The boy snuck a look around the room.  No one was watching except his buddy, so he  surreptitiously slid one of the items into his pocket.  Believing that his action had gone undetected, he then reached back into the container and openly picked up another…lollipop?  The DumDum suckers an the front counter are free!  You don’t have to steal them!  Well yes…there is a one per customer limit, but…he’s going to steal a second free sucker?  Having seen the boy’s actions, I suggested that he put back one of suckers and, as I steeled myself to lecture him, was stopped by an image of another young boy many years ago.

Was there ever anything as laughable as the “honor system”?  You remember?  You would be struggling with a civics test and the teacher would step out into the hall.  “I’ll be right back, but until then, you’re all on the honor system.”  The latch hadn’t snapped on the door before the whispering began.  “What did you put down for number 16?”  “Wow, that’s not anything close to what I wrote!”  Erasers were plied and notes passed, as the honor system was relegated to the big round trash can beside the door the teacher had just exited.  I was never one of the whisperers, since I was confident that if I were part of it, the transgressions would surely come to light and I would be served up as quickly as anyone else.  I knew, contrary to the old saw, that there really was no honor among thieves, so the best defense was to keep my distance.  In fairness, I have to say that my observation is that the honor system actually works with the honest.  It’s the dishonest with whom the optimistic fallacy breaks down.  Confronted with the chance to steal and cheat, thieves and cheaters will nearly always opt to stay in character. 

What’s that?  Oh yes!  Another rabbit trail and no mention whatsoever of the other young boy.  I saw the other boy in my memory as I thought about the stolen sucker today.  It was 1964 and the young mother was tending all five children by herself as the little family trooped into the Kress department store.  One daughter and four sons, ranging in age from seven to twelve, were more than a handful for her.  Sure enough, while she wasn’t watching, the youngest made his way to the toy department, sighting the water guns he had been coveting for many trips prior to that day.  With no one watching, one of the little plastic pistols made its way up the sleeve of the young man’s jacket, to stay there through the rest of the visit to that store and all the way home.  The next day, water flew as the stolen weapon was used on the older brothers.  As time passed, the guilt and worry about detection increased in the young man’s mind, so the toy was disposed of secretly.  Forty-seven years later, I still remember the shame of being a thief and a liar.

I said earlier that the honor system works with honest people. But, that would mean…it doesn’t really work.  At least, not if what we expect from it is for those within the system to do right.  I have come to the conclusion that we are living under our Maker’s “honor system”, not because we can live up to its expectations, but because we can’t and it reminds us of what we are  I’m confident that all of us have multiple examples of when we have had no honor.  We are left free all of our lives to make choices and if you’re like me, the dishonest ones loom very large indeed.  Many of you are not so stubborn and slow to learn as I, and therefore have fewer shameful memories to live with.   Regardless, we all have sins to repent of, so the system has done its work.  Now Grace can do its work.

I am going to continue to employ the honor system in the store with the kids.  I’ll not hand the candy to the youngsters one at a time.  The little metal bucket will stay at the end of the counter, waiting for them to come each afternoon and take just one.  I want them to be able to learn the benefit of passing the test; the good feeling that honesty brings, and once in awhile, one of them will know the sinking feeling inside that dishonesty drags along with itself.

The opportunities to be ministers of God’s grace to others are not to be scorned.

“All the thieves will come confess,
And know that You are holy.
Will know that You are holy.”
(All The Poor And Powerless~Leslie Jordan & David Leonard)

“Honesty is praised, and starved.”
(Juvenal~Ancient Roman poet)

What is it about musicians that makes them so stubborn?  Oh, I’m sorry!  I meant to say unique.  Unique.  I have spent a lifetime, both as a child and as an adult with musicians and while they don’t surprise me much anymore, they certainly do frustrate me.  Wait!  I meant to say annoy.  No, no; bewilder…that’s it.  They bewilder me.  Okay, I’ll admit it.  I don’t know what to think about musicians.  They’re a frustrating, annoying, bewildering bunch of people who can’t be pigeon-holed.  And, I love being part of their world.  Most of the time.

