A Christian pursues the fleeting praise of mortals—wreaths and applause—over God’s grace, drawn to earthly courts and the throng’s esteem. The chase costs them dear: their soul grows cold, lost in pride’s shadows, trading divine light for hollow glamour. Yet a soft, divine voice cuts through the noise, calling them to seek God’s unrivaled love and true praise. The sonnet ends with a challenge: why chase frail human delight? Turn, praise God, and dwell in His sight, where His praise outshines all.

A Christian sought the wreaths that mortals weave,
Their loud applause to gild the passing hour,
Through earthly courts the heart would gladly cleave,
And spurn the grace that blooms in heaven’s power.
The pews would ring with praise for deeds well wrought,
The throng’s esteem a balm to fleeting care,
Yet in that chase, the soul grew cold, distraught,
And lost the light for shadows debonair.
But soft, a voice beyond the din arose,
A call divine through clamor’s gilded haze,
To seek the One whose love no rival knows,
And find in Him the fount of truest praise.
Oh, wayward child, why chase their frail delight?
Turn, laud thy God, and dwell within His sight.