AMBIDEXTROUS ME

 4500

I have been hard at it for thirty years. (Yeah, I have).

I think anyone who devotes thirty years to anything enjoys what he does, or he wouldn’t do it. Either that, or he must be a glutton for punishment, (or someone is holding him captive).

I confess. I love making a difference in lives. I have literally “sat with” multiplied thousands of people. (Odd, I suddenly realize I haven’t told you what I have been doing the past thirty years).

I am a marriage and family counselor.

But to digress a bit.

In my day and time, every elementary age child was taught to write in cursive. Of course, the children of the late 20^th and current 21^st centuries learn to write their names in cursive, but that’s the jest of it.

Beyond that, well there is no “beyond that,” they learn to write only their names in that archaic style of applying words to paper. Speaking of the new “beyond that,” they simply print what they wish to relay to an interested eye, or they sit down at a computer keyboard. (I wouldn’t want you to think I am incapable of having mastered that particular genre, as I learned to type in the Air Force, and can still knock out 80-100 words per minute).

Pt. 2

However, as you might imagine, I don’t bring my laptop computer into the counseling office with me. Honestly, I never have even thought about doing so ‘til just now. But somehow, I think sitting there talking with a client about their personal history and issues, and pecking out words on a computer wouldn’t mix that well, i.e. “Tell me about the day your Aunt Marilla died” (I look down. Peck, peck, peck). “Okay. How did you respond when your husband ran off with another woman?” (I look down again. Peck, peck, peck). Rather impersonal, I think.

But as I have implied, I take notes. Lots and lots of notes. During that first session in particular. And since I am a question asker, I am liable to get an answer for virtually every question. And since I ask 101 questions in that first session, and receive a minimum of 100 answers, I fill up lots of unlined paper with my almost indecipherable handwriting. (Sometimes indecipherable to even me).

I suppose it happened about a third of the way through my current tenure of three decades behind the counseling desk. (Well, honestly, I don’t sit at a desk. Just two chairs facing one another).

I began to think about giving my dominant writing hand a break. I would learn to use my non-dominant (left) hand. And thus, I began to practice writing with a hand with which I had only pulled a trigger in the past. (I can’t explain why, but I have always fired a rifle left-handed).

At any rate, the more I used my non-dominant hand, the better I became with it. However, the more I used my left hand, the poorer my right-handed brand of cursive became, until it was almost illegible.

I can’t account for it, but it was almost like I had rewired my brain. The hand that never had any particular acuity was suddenly the legible hand, and the hand with which I first learned to write was becoming increasingly unstable. Unless I bore down on the paper, my dominant hand shook, (and the resulting “hen scratches” were vivid proof of it).

Pt. 3

But even more “strange and wonderful,” the difference between my dominant and non-dominant brand of cursive was incredible. I was used to looking at my right-handed style of writing. I had been stuck with it for just short of half a century. It was to say the least pretty “plain Jane” in appearance. However, I didn’t recognize my left-handed brand of committing words to paper. It was almost feminine in appearance, and it reminded me somewhat of calligraphy. Granted, I have never been as fast with my left hand, but then I had never experienced any ineptness with my right hand, (as I did now).

Some of my clients have been confused as they have watched me put words to paper. As they have joined me on Day One, and before I did “the old switcheroo” in the middle of the session, he or she has quipped, “You don’t turn your hand inward like other left-handed writers.” To which, barely looking up, I have always responded, “That’s because I’m not left-handed.” Of course, that has always elicited a “hmmm” or “I see.” (When they really didn’t).

It was only after a few minutes, and I have moved the pen to my dominant hand that they have really “gotten it.” And at that point I would announce, “I taught myself to write with both hands.” (and) “It makes writing the answers to 101 questions a bit easier.”

I prefer my “fancy-dancy” style of cursive to that uninformed, archaic, grade school brand of writing. And though my wife thinks me a bit eccentric for having changed hands, she grudgingly admits the fancy-dancy cursive is so much easier to decipher.

 

But if the truth be told, I think my (relatively) new found ambidexterity makes the first counseling session a bit more interesting to counselor and client alike.

by William McDonald, PhD

21 STEPS

 4499

     The tread of the tomb guard is measured, steady, and the only sound on this night, as it reverberates off thousands of headstones. Day in, day out, rain, or shine, storm, or snow.