That said, I have been angry with some of them.  I told you a few months ago about the man who cut up his vintage Gibson electric guitar while inebriated.  I even shared about the fellow who just wasn’t happy with his brand new acoustic guitar until I drilled holes in it to install a pickup system.  I’ve seen a five thousand dollar instrument which was ruined in a second because someone leaned it against a chair instead of putting it on the stand a couple of feet away.  After it fell, repairs were made, but the value was decimated, and the owner could never be satisfied with the way the guitar played again.  Over and over again, I’ve insisted to owners of classical guitars that they take the metal strings off and change them back to the original style nylon strings, only to have them look at me with a blank stare.  Only after a lengthy explanation of the structure of their delicate instruments does the light come on and a sheepish look appear on their faces, along with assent to make things right with their guitars.

What is the idiot jabbering about?  A guitar is a guitar right?  Who cares if you have nylon strings (which are quite obviously only for children’s instruments) or big boy metal strings on a guitar?  I’ve heard the arguments over and over in the thirty years I have been an evangelist for the humane treatment of the abused and exploited classical guitar.  Many times, the tirade has come too late, only in time to relegate the instrument to “wall-hanger” status; no longer of any use to any guitarist, simply a decorator piece.  The classical guitar, easily identified by its extremely wide, flat neck, the fingerboard devoid of any radius whatsoever, and the slotted headstock with its oversize plastic capstans, around which the strings are wound, was never made to withstand the pressures of the steel strings with which it is unforgivably tortured again and again.  The delicate structure is specifically designed to facilitate a tone quality which is unmatched in the acoustic guitar family.  As the mellow-voiced clear-nylon treble strings and silver-wrapped stranded-nylon bass strings are plucked by the bare fingers or tips of the fingernails (never with a pick!), the thin, lightly braced top responds with a flurry of vibration, resulting in the amazing sound that only this fine instrument can deliver.  The lighter structure continues throughout the instrument, with many of the excellent vintage classical guitars showing no sign of the adjustable truss rod in the neck which is commonplace on the steel string acoustic.  This truss rod does allow for adjustments to be made when the tension has overcome the natural strength of the wood and caused too much bowing, but its addition on the classical takes away from the tone quality by inhibiting the transfer of sound throughout the instrument from top to bottom.  Even the bridge maximizes the sound, utilizing a tie-on design, essentially making the strings an integral part of the whole instrument, instead of just an add-on to the already tank-like structure of a guitar designed to hold the tension of steel strings.

Knowing that the average bystander has no interest in the structure and purpose of different types of guitars, I will move on quickly.  I am, however continually frustrated by unthinking guitarists who can’t seem to fathom that a guitar-shaped instrument which has six strings could require anything different than the common, silvered steel and steel wound wires.  Again and again, I hear them exclaim, “But it sounds amazing with steel strings on it!”  My reply is simply to show them the gaping joints at the neck heel and the separation under the bridge, as well as the extreme “belly” the instrument has developed because of their abuse; all to achieve more volume and tone while they flail away with their picks.  What they don’t seem to realize is that there is a purpose for each instrument, a reason behind the design and structure.  I will grudgingly admit that the steel string acoustic is in no way inferior to the classical guitar – it’s just made for a different purpose.  The same is true of the electric guitar, or the bass guitar.  All of these instruments seem to have the same design and to the untrained eye, they are the same.  But under the surface, the distinctions are legion; the intent of the designer, very different.  Each has its purpose; accomplished in a similar way, but to ignore their diversity is to invite disaster.

I’ve made the point before, but the disparate objectives which our Designer intends for us to fulfill are much like those of the guitar family.  As much as we don’t want to believe it, there is no “one size fits all” for life.  When the Master Musician runs His hand across the strings, the result is amazingly different for me than for you.  I may actually be a ukulele going “chink-chinka-chinka-chink” as the chords are formed, but if that’s the design for my life, its every bit as excellent a result as if I were the most beautiful rosewood and ebony classical guitar playing running arpeggios and melodies.  Don’t try to be what you are not and certainly, don’t try to force someone else into a form in which they were never intended to fit.

Way back when, a musician named Steven Taylor recorded a song entitled “I Want To Be A Clone”, which made the point well.  When all the dust has cleared, it turns out that we’re not clones; we are individuals, each with a part to play and a place to fill.  It would be a cataclysm for us to try to be someone besides who we really are.

Don’t let anybody put the wrong strings on you!  Make the music for which the Designer built you!  Just one thing though…If you’re an electric guitar, could you turn down the volume a little?  Or, maybe play in the next room?

