The Old Canoe
The subject of my ramblings is an old poem written in the mid
1800s. It’s an interesting poem. I am sure we could find its deeper meanings if
we were to look at it in its nuances and depth. However, that is not my intent.
I want to point out something that is hidden. Something we don’t see within the
pages of this poem. It is to the authorship itself I wish to look closer.
If you were to look up its author, you would come across its
authorship questionable. Some even today attribute the authorship of this poem
to General Albert Pike. A man that is known in American history as a general, soldier,
Free Mason, a poet and writer as well. However, General Albert Pike confessed. “This
isn’t my poem.” “I never wrote it.” Yet, even today the error still lives that
General Albert Pike authored this poem.
You may ask, what does it matter? Or what is the point? Its
an old poem that probably few even know about anyway. That may be true. But
still TRUTH matters. When you consider the number of people who have read this
poem. At that time on the earth there only existed two people who knew that
General Albert Pike didn’t write this poem. The true author was dead. She couldn’t
validate the authenticity of this being her poem. The one that did know was the
one General Albert Pike who said he didn’t write it. There was one other lonely
voice that knew who wrote it. It was she that set the record straight multiple
times of the one who did write the poem; “The Old Canoe.”
You say what is the point? This leads me to this thought. How
much error are we willing to settle for? Will we all keep our mouths closed as
error is propagated? Is it right that we keep close our mouths while the spread
of error and lies is spoken? How much error are we willing to live with?
When I consider the Bible, the word of GOD. How is it today
that we much like the poem, “The Old Canoe” profess in error our own authorship?
Much like the Bible we can see not only is it not followed. The Bible hardly
seen as the word of GOD. It seems to be chalked up by many with their lifestyle
the denial of the word of GOD and HIS authorship. By our living we would rather
live the lie than embrace the author of our creation. Today the Bible is
questioned. It’s seen as untrusting, untruthful and unvalidated by choice of
our world and yes even some so called Christians. It’s blatantly denied, and
even attacked to the point of removal by many.
It used to be circulated and even read in our schools. I remember
in my life time where we would come home with a bible having been handed out. Even
with the LORD’S prayer having been prayed that day in class.
The Bible; 41 different authors. About 1500 years in its
time frame of its recording. The agreement with each author. Kings, prophets,
priests, shepherds, psalmists who GOD used to record for us HIS word. GOD’S authorship
is more questioned today than ever. The word of GOD where Jesus HIMSELF spoke, “not one jot or one
tittle.” A jot and tittle the tiniest
of marks in the Hebrew alphabet. “Heaven and earth will pass away” first before GOD’S word
would ever pass away. In fact, HIS word declares, the word of GOD shall endure forever.
The grass will all wither away. The flowers will all fade
away, but the word of GOD will stand forever.
How can I not stand on that which GOD HIMSELF said if one is
going to stand? How can I not look to build my house of the rock? How can I not
build the lives of my children and home on the word of GOD?
I can say, that which I have been taught. That which I have
validated through the word of GOD myself. I have never deviated from it. What I
believe today as I have aged. I still believe. What my parents taught me. What
my pastor preached into me. What my grandparents lived and taught. What my Great
Grand Parents taught and lived and preached and raised their kids with. I can echo
what they said. They were right and I say like them. Truth matters. GOD’S word
matters.
General Albert Pike could have kept his mouth closed and
said, I wrote “The Old Canoe.” And many would have accepted it. Some still believe
he wrote it anyway. The one lady who knew better did know its author. She could
have kept to herself the truth of what she knew. But she recognized the error
and said, I will not shut up. I know who wrote it. I am going to tell the
truth.
The actual author
was Miss Emily Rebecca Page, who was born in Bradford, Vt., in 1834, and died
in Chelsea, Mass., in 1862. "The Old Canoe" she wrote in 1849 when
she was a young 15-year-old girl.
You say it don’t matter.
You may live like it don’t matter. But so, says the word of GOD. IT MATTERS.
·
Ask Noah
if it matters. He would tell you otherwise.
·
Ask
Lot if it matters. He would tell you yes, it matters.
·
Ask
Judas.
·
Ask
Lazarus at the rich man’s gate. Ask the rich man that goes unnamed. We know
where he went.
·
Ask those
in Heaven. Ask those in hell. All would say it matters.
Better yet, if you could consult Jesus. Its why HE came. HE
TELLS US IT MATTERS…
The Old Canoe
Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep,
And the waters below look dark and deep,
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
Leans gloomily over the murky tide,
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank,
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,—
There lies at its moorings the old canoe.
The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm had lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o'er one,
Like the folded hands when the work is done;
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery screen,
And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-hoo,'"
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.
The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave,
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay,
Hiding its mouldering dust away,
Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower
Or the ivy that mantles the fa)ling tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe.
The currentless waters are dead and still,
But the light wind plays with the boat at will,
And lazily in and out again
It floats the length of the rusty chain,
Like the weary march of the hands of time,
That meet and part at the noontide chime;
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew,
By the drippling bow of the old canoe.
Oh, many a time, with a careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand,
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.
But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.
But I love to think of the hours that sped
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.
And the waters below look dark and deep,
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride,
Leans gloomily over the murky tide,
Where the reeds and rushes are long and rank,
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank,
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through,—
There lies at its moorings the old canoe.
The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a sea-bird's wings that the storm had lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o'er one,
Like the folded hands when the work is done;
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery screen,
And the solemn owl, with his dull " too-hoo,'"
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.
The stern, half sunk in the slimy wave,
Rots slowly away in its living grave,
And the green moss creeps o'er its dull decay,
Hiding its mouldering dust away,
Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower
Or the ivy that mantles the fa)ling tower;
While many a blossom of loveliest hue
Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe.
The currentless waters are dead and still,
But the light wind plays with the boat at will,
And lazily in and out again
It floats the length of the rusty chain,
Like the weary march of the hands of time,
That meet and part at the noontide chime;
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew,
By the drippling bow of the old canoe.
Oh, many a time, with a careless hand,
I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand,
And paddled it down where the stream runs quick,
Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick,
And laughed as I leaned o'er the rocking side,
And looked below in the broken tide,
To see that the faces and boats were two,
That were mirrored back from the old canoe.
But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side,
And look below in the sluggish tide,
The face that I see there is graver grown,
And the laugh that I hear has a soberer tone,
And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings
Have grown familiar with sterner things.
But I love to think of the hours that sped
As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed,
Ere the blossoms waved, or the green grass grew
O'er the mouldering stern of the old canoe.