 

     Those 21 steps ever so closely examined by tourists; while their whispers are hushed, and reverent. And, the soldier treads out the same measured course, as darkness mercifully covers the sadness of this place, and only God lingers now.

 

     The Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

 

     I have stood there, and watched these blessed men and women, as they step off their paces; a sense of reverence, and pride about each of them. And I have heard them challenge the irreverent. For when a child carelessly steps across a certain invisible line, or when an adult speaks too loudly, the soldier barks out what has the essence of an order.

 

    “It is requested by the Army, and the United States of America that you maintain decorum in this sacred place!”

 

     Now, the soldier resumes his mournful, but respectful duty. 21 steps.

 

    The Old Guard never deserts his post, and he has walked that walk, without so much as a moment’s pause, for the past century.

 

     There is a phrase imprinted on that famous tomb to which he so faithfully attends .

 

     “Here lies an honored soldier. Known only to God.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

RUDY

 4498

     I wrote a previous devotion entitled Look for That One. I’m taken up with the themes of Dreams, and Discipleship. They just naturally go together like peaches and cream.

 

     No one I know better exemplifies the verse, “Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen,” (Hebrews 11:1, KJV), more than Rudy Ruettiger. You may have seen the depiction of his life in the movie, Rudy.

 

      Rudy was a working class young man with a generational predisposition to work in the steel mills; like his father before him. His family was Catholic, and they had a ardent devotion for the University of Notre Dame, and its wonderful football team. But, that’s as far as it went; looking on from afar, and “knowing your place.”

 

     Even for his average grades in high school, and “five foot nothing” frame, Rudy had a dream; a dream that would not be denied. In the movie we see the young man promising himself, and anyone else who’d listen, that he would not only be accepted into that university, but play footfall for them. Again, and again, he was laughed at, put down, and generally disbelieved.

 

     But, there’s always someone who seems to come along side, and stand with us in the shadows; (At least that’s been my experience). Pete was Rudy’s best friend, just another working class kind of guy; someone destined to work in the mills all his life. But, Pete was that sort of guy who stood with his “little buddy.” In the movie version of Rudy’s life, we see Pete giving him an old Notre Dame jacket. After Rudy dons the jacket, his friend says, “That jacket was made for you!” To which Rudy responds, “Pete, you’re the only one who ever believed in me.”

 

     Rudy surprises everyone, (except Pete of course). He enrolls in Holy Cross Junior College; just across the river from Notre Dame. The little man submits himself to an academic discipline that he’d never attempted. He exercises his body, and tempers his mind on a daily, and unceasing basis.

In the meantime, Rudy applies, again, and again to Notre Dame; only to again, and again be refused admission.

    However, those at the grand old school had no concept of Rudy’s determination. He must have used a ream of enrollment applications. But this time was different.

 

     Rudy sits there, just across the river from that great university. His hands tremble, as they have trembled several times before, and he unseals the envelope. Slowly, the camera turns from a weeping Rudy to the towering fortress called Notre Dame. He has finally been accepted!

 

     Now, that would have been enough for most of us, but Rudy was not most of us. His determination gains a hundred pounds that day! The little man that couldn’t…could!

 

    Time would fail me to properly tell the story, but now the second half of his vision kicks in. Rudy set his sights on an oblong ball, and a stadium “as big as all outdoors.” You would have had to have known Rudy. Nothing seemed to deter him. Oh sure, he’d managed to go to a prestigious school, and make passing grades, but “this little shrimp” of a boy had no possibility of playing on a football team that consisted of giants. However, if you thought this, you would be… wrong.

 

    Rudy tries out, and impresses the coaches with his stamina, “sheer intestines,” and the lack of any natural ability. The coaches quarrel among themselves. before giving Rudy an opportunity to join the practice team. At least, he will have a chance to “mix it up” with the best in college football. However, that still isn’t enough for little Rudy.

 

    Now I can’t tell you that he didn’t make a few enemies, or make the average players look mediocre. He did. Not for his ability, but for his gumption. For on the practice field, though not as often as he might hope, Rudy will manage to tackle a huge offensive linesman, or swift quarterback.

