Still, There is Joy

On some-days the pen is heavy and inspiration falls

Limpid like a wilted stem beneath thought’s judgment calls

And the wind that moves through the willow-tree is weeping more than sighing

Like the rush that surges now through me responds; a kindred crying

But still,

There is joy

On some days the frying-pans are burnt and all the laundry soiled

Beneath the joy of living fully where forefathers toiled

And we spend too long hunting for things hastily mislaid

While the willow-wind is taunting us and spreading wide its shade

Yet still,

There is joy

On some days we are so weary that it almost hurts to breathe

But everyone is hungry; prudence bids us bind our sheaves

And count our many blessings as they pour from vaulted dome

In the tender-sweet caressing of a place that we call Home

So still,

There is joy

© Janet Martin

My grandma’s life was not nearly perfect, yet more often then not she would be humming a song of praise to her Creator as she worked (it seemed, tirelessly) and often she spoke of her blessings. I think of her now in another Home! Yes, this is the greatest Joy for the earthly home; that hope of another Home and we want to choose joy now, be that Joy, spread it like a love-song to everyone we meet!