Sixteen ounces, make a pound,
And three feet, make a yard,
Twelve inches, make a foot, they say,
It is true, despite all odds.
We can't make any changes,
For the rules are hard and fast;
We can't add or subtract, one cubit
To our frame, the die is cast.
We hope, at times, for a longer yard,
When we are on the receiving end;
But, how quickly, we shorten the measure,
As we deal with our fellowmen.
'A pound of flesh,' is all we want,
It must be nearest, the heart;
But with the same measure, will be meted again,
Our Shylocks, still play, their part.
Keep measuring the motes and the beams,
As on through life, we trod;
Know this; as we measure others' faults.
We are being measured - by God.
~ Elizabeth Wallace Morehead ~
Copyright Owned by
the Wallace and Morehead
Families
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