 

    Rudy longs for the opportunity to play in at least one season; if in only one game of that season. (At Notre Dame, a player isn’t listed as an official team member, unless they “dress out” for one game).

 

    It is Rudy’s senior year, and it doesn’t look like he’d have a chance to dress out. The previous coach promised him the opportunity, but he is gone now, and the years have drifted by. The last game of his senior year approaches.

    Suddenly, the biggest, and baddest of his team members find their hearts changed towards the young “whipper snapper,” who tries so hard, but who lacks so much. The roster for the final game is posted… and he isn’t on it. The players talk among themselves, and come up with a plan. One by one, beginning with the team captain, each player walks into the coach’s office, and lay their shirts on his desk.

 

      One by one their words echoed the last… “Coach, Rudy deserves my spot in this game. Let him dress out in my place.” The coach was almost moved to tears. Rudy dresses out!

 

      The game proceeds, and Rudy warms the bench. Notre Dame is leading Georgia Tech by over twenty points, and the coach seems content for his team to hold the ball during the last remaining seconds. However, “the Fighting Irish” have other ideas.

 

      The ball is thrown, and the ball is received, and the great old school have scored another touchdown. When it seems all hope is lost, suddenly “Rudy, Rudy, Rudy” resounds throughout the stadium. The little man will not be denied his small moment in history. The coach gives the nod, and Rudy runs out into the field of battle.

 

      The little fella with the magnificent heart runs two plays this day; the last two plays in the game. In the last play of his last game, he tackles the offensive receiver before the whistle finalizes the game forever. It was decades ago, but to this day Rudy is the last player ever carried off that famous field; on the shoulders of his team members.

 

      Dreams and Discipleship. Rudy had a Dream. He believed when almost no one else did. Rudy is remembered. His friend Pete has been forgotten. But, it was Pete who believed in him, when no one else did. Pete had been Rudy’s first, albeit momentary mentor. He believed in him for a little while, and that set the sails of his entire life.

 

      I love, and choose to emulate the qualities of both Rudy and Pete. Like Pete, I am raising up disciples; those who would submit themselves to discipline, and the encouragement that is mine to give. Like Rudy, I dream Dreams; some known to all, and some which remain unknown to any, except myself.

 

     Like Rudy, my life has been difficult, and things have been slow “coming to me.” But, I follow after, and press towards the mark. Like Pete, I, and many like me, remain unknown. However, that has to be alright, if we are to influence a few, and win some.

 

     Rudy and Pete have some extraordinary, and eternal lessons to teach us, if we will watch and listen.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

COME OUT OF THE BAG

 4497

    A reservist friend of mine served in the Regular Army during the Vietnam years. He was and is a wonderful man. He emulates his own motto in every respect; “Know your stuff, (well that’s not exactly the word he used).Take care of your people. Be a Man.”

 

    Staff Sergeant Clifford Morton served in a very singular and very gruesome position. He was assigned as an intake supervisor with the Army casualties team. Cliff performed the initial processing that ultimately, led to a military body being transferred back to the States.

 

     He routinely unzipped bag after bag, orange deodorant spray in one hand, and a club in the other hand.

 

     Oft times military casualties lay on the field of their labor for days at a time. “Vermin” would often hitch a ride in the body bags, having been scooped up with the unfortunate soldier, (thus the need for the club).

 

     Very little changed, as the months rolled by, and Sergeant Cliff became almost immune to the sights and smells of his gruesome profession. And so it was until that one particular day…

 

    The hardened soldier bent to unzip another bag, of the literally hundreds that covered the hanger floor. He noticed a slight movement, and steadied his club. Zip went the bag, and it was at that instant that something happened which had never occurred in all his months at the Army Mortuary Service.

 

    “Whew. It’s hot in here”! Well, Sergeant Morton almost “lost it.”

 

    “We have a live one. We have a live one!!!” he called out. From somewhere in the distance medics were summoned, and the “living corpse” was rushed to a nearby operating room.

 

     Well, my readers, that young soldier was spared, and lives today. Granted, he lost an arm, and a leg, but he will tell you how fortunate he is to be alive. A footnote to this story, that doesn’t particularly serve the moral, occurred several years later. Sergeant Morton was released from active duty, and began attending a local community college. It was the first day of the semester, and he reported to a particular classroom, and sat down.

