Joe Biden wants to make every person in the country wear a mask… forever.

Saturday Snippet: Lest we forget!

Given the parlous state of our nation in these troubled times, I thought we all might benefit from a reminder that all our worldly power, and energies, and ambitions, will eventually lead to our decline and fall – just as they have always done in human history.  Only if we “lift our eyes unto the hills, from whence cometh our help” will we learn humility and a better way.

Kipling put it well in his poem “Recessional”.  It was written for the Diamond Jubilee of Queen Victoria in 1897, when the British Empire was at its zenith.  We aren’t an Empire, but we’re nonetheless guilty of just as much hubris in presuming that what we’ve built in this country cannot be destroyed.  Right now, it’s being undone before our very eyes, largely due to our own folly in allowing things to get to that point.  I think we, too, need to be reminded of the passing nature of our lives and times, “lest we forget”.

God of our fathers, known of old,
  Lord of our far-flung battle line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
  Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
  The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
  An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away;
  On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
  Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
  Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
  Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
  In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
  And guarding calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word—
Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord!

You might also enjoy contemporary commentary on the poem when it was first published.

Peter

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From The Coldly Furious One, speaking of NASCAR’s ritual self-abasement over nothing:

For the bigwigs at NOOSCAR, it’s extremely difficult to see a downside: they get to piously denounce all those icky, beer-swilling rednecks and their disgusting Rebel flags, suck up to their anticipated new audience of Nee-grows and the white SJWs who take a knee for them, and establish their PC bona-fides without breaking a real sweat. For that, they’ll gladly throw a nonentity like “Bubba” onto the pyre, strike a match, and send his ass floating off downriver.
Nice try and all, but it’s not going to work. And that serves ’em right, far as I’m concerned.

Ditto for the NFL.  Both organizations, flush with TV money, don’t seem to give a rat’s ass about their actual audience.

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Lockdown Fashion ~OR~ Rule 5 Woodsterman Style

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A Sweet Story


At 40, Franz Kafka (1883-1924), who never married and had no children, walked through the park in Berlin when he met a girl who was crying because she had lost her favourite doll. She and Kafka searched for the doll unsuccessfully.

Kafka told her to meet him there the next day and they would come back to look for her.
The next day, when they had not yet found the doll, Kafka gave the girl a letter “written” by the doll saying “please don’t cry. I took a trip to see the world. I will write to you about my adventures.”
Thus began a story which continued until the end of Kafka’s life.

During their meetings, Kafka read the letters of the doll carefully written with adventures and conversations that the girl found adorable.

Finally, Kafka brought back the doll (he bought one) that had returned to Berlin.
“It doesn’t look like my doll at all,” said the girl.

Kafka handed her another letter in which the doll wrote: “my travels have changed me.” the little girl hugged the new doll and brought her happy home.
A year later Kafka died.

Many years later, the now-adult girl found a letter inside the doll. In the tiny letter signed by Kafka it was written:

“Everything you love will probably be lost, but in the end, love will return in another way.”