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Thank you pastor poems are a good way to show your pastor that you are thinking and praying about him/her. Pastors have a very difficult calling in life. They need a word of encouragement [or many words!].
Have confidence in your leaders and submit to their authority, because they keep watch over you as those who must give an account. Do this so that their work will be a joy, not a burden, for that would be of no benefit to you. Heb. 13:17, NIV
Thank you pastor poems are a good way to show that you care and to show appreciation for all that they do. Whether you have a special pastor appreciation day or just slip it into their office, a poem or short heart-felt message is sure to lift their spirits.
Below is an original poem by Mrs. Shirley Davis that you may use if you like. Mrs. Davis has written many poems - including putting many books of the Bible into poetic form. [These might be a nice gift for your pastor.] If you would like more information about poems Mrs. Davis has written, you may contact us and we will forward your email to her.
You study and prepare and daily pray
That your sheep will heed what you say.
You deliver the messages God gives to you.
To listen and obey is your wish for all to do.
From morning until night, day after day
You care for your flock in a most loving way.
You visit those who are shut-in or sad.
You may be the only visitor they have had.
Each ministry within the church you oversee,
Encouraging each to fulfil their ministry.
You guard the flock from wolves who would tear
And divide. You seek relationships to repair.
If one of your flock should begin to stray
You challenge him or her without delay.
You encourage them in you to confide
Using the Scriptures to counsel and guide.
Thanks, pastor, for all that you do.
We really do love and appreciate you.
Here is another poem about pastors that you may enjoy.
THE PASTOR'S REVERIE
The pastor sits in his easy-chair,
With the Bible upon his knee.
From gold to purple the clouds in the west
Are changing momently;
The shadows lie in the valleys below,
And hide in the curtain's fold;
And the page grows dim whereon he reads,
"I remember the days of old."
"Not clear nor dark," as the Scripture saith,
The pastor's memories are;
No day that is gone was shadowless,
No night was without its star;
But mingled bitter and sweet hath been
The portion of his cup:
"The hand that in love hath smitten," he saith,
"In love hath bound us up."
Fleet flies his thoughts over many a field
Of stubble and snow and bloom,
And now it trips through a festival,
And now it halts at a tomb;
Young faces smile in his reverie,
Of those that are young no more,
And voices are heard that only come
With the winds from a far-off shore.
He thinks of the day when first, with fear
And faltering lips, he stood
To speak in the sacred place the Word
To the waiting multitude;
He walks again to the house of God
With the voice of joy and praise,
With many whose feet long time have pressed
Heaven's safe and blessed ways.
He enters again the homes of toil,
And joins in the homely chat;
He stands in the shop of the artisan;
He sits, where the Master sat,
At the poor man's fire and the rich man's feast.
But who to-day are the poor,
And who are the rich? Ask him who keeps
The treasures that ever endure.
Once more the green and the grove resound
With the merry children's din;
He hears their shout at the Christmas tide,
When Santa Claus stalks in.
Once more he lists while the camp-fire roars
On the distant mountain-side,
Or, proving apostleship, plies the brook
Where the fierce young troutlings hide.
And now he beholds the wedding train
To the altar slowly move,
And the solemn words are said that seal
The sacrament of love.
Anon at the font he meets once more
The tremulous youthful pair,
With a white-robed cherub crowing response
To the consecrating prayer.
By the couch of pain he kneels again;
Again, the thin hand lies
Cold in his palm, while the last far look
Steals into the steadfast eyes;
And now the burden of hearts that break
Lies heavy upon his own--
The widow's woe and the orphan's cry
And the desolate mother's moan.
So blithe and glad, so heavy and sad,
Are the days that are no more,
So mournfully sweet are the sounds that float
With the winds from a far-off shore.
For the pastor has learned what meaneth the word
That is given him to keep,--
"Rejoice with them that do rejoice,
And weep with them that weep."
It is not in vain that he has trod
This lonely and toilsome way.
It is not in vain that he has wrought
In the vineyard all the day;
For the soul that gives is the soul that lives,
And bearing another's load
Doth lighten your own and shorten the way,
And brighten the homeward road.
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