 

     Cliff heard someone come in behind him, and turned to look. To his amazement he saw a very familiar man… a man with one arm and one leg. Somehow, he managed to wheel himself up to our hero, and the reunion was nothing short of Outstanding.

 

     I tell this true story often. It has had an impact on countless people over the years. Of course, it’s not enough to merely tell the story. The interpretation of the story is all that really matters here.

 

    Our poor “corpse” was shut off in that dark, airless bag. How long he lay there is still a mystery. Somehow this one pitiful soul existed in a coma-like state, devoid of human contact. But then, he found himself being resurrected, so much like Lazarus of old! Our hero might have said, (had he thought about it,) “Come out of the bag!”

 

     I deal with the dregs of humanity; those who suffer from alcohol and substance addictions, those who are figuratively closed up in a body bag, deprived of human affection, and comatose from the effects of virtual airlessness. “Come out of the bag!” You don’t belong there. There are those who will help you out! But you must comply. You must be willing. Only rottenness resides therein. It wasn’t made for you. Rise to newness of life!

 

     Jesus is bending over you. The great warrior King unzips your bag. His voice ripples with a thousand reverberations, deep and commanding, “Come out of that bag!!!”

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

BE STILL MY SOUL

1. Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
   Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
   Leave to thy God to order and provide;
   In every change, He faithful will remain.
   Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heav’nly Friend
   Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.
2. Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
   To guide the future, as He has the past.
   Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
   All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
   Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
   His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.
3. Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
   And all is darkened in the vale of tears,
   Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
   Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.
   Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay
   From His own fullness all He takes away.
4. Be still, my soul: the hour is hast’ning on
   When we shall be forever with the Lord.
   When disappointment, grief, and fear are gone,
   Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
   Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
   All safe and blessed we shall meet at last.
5. Be still, my soul: begin the song of praise
   On earth, believing, to Thy Lord on high;
   Acknowledge Him in all thy words and ways,
   So shall He view thee with a well-pleased eye.
   Be still, my soul: the Sun of life divine
   Through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine.

6. by Katharina A. von Schlegel

THE HAMMERS AND ANVILS OF MY LIFE

 4495

Pt. 1

In recent weeks, I have been handing out New Testaments to store clerks, bag boys, and others I meet along the highways and byways of life. (And, interestingly enough, given the 75 or 100 I have distributed thus far, every single one of the recipients have accepted these sacred volumes, and thanked me for them).

As I prepare to hand these volumes out, I always say something like,

"I have a little gift for you."

(or)

"Let me leave this little book with you."

My favorite little preface, however, is a bit more elaborate.

"Let me leave you a copy of a small volume my first grade teacher gave me... 70 years ago."

And, as you might imagine with this their eyes widen a bit.

Now, I pull the New Testament from my pocket, and lay it down; with the untitled back of the book "looking" at him or her; (in the unlikely possibility he or she might refuse it, if they see the title).

Pt. 2

Speaking of 70 years ago, and the decade which transpired thereafter, I have often reflected on my grade school, junior high, and high school teachers; (all of whom by now have, as far as I know, gone on to their reward).

Mrs. Sampson, my first and second grade teacher. (It was common in those days for the teacher to follow the class, to which he or she was assigned, for two years). I don't recall just how it came about, but she suggested that I perform the part of The Wizard; (the first two words in the four word title by which that famous book, play, and movie is known).

I will always remember having portrayed the fiery incarnation of the Wizard in which my cheeks were smeared with rouge. As I walked out onto the stage, the small incarnation of my current self was greeted with laughter. I will always recall my embarrassment, as I realized the audience found something humorous about my otherwise horrific manifestation of the little pretender.

And then, there was dear Mrs. Waters; (who I knew from church before I knew her in the classroom). And though I wasn't the best behaved of all her students, (I melted colorful crayons on the warm radiators which lined the walls, and dipped the pigtails of the girl in front of me into the inkwell on my desk), I seemed to be one of her favorites, nonetheless.

I will always remember Mr. Ball, or at least one experience which occurred in his sixth grade classroom. In January of '61, he pulled a little portable TV to the front center of the room, pulled the rabbit ears up a couple of notches, selected one of the three available channels, and turned a round knob, bottom front.

