Disorder is the common theme today,
But only when you see the surface view.
The Holy One is still upon the throne,
And he has promised to make all things new.
So neither fear the rabble nor the rot.
They will not last forever but will fade
Before the sun of judgment while God’s own
Find rest forever in the cross’s shade.
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I am weary,
weary from bearing the weight
of waiting
for some other weight
to be removed.
But I wear too
an easy yoke,
a light burden,
and it makes all weights
not less
but lesser.
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“Do not fear me,” spoke the specter,
And I was afraid.
Death would surely follow from this brush.
But the holy soul collector,
With his wounds displayed,
Welcomed me and did the devil crush.
Photo by Akira Hojo on Unsplash
There was a smile for years within the shadows.
I saw no eyes but knew it smiled at me.
It wore a glee like one who watched the gallows
To revel in death and depravity.
I lived for years in fear of its abuses;
Its haunting was oppressive in its scope.
It laughed at my defenses and excuses
And steadily eroded all my hope.
How can one contradict a stronger power?
How can one run from what cannot be found?
I felt its gaze upon me ev’ry hour
And knew it laughed e’en when it made no sound.
But something changed the day that I surrendered
And ceased to fear the smile to fear the crown.
I turned from dark to light, life was engendered,
And what once smiled at me began to frown.
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Don’t look under the bed, or in the closet, or in the basement. And don’t investigate that noise or that creepy hallway. And definitely don’t open that door or step outside. Continue reading
Please help me, LORD, to pass this test,
To wait within this purging flame
In faith that you know what will best
Exalt your holy name.
Correct all misdirection of
My wants until my will fits thine,
My soul steeped long in faith and love,
A branch bound to the vine.
Photo by John-Mark Smith on Unsplash
I am a novelty to most,
A treasure to but two or three,
One face amidst history’s host,
But who am I to thee?
I am an upright man to most,
A sinner to but two or three,
One saint amidst the sacred host,
But who am I to thee?
I am unworthy, more than most,
A traitor to the one-in-three,
One soul amidst a sinful host.
Oh, who am I to thee?
I am a son because the most
August of sons rose morning three
With freedom for the captive host,
For he was truly thee.
I am yours to the uttermost,
A slave no more to two or three,
One voice, known, singing with your host.
E’er more am I to thee.
Photo by youssef naddam on Unsplash
as i learn to walk 