A Foolish Prayer

 by Marjorie C. Lundstrom

I built a wall around my heart
of laughing, sparkling ice;

To hid the loneliness within,

The pain and sacrifice.

I filled my life with other things

To rise above the throng.

I dared not dream this happiness

that's known as Love's Sweet Song.

But when, by change we met again, -

The wall came tumbling down

From my confused and frightened heart.

It wept but made no sound.

My mind is strong on everything

Until the heart gives way;

But then all reasoning is gone, -

I can but hope and pray;

That God will tell me what to do

To ease the lonely ache,

That fills my every daytime hour

And keeps my nights awake.

To dream of her is well I know

The pastime of a fool.

Her heart is hard and cynical, 

And selfish, cold and cruel.

The only thing is just to pray, 

Our paths may never meet;

That I'll not hear her name again

Or meet her on the street.

But when I look at God to pray, 

The clear blue of the skies, -

Makes false my words.  My truant heart

Remembers her dear eyes.

Star of Bethlehem

Written by Marjorie C. Lundstrom, 1965

 Oh Holy Star of Bethlehem,
    Shine forth with Love today;
Illuminate the hearts of men
    And drive the dark away.

The dark and hidden hates and fears,

    That lurk within the mind;

The malice and the jealousies,

    Which only God can find.

The dark and hardened hearts that stand,

    Like obelisks of ice;

Who scoff at God and Christ and prayer,    

    And care not what the price.

Oh Holy Star, that showed the way

    To Wiseman long ago;

Reach deep into the skeptic's heart,

    And set They flame aglow.

To darkness crowding busy lives,

    Who cannot find the time,

To give some thought to God each day,

    Or hear the church bells chime.

The blackened shroud that wraps the world,

    In wars and death and grief;

In prejudice and violence,

    Beyond humane belief.

The many, thinking just of Self,

    Who take and never give;

 Who won't let Christ come into their hearts,

    To teach them how to live,

The pious ones, who think they have,

    A sacramental life;

Who gossip evil words and thoughts,

    and cause much grief and strife.

While Science sends its finest men,

    Through space, to touch the stars;

The hatred bred in other hearts,

    Writes History's blackest scars.

Oh God, help them to find Thy way:

    The light of faith in Good,

The wish to make their task in life,

    A world of brotherhood.

So many starts that light the skies

    And make the Heavens bright;

May not exist, as of Today,

    But still we see their light,

Everyone should ask himself:

    "When Life is gone for me,

Will thoughts and words and deeds of mine,

    Shine on, for all to see?"

Oh Holy Star of Bethlehem, 

    Guide all the wandering feet;

That they may find the Christ again

    And make their lives complete.

Hands

written by Marjorie C. Lundstrom, 1966

Our hands are instruments of thought, 
    of each creative art:
The sculptor shapes his secret dream,

    From deep within his heart.

The hands that pen the words with ease

    And makes them live and breathe:

Oh may the messages come clear,

    With God to govern these.

The artist, with his brush in hand,

    His canvas cold and bare:

Can bring to life a garden scene,

    With colors everywhere.

The music that the hands can make

    On wood and ivory keys, --

The rolling swell of thunder, 

    Or the song of buzzing bees.

God bless these hands, and help them bring

    More joy to everyone:

And may this joy surround the earth,

    The stars, the moon, the sun.

Our hands are revelations that

    Can speak without control;

Spontaneous emotions,

    Erupting from the soul.

Some hands will soothe the fevered brow

    And rub away the ache;

And some will lift another's load,

    For loving kindness' sake.

Sometime they shake with nervousness,

    With palms all wet with fear;

Although the face is quite composed, 

    The hands are still sincere.

The angry clench of many fists,

    A waving toward the sky;

Displaying hate and violence

    Without quite knowing why.

These hands are weapons of the sick,

    In mind and heart  and soul.

Oh God, forgive, and give them peace,

    They help, and self-control.

There's a quiet, gentle beauty

    In the folded hands' repose;

That emanates serenity,

    At the workday's close.

The gnarled, weary, work-worn hands,

    Long intimate with toil;

They sow and reap our fruits and grains

    And cultivate our soil. 

God bless these hands that work so hard

    To make things live and grow;

And help all men to understand, --

    we reap from what we sow.

The kindness that we give away,

    By words or deeds or smiles,

Or just a friendly, waving hand;

    May travel on for miles.

The little children's' praying hands,

    Before they go to sleep,

Are symbols of the purest faith,

    Which men so seldom keep.

If man could lift his heart to God,

    With child-like, boundless trust;

Completely free of fear and doubt,

    Of malice, greed, and lust;

No hidden thoughts of prejudice,

    No hate, no scheming aims,

No secret wish for rich rewards,

    Or superfluous acclaims.

If man would grasp his greatest gift, --

    The guidance of God's Hand;

Our earth could live in harmony, 

    with joy in every land.

The Praying hands of all the world.

    Must ask for hate to cease,

Let every beating heart proclaim:

    "Oh God, give us Thy Peace."