I greet you in Jesus’ precious name! It is Saturday morning, the 27th of June, 2026, and this is your friend, Angus Buchan, with a thought for today.

We start in Proverbs 14:23:

“In all labour there is profit,…”

Then we go to Mark 6:3:

“Is this not the carpenter, the Son of Mary,...?”

Yes, Jesus was a carpenter. He was a blue-collar worker. By the way, my late dad was a blacksmith, and my grandfather was a master blacksmith - working men, hard-working men as Jesus was. They say maybe He was more of a stone mason than a carpenter, because in those days there were not a lot of trees around the area of Nazareth, and they used a lot of stone to build their houses.

I want to talk to you about Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. He wrote a poem in 1842 called “The Village Blacksmith”, and this poem is all about honesty, satisfaction, and hard work. If ever we needed to work hard, it is now. It is a beautiful poem, and for the young people listening to this, please listen carefully. This is how it goes:

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn to night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton
ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,-rejoicing,-sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

Jesus bless you and have a wonderful day
Goodbye.