Stephen D (Douglas) Herron – birth, Jun 19, 1917

School and church are outgrowths of the teaching and temple of the home.

Little things bother us because we are so little.

The surest way to lose a truth is to exaggerate it.

When we put the Word to the test of our experience, we’ve gone modern.

When wise men see the Savior they always go home a different way.

                                                                        – from various messages

Stephen D. (Douglas) Herron was born this date (6/19/1917) in West Blockton, Alabama.  His journey took him to Central Wesley College and Bob Jones University, to various pastorates and eventually to the founding of Hobe Sound Bible College, Hobe Sound, FL.

He had a sharp wit, a theological bent, and a good sense of humor.  He was passionate about Christian Education.  He was truly one of the greatest men I ever met.  His administration was marked by a care for his staff.  He made you feel a part of HSBC.

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James Wendell Johnson – birth, Jun 17, 1871

                        Listen Lord

                        A Prayer

                        O Lord, we come this morning
                         Knee-bowed and body-bent
                         Before thy throne of grace.
                         O Lord — this morning —
                         Bow our hearts beneath our knees,
                         And our knees in some lonesome valley.
                         We come this morning —
                         Like empty pitchers to a full fountain,
                         With no merits of our own.
                         O Lord — open up a window of heaven,
                         And lean out far over the battlements of glory,
                         And listen this morning.
                         Lord, have mercy on proud and dying sinners —
                         Sinners hanging over the mouth of hell,
                         Who seem to love their distance well.
                         Lord — ride by this morning —
                         Mount your milk-white horse,

                        And ride-a this morning —
                         And in your ride, ride by old hell,
                         Ride by the dingy gates of hell,
                         And stop poor sinners in their headlong plunge.
                         And now, O Lord, this man of God,
                         Who breaks the bread of life this morning —
                         Shadow him in the hollow of thy hand,
                         And keep him out of the gunshot of the devil.
                         Take him, Lord — this morning —
                         Wash him with hyssop inside and out,
                         Hang him up and drain him dry of sin.
                         Pin his ear to the wisdom-post,
                         And make his words sledge hammers of truth —
                         Beating on the iron heart of sin.
                         Lord God, this morning —
                         Put his eye to the telescope of eternity,
                         And let him look upon the paper walls of time.
                         Lord, turpentine his imagination,
                         Put perpetual motion in his arms,
                         Fill him full of the dynamite of thy power,
                         Anoint him all over with the oil of thy salvation,
                         And set his tongue on fire.
                         And now, O Lord —
                         When I’ve done drunk my last cup of sorrow —
                         When I’ve been called everything but a child of God —
                         When I’m done travelling up the rough side of the mountain —
                         O — Mary’s Baby —

                         When I start down the steep and slippery steps of death —
                         When this old world begins to rock beneath my feet —
                         Lower me to my dusty grave in peace
                         To wait for that great gittin’ up morning — Amen.

 

James Wendell Johnson was born this date (6/17/1871) in Jacksonville, FL.  He wrote God’s Trombones, the above it from it.

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Margaret Jenkins Harris – death, Jan. 13, 1919

“He Took My Sins Away”

I came to Jesus, weary, worn, and sad.
He took my sins away, He took my sins away.
And now His love has made my heart so glad,
He took my sins away.

Refrain

He took my sins away, He took my sins away,
And keeps me singing every day!
I’m so glad He took my sins away,
He took my sins away.

The load of sin was more than I could bear.
He took my sins away, He took my sins away.
And now on Him I roll my ev’ry care,
He took my sins away.

3.

No condemnation have I in my heart,
He took my sins away, He took my sins away.
His perfect peace He did to me impart,
He took my sins away.

4.

If you will come to Jesus Christ today,
He’ll take your sins away, He’ll take your sins away,
And keep you happy in His love each day,
He’ll take your sins away.

Margaret Harris died this date (1/13/1919) in Miami, FL.  She was born 7/31/1865 in IL.  She was married to the song writer, John Millard Harris and was active in the Iowa Holiness Association. 

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Spider Web

The wind delivered a seed,

(Though nature’s not known for speed)

To a notch in the niche of time.

Delivered its parent weed,

Of what is commonly feed,

For the fowls of the southern clime.

 

Its diameter was flat,

As it lit with a “splat,”

On the aqua that was color lime.

But its profile changed – fat,

As it stood and later sat,

On the comfortable, friendly, bottom slime.

 

All the minerals that were due,

Were there with water too,

Standing well above its newly budded head.

And the warmth that filtered through,

From the sun and wind that blew,

Found it lying, living on its bed.

 

It grew straight and tall,

And the roots – it let them fall,

Opposite of the way the stem had led.

It answered maturity’s strong call,

And produced its one small ball,

Before it left the living for the dead.

 

Now that might have been the end,

Of the tale that I rend,

If there had not been an arthropod,

Who came, the stem to bend,

And tether it to a “friend,”

Out there many yards from sod.

 

The spider’s personal trail,

That descended from his tail,

Took hold of each slim sturdy rod;

Made a home that looked quite frail,

But could withstand any gale,

As planned by The Architect – God.

 

The slender, cylinder, tower died

And in its death was satisfied,

Propagating its own peasant herd.

Little knowing, its form complied,

To the arachnids web that tied

It with another, and then a third.

 

Men may likewise thoughtless be,

About what they leave, effecting eternity;

Failing to understand what has occurred.

Having eyes that cannot see,

Often like you, and like me,

Not giving others a place to gird.  -eab, 10/69

 

Written after dove hunting, west of Hobe Sound, Florida

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Jehovah the One

The Greeks had a god for rain,

And another one for the sun.

And why did they have two?

Because it is plain

Zeus and Helios weren’t big enough to do,

The work of Jehovah, The One.   -eab, 4/1968

 

Written while teaching literature at Hobe Sound Bible College, Florida.

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Great Big Heavenly Chair

It really doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all,

I’m in my Father’s care.

He rules this footstool here below,

From His great big, heavenly chair.

He’s in charge of my little life,

My fame and fortune, children and wife,

So it really doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all,

I’m in my Father’s care.  -eab, 12/1969

 

Written on the slab of what is now Carrol Auditorium, Hobe Sound Bible College,Florida

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