I’ve learned enough to stay afloat;
But not so much I rock the boat.
I’m glad they shoved it down my throat.
I want to be a clone.
Everybody must get cloned.
(Steven Taylor~”I Want To Be A Clone”~1983)

“Develop your eccentricities while you are young.  That way, when you get old, people won’t think you’re going gaga.”
(David Ogilvie~Scottish advertising executive~1911-1999)

“Hey man!  Do you have any more suckers?”  I had noticed the two boys who wandered across the parking lot, clearly happy that school was out for the day, but also with a goal in mind.  One of them swung a stick he had picked up somewhere along the street.  I’m guessing that he was imagining it as a weapon; a logical guess considering the games most of the kids spend their spare time at nowadays.  Every game that holds the attention of a rambunctious, slightly rebellious 10 year old seems to involve some sort of primitive/futuristic weapon that rests on the shoulder of their character as he/she/it wanders through the milieu of war and aggression depicted on the electronic screen that holds them entranced.  No wonder they walk through my door with a swagger of arrogance, as the mere mortal of a shopkeeper pays tribute to the accomplished warlord with a gift of sweets.

Oh, once again I’ve swerved wide of the path I started down.  Anyway, the young man was careful to leave his weapon lying on the sidewalk outside the door and came in to take advantage of the free candy available (Only one please!  And, use the trash can for your wrapper!) at the counter where I stood helping a customer.  I heard his question as I spoke to the man I was helping and glanced over at the bucket where the suckers reside.  “Are they gone?”  I could plainly see that they weren’t, but wondered what the problem was.  “No, there are quite a few here.  I just don’t like any of the flavors, ” came the reply.  I could barely contain my response.  What I wanted to do was to remind him that the candy was free and he would take what he was given, or he could stop coming in.  What I said was, “No.  I’m busy and can’t take time to get any more right now.  You’ll need to choose from what’s there.”  I turned my attention back to my customer as the young warrior muttered something under his breath and walked out without taking anything.   The customer and his family chuckled with me and then nodded their heads in agreement as I remarked (a la Forrest Gump), “My Mama always told me, ‘Beggars can’t be choosers.'”

I remember an episode my Dad related to me that happened years ago at the church in which I grew up.  After I left home and met the Lovely Lady, Dad had become the pastor of the little church.  Late one morning, he was sitting in the office working on his sermon for the next week, when a man came in the door.  Judging by his ragged clothes and unkempt hair and beard, he was pretty obviously what we would describe as a street person.  After a few moments of small talk with Dad, he got right to the point.  “I need money for food.”  Well Dad, having been around this particular block a time or two, understood that this was usually code for, “I need money for cigarettes and booze.”  Not wanting to show any disrespect for the poor fellow, he told him, “I’m just getting ready to eat my lunch.  Would you like to eat with me?”  Well, this wasn’t what the gentleman had hoped for, but he would be happy to go eat with my father.  “Where are we going?” he asked.  “Oh, I don’t go anywhere to eat.  I make my lunch right here at my desk.  I’ll share,” replied Dad.  With that, he reached in his desk drawer and pulled out a can of Spam and a loaf of bread, from which he began to make sandwiches.  The fellow took one look at what was on the menu and exclaimed, “I’m not eating that!”  My dad patiently explained, “This is what I eat when I’m working here.  If you’re hungry, it will be filling.”   The man stormed out the door, never to beg at that church again while Dad pastored there.

I know that somewhere out there in the wide world, there are people who are happy to get the gifts that are given to them.  People who are genuinely in need are grateful for the largesse shown by their benefactors.  But, over and over, I have seen examples of ungrateful “moochers”; folks who aren’t really needy, but are just willing to take from others when it suits their purposes.  Wait!  That describes me!  I’m offered a successful business at which to labor and I complain that what I really wanted was just a little leisure time with pay.  I have a color television set which is quite large enough to see comfortably (and it has electricity to power it 24 hours in the day), but what I really want is a 3D HDTV, flat screen please, and much larger.  You know, picture in picture, detail of all the plays in the game, etc.  The list goes on and on.  Life itself is a gift, but I want more!

Once a year, we stop to be grateful officially.  I’m thinking that’s not enough.  Instead of striving every day to get more and more, how about if we stop and give thanks for what we have every day?  Maybe if our children saw us sharing our blessings with those around us who are less well-off, they wouldn’t be quite so demanding themselves.  We might even hear the words, “Thank you” without having to prompt them every time. 

