Two sparrows

Here’s an Instagram of my latest office decor. Today was newspaper printing and mail-out day. I have to print about 1400 copies of a paper, and the printer spits out about 32 copies before it stops and asks you to clear the tray, so I get about three and a half minutes between having to go back to the printer for tray-clearings. I was joking at work that I need a Fitbit for days like this, because I walk up and down the hall all day. Then I have to stuff them all into envelopes to send out to the parishes and others, so I was on the floor with envelopes and envelope strips and labels and newspapers everywhere. It’s my most menial work task, but I actually don’t mind this day. There’s a satisfaction in finishing the job.


  • Lovely!
    I came across this during the Easter weekend. It was new for me though you might have seen it before.
    Your pic reminded me of it so thought I'd share it.

    William Blake (1757–1827). The Poetical Works. 1908.
    Songs of Innocence

    'On Another’s Sorrow'

    Can I see another’s woe,
    And not be in sorrow too?
    Can I see another’s grief,
    And not seek for kind relief?

    Can I see a falling tear,
    And not feel my sorrow’s share?
    Can a father see his child
    Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

    Can a mother sit and hear
    An infant groan, an infant fear?
    No, no! never can it be!
    Never, never can it be!

    And can He who smiles on all
    Hear the wren with sorrows small,
    Hear the small bird’s grief and care,
    Hear the woes that infants bear,

    And not sit beside the nest,
    Pouring pity in their breast;
    And not sit the cradle near,
    Weeping tear on infant’s tear;

    And not sit both night and day,
    Wiping all our tears away?
    O, no! never can it be!
    Never, never can it be!

    He doth give His joy to all;
    He becomes an infant small;
    He becomes a man of woe;
    He doth feel the sorrow too.

    Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
    And thy Maker is not by;
    Think not thou canst weep a tear,
    And thy Maker is not near.

    O! He gives to us His joy
    That our grief He may destroy;
    Till our grief is fled and gone
    He doth sit by us and moan.

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