Will I Make My Master Plead?

Must our God plead for workers,

To plant Gospel seed today?

Must He beg us now to speak,

With this world in Satan's sway?

Is there no one left to hear,

Our Lord's most merciful voice?

Are they all already saved,

Who would make the Lord their choice?

Does His blood no longer cleanse,

Those hearts grieved because of sin?

Can His light no longer reach,

Where Satan's chains once had been?

The answer is most certain,

Our God has lost not a thing.

There is nothing that exists,

To lift the crown from our King.

Committed to each of us,

A gospel of love and might.

It bears the strength to transform,

sinful scars to robes of white.

What God has placed in our hands,

Belongs not to us to hoard.

It is not a hidden jewel,

To be tucked away and stored.

This priceless truth must be taught

To the wealthy and the poor.

Without it how will they know,

To open salvation's door? 

This edict belongs to us,

It's on every page we read.

I must ask this question now,

"Will I make my Master plead?"

On To My Home

To the tune: "Purer In Heart, O God"

My heart can't bear the thought, my soul would grieve;

Were You to take Your love away from me.

Though weak and vile and I, with longings deep I sigh;

For life to come, for jubilee.

My heart thrills at the thought, my soul takes flight;

That I may one day bask in heaven's light!

Though sore the path my be, scarred with iniquity;

The prize shines still.  "Faith, become sight!"

My heart rests sound at last, my soul is calm.

Grounded and firm stand I, the Rock my balm.

A scarred hand holds my own, a seed of glory sown;

"On to my home," this is my song!

The Hammer In My Hand

Gazing up at His cross,

A hammer in my hand.

Noting without feeling,

His blood upon the sand.

His body squirms and writhes,

I stand by to behold.

He scarce restrains a moan,

My heart remains so cold.

His breathing grows labored,

The end approaches fast.

His enemies delight,

Here at the very last.

I stand among that group,

No pity, without shame.

We watch His eyes grow dim,

Refusing any blame.

At last comes final breath,

It leaves Him as a sigh.

Raucous laughter ensues,

Twas good to watch Him die.

I did not see that day,

The above can't be true.

Had I been present that day,

There's something I would do!

Who doesn't feel the same,

Who reads this poem now?

We'd boldly face that mob,

Righteously crying "Foul!"

Fearless and defiant,

We'd battle Satan's horde.

They'd have to take our lives,

Before they'd reach our Lord!

Yet now I'm brought up short,

No longer feeling grand.

My eyes alight upon,

The hammer in my hand.

Why can't I shake it loose,

And drop it the ground?

Why does it seem to be,

Stuck to my hand and bound?

Sometimes I still choose sin,

Rather than my dear Lord.

At times selfishness wins,

Seems to my heart it's moored.

I must cling to His grace,

There's so much that I owe!

If He chose to withhold,

It's off to Hell I'd go.

I long to be perfect,

To never sin at all.

I long to be like Him,

To live and never fall.

Alas, I have weakness,

And with it I must live.

So now I must confess,

I need Him to forgive.

So I'll go through this life,

In loving faith I'll stand.

But I can ne'er forget,

The hammer in my hand. 

Our New Baby Girl

The smile of our new baby girl;

Each laugh and every precious curl;

They touch my heart and make me say,

"Oh thank you God for each new day."

Please God help me to raise her well.

Help me your glory her to tell.

And when life's troubles come her way,

Strengthen the faith for which I pray.

Dear God don't let her father fail,

While she is young and oh so frail.

Dear God I pray to you above,

Let this blest child know she's loved.

I'd Rather Please God

You may not like the positions I take.

You may call me an intolerant snake.

You may bemoan my heart bereft of love.

You may call fire upon me from above.

You may slap my face and spit at my feet.

You may scream and yell and demand retreat.

You may twist my words and motives impugn.

You may lash me with a verbal typhoon.

You may unleash a fury seldom seen.

You may rip and tear and pick my bones clean.