Our class was afforded the opportunity to view all two hours of the President John F. Kennedy inauguration. I will never forget his, "Ask not what your country can do for you...," (nor have I forgotten the preliminary poem, by Robert Frost). Our national Poet Laureate had written a poem he titled "Dedication" for this prestigious event. However, when the bright sunlight prevented the aging man from reading it, he quoted another poem which he'd relegated to memory, "The Gift Outright."

(Little could we have known at the time that our young president would be assassinated just short of three years later).

Pt. 3

Then, there was my 8th grade English teacher, Mrs. Belflower. She made her students aware that she was Runner Up Miss Georgia, 1949. (Interestingly enough, the majority of her students that year were born in 1949). But, in spite of the old fashioned signature clothing, shoes, and hairstyles of that period, having done the math her pupils correctly deducted Mrs. Mary Duncan Belflower was a comparatively young 34 years of age at the time. (She would be just short of the century mark were she still with us today).

I will always remember that poignant line from the Scottish prayer which she taught us.

"From ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties, and things that go bump in the night, good Lord deliver us!"

I will never forget a couple of lines she wrote in longhand on the back of one of my report cards.

"Royce has a significant amount of potential. If he invests the time and effort, he may find he likes English literature!"

(She must have been something of a minor prophet since in the last couple of decades, I have written several, (thus far yet), unpublished volumes).

And perhaps the most indelible memory of my entire 12 years in the public school system also included her; (though I only learned the details from my wife a few years ago).

For you see, just weeks after the Kennedy Assassination, an errant driver left the street in front of our school, and ran over eight or ten of our students. Several were seriously injured. One died. I would have been among them, but I managed to step aside; while also pulling a friend out of the path of the automobile.

And as I have inferred, in recent years my wife made me aware that she witnessed Mrs. Belflower running down the hallway towards the scene of the accident. 

And stopping next to her, she asked, 

"What happened? (and) "What did you see?" before disappearing out the hallway door.

Pt. 4

And finally, at least in terms of this story, there was the elderly, unmarried matron named Margaret Clark. By the time I arrived at Summerlin Institute in the mid-60's, she had been teaching in the county schools for a quarter of a century. 

She was a choral teacher par excellence. 

Miss Clark's choral classes consistently earned all Superior ratings at state contests. The highlight of the school year was her students' performances of Handel's "Messiah" during the Christmas season at the local Baptist church. Sadly, our beloved teacher developed cancer, and passed away during my senior year of high school; having been replaced by a much younger version of herself.

Post-script

I would not, could not be, who I am today without their presence in my life. 

How inestimably blessed I have been to have been shaped by these all too impactful, but all too human hammers and anvils.

As I find myself nearing the end of a third of a century of purposely, and desperately following their lead, and run with the proverbial baton which they have passed off to me, may those who I leave behind do the same.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

 

FOLLOW ME

 4494

Pt. 1

The year was 1968 and I was a new Christian; having accepted the Lord Jesus Christ as my Savior the previous year, (and the summer after my high school graduation). Not one to waste a great deal of time, I had enrolled at a nearby Bible college; (which in the intervening decades metamorphosed into a Christian liberal arts university in which I was subsequently privileged to teach).

As the student body sat in chapel one morning, whomever happened to be charge of the service stepped forward and instructed the sound person to play a pre-recorded song. Suddenly, the strains of an unfamiliar hymn filled the auditorium, and a baritone voice began to sing the most poignant words,

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care

The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,

I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me

And then these words He spoke so tenderly…”

There was just something so compelling about the words of the old song; which went beyond the rhyme, content and meter. The expressiveness and experiential tenor of the words lent such an eloquence to the theme which he attempted to express to his audience.

It seems to me the student body sat spellbound, as the three verses to the hymn played themselves out. As I reflect on it now, an almost ‘holy hush’ permeated the building that morning.

As the closing notes of our unseen guest and accompanying piano echoed across the chapel, and silence permeated the room, our college president walked to the podium, and provided the students a bit of information to which they had not been privy, ‘til now.

“The voice you just heard was owned by a missionary named J.W. Tucker. He is no longer with us, but died at the hands of Simba rebels in Africa just four years ago.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather. There was just something so personally poignant having just been exposed to the song, and having just connected with the man who sang it; and to be informed that he had lain down his life for the Gospel of the Lord whom he had so dearly loved.