Life is not about entitlements.  It’s not about “I got mine; now you get yours.”  It’s about loving others as much as we love ourselves, about considering their needs first.  Selfishness breeds discontent, which produces greed.  It’s time to break the cycle and create a new one.  Love breeds contentment, which results in generosity.  

And, just a little tip…If you got a horse as a gift, don’t be looking at the teeth.  It could come back to bite you!

“Godliness with contentment is great gain”
(I Timothy 6:6″

“God’s gifts put man’s best dreams to shame.”
(Elizabeth Barrett Browning~English poet~1806-1861)

I planted some dandelions today.  Oh, c’mon admit it.  You’ve done it too.  Who can resist the tantalizing wispy white seed head of a dandelion plant in springtime?  You hold the beautiful stem in your hand, gazing directly at the horde of delicate seeds gathered in a circle around the ovule at the top of the stem.  Their tenuous grip on their life source indicates their readiness to make the trip for which they were designed.  If you examine them closely, you’ll notice that each seed has a tiny, slender stem, the bottom of which is attached to the main plant.  At the top of that tiny stem is an umbrella, a parachute of sorts, specifically designed to carry the seed far enough away from its sire to spread the species.

Careful not to inhale too close to the seed head, you take a deep breath and push it back out again, directing the stream of air right at the puffball.  The resulting explosion of little flying whirligigs is spectacular!  And, if you weren’t watching so carefully out of the corner of your eye to see if the neighbors were peering angrily from behind their curtains, you would laugh for joy to see God’s creation at work.  A common weed, we call it.  Ha!  More like a miracle in action, putting to shame all the complicated machines that our feeble minds can contrive to complete the tasks we deem important.  The simplicity, along with the amazing resilience, is so far beyond our imaginations that we can only marvel.  The process needs us not at all, as is evidenced by all the empty stems I see as I view the yard.  The strong April winds have already spread the plant’s progeny to the four corners of my property (and maybe just a little beyond, truth be told).  The gentle rain that fell last night has already helped to press them into the soil, and even tonight, I imagine they are starting to germinate, putting down their stubborn tendrils into the damp earth, preparing for another bumper crop in a few weeks.

I hear the naysayers in my ear as I write this.  “Why would you allow this vicious weed to thrive in your yard?  Don’t you know it’s aggressive and ugly?  Aren’t you aware that it spreads to my perfect lawn?”  Of course I know that after I mow the lawn, they pop up and make it look as if I haven’t mowed at all.  I know that millions of dollars annually are spent trying to eradicate this “blight on the landscape”, but all in vain.  Ugly or not, I’m doing my part to protect the species, although they have no need of my protection.  I must admit, I have never dug a dandelion plant from my yard, never sprayed a drop of pesticide to control them.  They are, to me at least, one of Spring’s best gifts to the awakening world, with the wonderful maple helicopters running a close second.

The fantastic design of the maple seedpod is another source of amazement for me.  This spring, the red maple in my backyard is covered with them.  Their proper name is a “samara”, but I much prefer the descriptive name “helicoptor”.  Of course, the English have a fine name for it also; calling it a “spinning jenny”.  Every two years or so, the branches almost sag beneath the weight of the seeds (as with this year), until the spring winds call to them, coaxing them off, first just a few at a time.  I think the first ones are the adventurous type, not needing the company of the rest to know that this is what they were made for, but before you know it, the slightest breeze fills the air with the spinning, gyrating seeds, headed by the hundreds of thousands to a resting place in the surrounding yards and ditches, awaiting their time to be pressed down into the soil and be watered; ready to spring up into saplings.  If we humans weren’t so intent on open spaces in which to do nothing, the hills would be covered with the beautiful trees.  Oh, I know…not all of the seeds would produce trees.  If they did, the forest would be so dense nothing could live.  But, I am particularly fond of the maple trees, with their large shade-providing leaves,  shaking and quivering in the storms, turning brilliant oranges and yellows before loosing their grip on the branches in the fall; only to be the earliest to burst forth again as the warm air triggers the cycle once more in the springtime.

I will grudgingly admit to the beauty of the autumn, the excitement of a beautiful snowfall in the dead of the winter, but spring is the season I love best.  I think it’s because my mind cannot fully contain the wonder of creation; cannot take in the fantastic design of the wonderful and diverse organisms surrounding us, from the flowering trees and bushes, to the pollinating hedges (covered with bees and flies to carry the pollen far away), to the amazing methods of regeneration afforded to all of the growing, thriving flora and fauna around us.