You may make me weep and tremble inside.

You may make me wish for a place to hide.

But you must know this now and mark it well.

Before you attack there's something I must tell.

What God called wicked will never be good.

And my feet must stand where my Lord's have stood.

If He did not care, He'd never have spoke.

Can't you see His love in every pen stroke?

Must you go on attacking each of them,

Who in faith do nothing but speak for Him?

My God has commanded I call sin, sin.

I've done it before, I'll do it again.

You may threaten whip and a beating rod.

But you must know this: I'd rather please God.

I Know His Name

"And those who know your name put their trust in you, for you, O Lord, have not forsaken those who seek you."  

Psalm 9:10

I know His name, the One whose side was riven.

I Know His name, though weak I am made strong.

I know His name, whose life was given.

I know His name, I sing it all day long.

He knows my name, it's in a book in heaven.

He knows my name, He knew before I was.

He knows my name, filled with His leaven.

He knows my name, He's loved me and still does.

I know His name, His grace and love unending.

I know His name, I'll trust Him with my all.

I know His name, His power lending.

I know His name, I'll run to heed His call.

He knows my name, His kingdom never shaken.

He knows my name, my stronghold and my rod.

He knows my name, my faith awakened.

He knows my name, My Savior and my God!

Jesus Christ the Lamb of God

But then God's light pierced deaths dark shroud; freed from the tomb, seen by a crowd;

Seated on high, the angel's laud, my Jesus Christ the Lamb of God!

And now He reigns upon a throne; standing for us, God's glory shown.

His love is high, and oh so broad; this Jesus Christ the Lamb of God!

More than I

Who needs patience more than I,

With failings stacked to the sky?

Others must my patience see,

For oft they must bear with me.

Who needs mercy more than I?

My sins force me now to cry,

How can I withhold from you,

What I have oft needed, too?

 

Who needs kindness more than I?

Saints have helped my tears to dry.

Shall I deny aid to them,

Who oft light a heart grown dim?

 

Who needs God's grace more than I?

Deep, faithful, and oh so high!

Christ's message was taught to me,

Shan't I help others to see?

 

Why would I refuse to give,

What I need so I may live?

Let me learn before I die,

None need these things more than I.

Let Me See Myself In Heaven

Let me see myself in heaven,

To help govern my steps below.

Let me see streets of burnished gold,

When the enemy's darts are thrown.

Let me hear angel's shout "Holy!"

To drown the sound of this world's noise.

Let me breathe the hope of glory,

So I may face this life with poise.

Let me feel the hand of Jesus,

Clasping firm to my very own.

Let me hear His words of comfort,

In everything I've reaped and sown.

Let the voice of saved one's singing,

Fill every dream at evening's sleep.

Let their melody uplift me,

When life's highway become so steep.

Let the light that is the Father,

Pierce the darkness of here and now.

Let the lamp that is my Savior,

Illuminate me as I bow.

Let the throne of gleaming jasper,

Compel my eyes of faith to sight.

Let the gates eternal opened,

Present my trembling heart new might.

Let the river's healing waters,

Beckon me forward as I roam.

Let the glories of heaven smile,

And welcome this grateful saint home.

Dependance

I wrote this poem on July 4 of this year.  My hope is that it causes some to consider things they have not considered as carefully as they perhaps should.  Enjoy. 

Tis a day of celebration,

the evening sky soon filled with flame.

Tis a day of jubilation,

"Glory in freedom!" we exclaim.

Awash with patriotic zeal,

our eyes filled with red, white, and blue.

Tonight's celebratory meal

extols a nation's heart so true.

"Yet true to what?" we must need ask,

and what fills us with such delight?

Why does this country stand and bask

so confident it's good and right?

Is it that we're independent,

no other country holds our reins?

Do we feel ourselves transcendent

in spite of wrinkle, spot, and stain?

Is it pride in our troops abroad,

all valiant, brave, and honor bound;

grimly set to face any rod,

and spill their blood upon the ground?