Almost half a century has come and gone since that day, and I have often reflected on the words of that old hymn by Ira Stanphill, and its relevance to every Christian who ever lived and moved and breathed upon this planet. And over the course of the past few decades I have often sung it as a solo, and never fail to relate the story behind my personal association with it.

William McDonald, PhD

Pt. 2

A HERO OF THE FAITH
Originally Posted on March 11, 2014

It was November, 1964. J.W. and Angeline Tucker had returned to Paulis, Belgian Congo for their fifth term as Assemblies of God missionaries. Not long after their arrival, Simba rebels overran the area, slaughtering hundreds of people.

J. W., along with about sixty other Europeans and Americans, was taken hostage to the Catholic mission in Paulis (later named Isiro). (Angeline and the three children were rescued by Belgian paratroopers and flown to safety). While being held at the mission, J. W. and several others, with hands tied behind their backs, were mercilessly beaten to death. Their bodies were loaded on a truck and taken about forty miles to the Bomokande River. There they were fed to the hungry crocodiles. Truly a Prince and a great missionary had perished, and it all seemed such a waste. But there is more to the story.

For many years J. W. had tried, with little success, to reach the Mangbeto tribe with the gospel. But the tribal king refused to allow him to preach to the people, saying, “We have our own gods.”

During the Simba rebel uprising, fighting spilled into Mangbeto territory. In desperation, the king requested help from the central government in Kinshasa. The government responded by sending them a man of powerful influence from the Isiro area. They called him “the Brigadier.” Just two months before J. W. was killed he won this man to the Lord.

When the Brigadier arrived in Mangbeto country he quickly realized they were pagans. So he determined to win them to the Lord. Being a new Christian, he shared the gospel with them as best he could, but with very little success. Being somewhat discouraged, he began to pray, and the Lord gave him an idea. So he sent word to the king to bring his tribal elders and meet with him.

When the tribal delegation arrived, the Brigadier said, “From time immemorial you have had a saying: ‘If the blood of any man flows in our river, the Bomokande River, we must listen to his message.’ A man’s blood has flowed in your river. He tried to give you a message about his God Who sent His Son to die for your sins, so that all who believe on Him will have eternal life. And I am bringing his message to you. This man’s blood has flowed in your river, so you must hear his message.” As the Brigadier spoke, the Spirit of the Lord began to move in their hearts, and many received the Savior that day.

Today there are thousands of Christians in the Mangbeto tribe, and between forty and fifty Assemblies of God churches. How true the saying: “The blood of the martyrs is the seed of the church.”

My wife and I stood on the bridge over the Bomokande River, only a few feet from where the rebels threw Brother Tucker’s body. We were both gripped by a great sense of awe as we stood on that sacred ground. Our hearts were challenged by the memory of a great, but humble, man of God who believed that being in God’s will is more precious than life itself. And though dead, his message is still bearing fruit.

Harold Walls

(Manna for the Journey Devotions)

Pt. 3                       

                                             FOLLOW ME

                                                                               Ira Stanphill

“I traveled down a lonely road and no one seemed to care,
The burden on my weary back had bowed me to despair,
I oft complained to Jesus how folks were treating me,”
And then I heard Him say so tenderly,

"My feet were also weary upon the Calv'ry road,
The cross became so heavy I fell beneath the load,
Be faithful weary pilgrim, the morning I can see,
Just lift your cross and follow close to me."

"I work so hard for Jesus" I often boast and say,
"I've sacrificed a lot of things to walk the narrow way,
I gave up fame and fortune; I'm worth a lot to thee,"
And then I heard Him gently say to me,

"I left the throne of glory and counted it but loss,
My hands were nailed in anger upon a cruel cross,
But now we'll make the journey with your hand safe in mine,
So lift your cross and follow close to me."

“Oh Jesus if I die upon a foreign field someday
'Twould be no more than love demands, no less could I repay,”

"No greater love hath mortal man than for a friend to die,"
These are the words he gently spoke to me,

"If just a cup of water I place within your hand
Then just a cup of water is all that I demand,"
“But if by death to living they can thy glory see,
I'll take my cross and follow close to thee.”