Poems

“I was not born under a rhyming planet.”  Those were Benedick’s words as he attempted to write a sonnet for Beatrice in Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing.  Writing poetry is work.  An initial line might be birthed by either an emotional or intellectual experience, but communicating those rational emotions in meter and/or rhyme is a challenge.  Having said that, I should state that I am not convinced that poetic expressions need fit into tidy categories.  Though they should be understood if they are published, poems remain intensely personal.  The poems I plan to publish on this page are the result of blood and sweat (work).  Some contain tear stains.  None are epic; none are worthy of award.  I hope, however, that you are blessed as you read.

My God

God, beautifully-creating God,
intelligently designing
His creation to perfection
commands with smallest words
a universe in grand complexion.

God, supernaturally-sustaining God,
mercifully holding
His possessions to redemption
bestows with triune wisdom
living gifts in rapid succession.

God, heavenly-sitting God,
sovereignly ruling
His galaxy to measure
dictates with loud decrees
for our good and His great pleasure.

God, silently-speaking God,
imperceptibly moving
His will to perform
communicates with quiet nods
on days of sunshine, on days of storm.

God, graciously-saving God,
lovingly calling
His sheep into the fold
speaks resurrection words
of eternal glories still untold.

And Fall We Must

Like violence at darkest night
unexpectedly in broad daylight
deep wounds delivered by tongues of might
tempting flesh, inciting fright.

God has a surprising way and tone
of dealing with His chosen own.
He sends them not a letter home
nor calls them on the telephone.

No, God in His great sovereignty
demonstrably shakes our tiny lives
conducting His human symphony
from act to act and fall to rise.

And fall we must if we might rise
by faith to soar in eagles’ skies.
If God be glorified in me;
I must at times be on my knee.

So down I went upon my knees,
with faith and hope but heart undone–
a living concerto on stormy seas
yet safely anchored in the Son.

And now I wait for God’s direction.
He wrote the whole, not just this section.
He laid each part with its connection,
His perfect opus without correction.

Faith and hope walk side by side
in cold and foamy, knee-deep tide
knowing that they have not lied,
unashamed that they still cried.

And dawn arrived.

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