Perhaps it's the thought of a dream

to which each citizen may strive;

that although great the odds may seem,

to accomplishment they arrive.

Or could it be entitlement,

which ever man feels is his right?

We claim our own truth heaven sent

defined as pleasing to our sight.

Of course, the answer's all of these,

this our country relishes each.

Grasping strong to them all with glee,

"Each one is ours by right!" we preach.

Dare we forget the One above, 

the mighty Maker set on high?

Will He be cast off with a shove,

fearing our strength with trembling sigh?

Nations have risen strong before,

self-reliant and oh so proud!

Each was shattered down to its core,

their anguished cries so shrill and loud.

History's canvas is aglow

with the bright colors of their pride.

Recount their downfall blow by blow,

see the dark colors as they died.

Our Maker remains unimpressed

with our might and inflated sense.

Wisdom demands we now profess

the extent of our dependance.

Praise Our Lord!

I enjoy writing to the tune of familiar songs and hymns Christians have sung for many years.  I find that putting new lyrics to old tunes often serves to refresh one's worship and is helpful in aiding a person to concentrate on the message of the song.  If you're able, sing this poem to the tune of "Jesus Saves."  Either way, enjoy.

Let His grace your heart rejoice: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

Daily making Him your choice: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

Withhold not a joyful cry, claim the peace His love affords;

with a gleam within your eye: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

Let thanksgiving grow each day: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

Renewed courage come what may: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

Fearing not the tempter's snare, holding fast the Spirit's sword,

with a faith we long to share: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

As the battle rages on: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

Till the devil's strength is gone: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

Blessed saved one's gone before, resting with Him they adore, 

they with smiles stand at the door: Praise our Lord!  Praise our Lord!

"What If It Isn't True?"

This poem was based upon a question I received from an individual some time ago.  The question has been asked of many Christians over the years in many different ways.  Enjoy.

He looked me in my eyes and asked,

"What if it isn't true?"

I know his question was sincere,

so my answer must be, too.

What if this Book I hold so dear

did not come from above?

What if isn't what it claims

though esteemed with such love?

Then upon ling'ring final breath

I'd fade into the night.

There'd be no sense of something lost,

just darkness without sight.

I would have lived without regret,

though perfect I am not.

My life was one of happiness,

owning what can't be bought.

Surrounded by my friends so dear,

and family ne'er forsook.

Content and satisfied was I,

my hope upon that Book.

"What if it isn't true?" he asked.

"What is there you would change?"

The answer must be naught at all,

with nothing rearranged.

"Yet think of this," I asked him then,

"Let's turn the table round.

"What if each paragraph is true,
"reason for its renoun?"

"How would you face that day, my friend,

"if death forced you to see,

"that everything denied was true!

"What could your answer be?"

The Night Before His Surgery

I wrote this poem shortly before my oldest son's surgery.  His surgery was routine and went very well.  However, I could not help but think of all the father's who have sat at their son's bedside the night before their surgery's, many of them facing problems much more serious than my son faced.  Enjoy.

The night before his surgery

I sat on my son's bed.

He was too young to recognize

his father's growing dread.

Reaching up and smiling at me,

his eyes so clear and blue,

I took him in my arms and squeezed,

uncertain what to do.

The night before his surgery

my heart trembled with fright.

I could think of naught but the end,

and so I held him tight.

So young and precious was my boy,

with so much more to see,

I couldn't fathom what I'd do

if he were lost to me.

We lived in ease, quite comfortable, 

and many knew my name.

The night before his surgery, 

that did not mean a thing.

We never lacked for friends throughout,

encouragement we heard.

The night before his surgery,

they were just empty words.

I did the only thing I knew

could bring me some relief.

I spoke to my Father up above,

while shaking like a leaf.

I can't recall the words I used,

I often wish I could.

The night before his surgery,

God heard and understood.

The night after his surgery

I clung to my son's hand, 

thanking my Father up above,

upon whose love I stand.