It also might have something to do with the simple pleasures that spring affords.  And, it doesn’t hurt that I love it when the children in my life are overjoyed as they plant dandelions along with me.  What a profitable way to spend a cool springtime evening!

“If dandelions were hard to grow, they would be most welcome on any lawn.”
(Andrew V Mason M.D.~American doctor and author) 

“Weeds are flowers too, once you get to know them.”
(A.A. Milne~English author)

“I don’t think we can make people think it’s a wildflower refuge any longer, Honey”, gently prompted the Lovely Lady.  She was, of course, referring to the front yard; and she was, of course, correct (as she often is).  I have once again procrastinated in grooming the grass and am contemplating a forest of weeds and vine-like growths to contend with as a consequence. “I’ll take care of it on Saturday afternoon,” is my standard reply, being careful not to add a modifier to that sentence, like “this Saturday…” or “Saturday the 9th.”  It works for a week or two, but this past weekend, it appeared that doomsday had arrived.  No rainclouds showed up to grant a stay of execution, no out-of-town guests who had to be entertained, not even any emergency repairs to musical instruments which could postpone the inevitable.  This was the day.

I’ve told you about the bushes near the chain-link fence we had to remove because of their recent demise.  What I didn’t realize (or conveniently forgot) was that the space between them and the fence was piled high with dead leaves.  Before I mowed, it would be necessary to rake the leaves away from the fence and mulch them.  After 2 delays…Hey, a guy has to eat lunch, right?  I suggested a walk to the popular burger joint down the road, being sure to emphasize the walk to and from as healthy activity.  And, after that, a short nap was required – I think you have to wait thirty minutes after eating to start strenuous activity (or is that swimming?).  Awaking from my nap, I opened one eye and looked out the window, hoping against hope that rainclouds had developed to prevent me from starting the job.  One can’t have a half-mowed yard, don’t you see?  If there’s a chance it will rain before the job is done, it’s obviously better not to start.  No such luck, so with all possible delays eliminated, the job was begun.

The leaves pulled away from the fence, I was startled to see a two-foot long garter snake staring at me.  He seemed confused.  After all, that stack of leaves hadn’t been disturbed for at least six years.  What happened to his house?  I called the Lovely Lady to take a look; more to hear her say, “Ewwwww,” than to serve a constructive purpose, and then tried to herd the cute little fellow away from the fenced in yard.  I had a two-fold reason for moving him…First, because the dog inside the fence is a notorious critter-killer; nabbing anything from squirrels to moles to robins and even once, a cat (but we’re not discussing that episode).   Secondly, I’m getting ready to mow.  I really don’t want to look down and see half a snake under my feet as I pass.

Just a word to the wise:  Snakes don’t herd easily.  I attempted to shoo him with gentle motions of the rake, prompting him to stop, coil up a bit and raise his head, as if to strike at me.  Confident, that he wasn’t really going to come after me, I persisted, at which time he broke and ran…straight for the fence with the fierce canine hunter waiting.  I picked him up with the rake and he slithered off, so I tried a modified picking up/tossing method of transportation, with mediocre success.  As I approached the fence which bordered my yard and the neighbor’s, he slipped away from me and through the fence.  I would have been content to let him be, but he then came back to the leaves next to the fence, weaving his way under them.  As I listened to the rustling, he quite obviously moved right back inside the fenced-in back yard, where I had yet to mow and the dog would be free to pursue him.   Moving inside the yard, disgustedly, I again moved the leaves away from the fence and, sure enough, soon had the little fellow uncovered.  This time, he had had enough; slithering away quickly into the relative safety of the neighbor’s yard, where he remains, to the best of my knowledge.

As I continued to work in the yard, mulching and mowing and trimming, I considered the snake and his reaction to me.  I only wanted to help him.  I intended him no harm; quite the reverse – I intended to protect him.  However, I’m pretty sure that any memory he may have of the encounter will tell him otherwise.  He almost certainly will regard a man with a rake as an enemy, ready to threaten and pick up into the air and toss him about.  I’m pretty sure that years of counseling by the snake psychiatrist couldn’t convince him otherwise.

