment, of schooling and such;
They could read some ... and write some ...though really not much.
When the questions were answered, his job there was done;
So he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun.
We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear;
"May God bless you all for another ten years."
Now picture a time warp ... its' now you and me;
As we search for the people on our family tree.
We squint at the census and scroll down so slow;
As we search for that entry from long , long ago.
Could they only imagine on that long ago day;
That the entries they made would effect us this way?
If they knew, would they wonder at the yearning we feel;
And the searching that makes them so increasingly real.
We can hear if we listen the words they impart;
Through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart.

Author Unknown

THE CLOCK OF LIFE


The clock of life is wound but once. And no man has the power to tell just when the hands will stop, On what day - or what hour.



Now is the only time you have, So live it with a will.
 Don't wait until tomorrow - The hands may then be still.


Author - Unknown

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

Always a silent hurt,
many a silent tear,
but always a beautiful memory,
of one we loved so dear.

God gave us strength to bear it,
and courage to take the blow,
but what it meant to lose you,
no one will ever know.

Author Unknown

………………………………………………………………………………………..

"Every time an old person dies, it's like a library burning down." – Alex Haley

………………………………………………………………………………………….

THE DASH

I read of a man who stood to speak at a funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on the tombstone from the beginning…to the end.
He noted that first came the date of birth and spoke of the following date with tears
but said what mattered most of all was the dash between those years.
For that dash represents all the time they spent alive on earth
and now only those who loved them know what that little line is worth.
For it matters not, how much we own, the cars…the house…the cash.
What matters is how we lived and loved and how we spend our dash.
So, think about this long and hard; are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left that still can be rearranged.
To be less quick to anger and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives like we've never loved before.
If we treat each other with respect and more often wear a smile…
remembering that this special dash might only last a little while.
So, when your eulogy is being read, with your life's actions to rehash,
would you be proud of the things they say about how you lived your dash?

Author - Linda Ellis

……………………………………………………………………………………………….

THE CENSUS TAKER
It was the first day of census, and all through the land;
The pollster was ready ... a black book in hand.
He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride;
His book and some quills were tucked close by his side.
A long winding ride down a road barely there;
Toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air.
The woman was tired, with lines on her face;
And wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place.
She gave him some water ... as they sat at the table;
And she answered his questions ... the best she was able.
He asked of her children ... Yes, she had quite a few;
The oldest was twenty, the youngest not two.
She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red;
his sister, she whispered, was napping in bed.
She noted each person who lived there with pride;
And she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside.
He noted the sex, the color, the age ...
The marks from the quill soon filled up the page.
At the number of children, she nodded her head;
And saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead.
The places of birth she "never forgot";
Was it Kansas? or Utah? or Oregon ... or not?
They came from Scotland, of that she was clear;
But she wasn't quite sure just how long they'd been here.
They spoke of employment, of schooling and such;
They could read some ... and write some ...though really not much.
When the questions were answered, his job there was done;
So he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun.
We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear;
"May God bless you all for another ten years."
Now picture a time warp ... its' now you and me;
As we search for the people on our family tree.
We squint at the census and scroll down so slow;
As we search for that entry from long , long ago.
Could they only imagine on that long ago day;
That the entries they made would effect us this way?
If they knew, would they wonder at the yearning we feel;
And the searching that makes them so increasingly real.
We can hear if we listen the words they impart;
Through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart.

Author Unknown