I could rewrite the play, I knew,
But Marsha gave that job to Stu,
A man that doesn't have a clue,
And who the re-write job does rue.
I tried to tell them I was able,
But they labeled me unstable,
Saying, "We don't need your voice,
We have already made our choice."
So I, the hapless charismatic
Did get shoved into the attic,
For I'm slow of speech and tongue,
And designated "Not so young."
Though I look childlike for my age,
They call me "old" (but not a sage).
Alas, my wisdom they despise,
Nor am I youthful in their eyes.
They'd rather shove me in a box,
Tell this fair Sarah "You're no fox,"
Or lock the maiden in a closet.
Why scorn they the faith deposit
God has placed within my heart?
I have such prudence to impart!
But they won't place me with the youth.
"You're middle aged, and that's the truth!"
So do those venders circumspect
With frosty tongue my gifts reject
And turn away the miracles
That could restore their aching souls.
And yet, though disappointing, their rejection really isn't so bad. It hurts, but I know it's not directed at me. Besides,
The reason God did come to earth
Was to impart the blessed new birth,
With hope to overcome all "blues"
Via the power of His good news.
So though I feel like Cinderella,
Shunned at the ball where waits my fella,
Yet in the quiet place and meek
I dare my Prince of Peace to seek.
He knows the job that I can do
With that raw play they gave to Stu.
In fact, perhaps I'll call the man
Who does resent Ms. Marsha's plan,
And whose hair fraught with fret turns gray.
Perhaps I'll call him up today
And ask him if he'd like some help
For which he seems too proud to yelp.
What could it hurt again to try?
Why not the devil's lies defy,
And overcome rejection's blues
With the power of His good news?
PLEASE ENCOURAGE AUTHOR
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