I’m also remembering a time, many years ago, when a pastor in a church I attended had a similar problem.  The young pastor had taken a wrong turn or two in dealing with the church and as those events came to light, many of the folks shrank back, not wanting to be involved.  One man in the church, however, was determined to help the pastor through the minefield and spent hours talking, counseling, and trying to guide him.  The young man didn’t want his help; didn’t believe that he needed the help; and was convinced that his benefactor was in fact, an enemy.  After a messy end to the pastor’s ministry there, I heard one man say, “The pastor may not ever recognize it, but that man was the best friend he’s ever had.”  I’m sure, to this day, the pastor would beg to differ.

Why don’t we recognize who our true friends are?  We surround ourselves with people who agree with us, and coddle us, and allow us to go straight to disaster.  Worse, we are, many times, the friends who facilitate and encourage others to a bitter end.  We avoid conflict at any cost, choosing a false peace in order to not rock the boat.  I think it’s time we comprehend that true friends tell us that we’re too fat for those pants, that we need to practice a little more before we attempt that horn solo the next time, and that we’re making foolish decisions in our life.  We need to say this with love and in the spirit of building up, not tearing down, but it must be done.  Real friends put themselves on the line for their friends, even if it could result in misunderstanding.  Our friends are worth far more than “peace at any cost.”

It turns out that herding humans is far more difficult than herding snakes.  And I’m not positive, but it just may be possible that the snake learns his lesson faster, too…

“Better are the wounds of a friend, than the deceitful kisses of an enemy.”
(Proverbs 27:6)

“He only profits from praise who values criticism.”
(Heinrich Heine~German poet~1797-1856)

She showed me a picture on the front page of the brochure, asking what I saw.  The folks who sent the fund-raising pamphlet wanted me to see the child in need of a place in this world.  I saw the cat the child was clutching in his (or her) arms.  My apologies for seeming uncaring about the child, but my mind was taken away, without my permission, to the day, nearly twenty years ago when we came home from work to find her lying nervously in our yard.  I’m referring, of course to the cat, the doppelganger of the prop in the photo the Lovely Lady had pushed in front of me.  We didn’t know where she came from, but since she wasn’t inclined to move from her spot under the elm tree, we put some water in front of her and found her a little food.  She stayed.

The cat didn’t do anything to earn her keep (a trait she shared with most other cats), so we dubbed her “Useless”.  She lived up to the title.  I really don’t understand why we get attached to critters who serve no function, but we grew to love her.  Late at night, with the house quiet and everyone else asleep, I would make my way outside, onto the wrap-around front porch of our old Victorian home, with a cup of coffee in hand; to sit and contemplate the day’s events and prepare for the new day to come.  I like to think this was the favorite time of day for Useless.  She would jump up on my lap, purring and flexing her paws against my legs as she perched there contentedly.  I would stroke her head and under her chin, enduring the sharp claws as long as I could before lifting the paws away from the leg they were piercing.  She put up with us for eight or nine years, barely surviving a dog attack during her last year with us.  The vet sewed her up and she healed enough to move around, but she was never the same; terrified of any dog that passed, trembling at the slightest bark she heard.  A year later she succumbed to a mystery infection and we cried.

There has been a seemingly endless parade of pets, each of them leaving us with the same tearful result.  Oliver, Olivia, Poppy, Molly, Caspian, Clueless, Tessie; all of them just memories now; to be reawakened without warning.  Along with the happy memories come always the sad ones.  Animals don’t live as long as we do.  The tears are inevitable when pets are involved.  In spite of this sure knowledge, we will always feel the need to take them in, to make them our friends, to love them.  And I’m guessing that’s as it should be.  The need to love and be loved is part of who we are. 

That’s about it for this time.  No big moral.  No preaching.  Just a little food for thought.  I’ll leave you with a poem from Rudyard Kipling.  It will continue the stream of melancholy thoughts a little longer, but the truth is unassailable.   It may seem foolish, but our lives are better because of these four-legged friends we are privileged to love.

The Power Of The Dog
Rudyard Kipling

There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
And when we are certain of sorrow in store,
Why do we always arrange for more?
Brothers and Sisters, I bid you beware
Of giving your heart to a dog to tear.

We’ve sorrow enough in the natural way,
When it comes to burying Christian clay.
Our loves are not given, but only lent,
At compound interest of cent per cent.
Though it is not always the case, I believe,
That the longer we’ve kept ’em, the more do we grieve:
For, when debts are payable, right or wrong,
A short-time loan is as bad as a long–
So why in Heaven (before we are there)
Should we give our hearts to a dog to tear?