"Our King"

(In reflection on Ezra, Nehemiah, and
The prophets of old on June 3, 2010).

Exiles return
To city in ruins
Charred remains
Of once golden temple
Dust and ash envelop
The mighty capital
City of King David

Vision of restoration
Rising from the rubble
Strongholds of opposition
Crumble before Almighty God
History's Grand Architect
The Master Builder
Our Carpenter King

Measuring state's boundaries
Plumb Line for the nations
Impaled by the
Tools of His trade
Pierced by the ones
He would save
Our Crucified King

Nailed to the very trees
He imagined in the beginning
Killed by His creatures
Sacrifice for their souls
The divine died
Ineffable mystery
Our Creator King

Resurrected and ascended
Interceding for us now
At the Father's right hand
Seated on His throne
Soon to judge the earth
The Just and the Justifier
Our Coming King

"See"

(Inspired by the words of Isaiah
The prophet on July 7, 2010).

Incline your ear, O Lord, and hear
Open your eyes, O Lord, and see

Stumbling through the curtain,
Clothes torn and covered in ash,
Words echoing in my head:
Who are you?
Why would God care?
You are nothing.
You are alone.
No one sees.

Incline your ear, O Lord, and hear
Open your eyes, O Lord, and see

Tears streaming the paper tumbles
Out of my hand and to the floor.
Head bowed low, I bend my knee:
I am a child of the King.
God does care for me.
I am precious in His sight.
I will never be alone.
God sees all.

Incline your ear, O Lord, and hear
Open your eyes, O Lord, and see

Shouting my prayer to the heavens,
Exhausted, now barely whispering,
Slowly the weight begins to lift,
Gentle peace descends as a dove.
The oppressive haze starts to fade,
Evaporating in the presence of
Light eternal and Love divine.

"Reaching to the neck"

(A reflection on Isaiah 8,
Composed February 28, 2010).

Strolling beside gentle stream
Relaxing grassy banks
Warmth of sunshine overhead
Cricket humming thanks

Peal of thunder jolts the air
Electric tensions blaze
Oppressive clouds furiously race
Sky stained inky haze

Rain pours, pelting face
River rushing flood
Running, seeking higher ground
Plunged into mud

Murky water to the knee
Rising tides wreck
Waist, chest, shoulder deep
Reaching to the neck

Treading water 'neath the rush
Gasping for the air
Darkness below, black above
Dizzy, tumbling scare

No branches lend their aid
Nor smooth shore
No lifeboats or rescuers come
Nor stroke of oar

Weary, losing any strength
Torrential stirring
Merciless rain choking breath
All vision blurring

Aching with no end in sight
Branches entangle
Complete, utter despondency
Suffocate, strangle

Closing in as the blade
Guillotine gleaming
When tapestry torn asunder
Brilliance streaming

Amidst the storm, clouds part
Veil's lifted
Glorious beams of light
Radiance gifted

Stars above, soul below
Heavens illuminate
Resplendent hope arrayed
Never comes too late

Reflecting off the very waters
That would drown
Now become heaven's mirror
Everlasting renown

"Faithful"

(Meditating on the Exodus,
Composed February 18, 2010).

Egyptian masters at their heels,
Nearing the edge of possibility,
The Israelites are critically cornered,
Cowering before the sea,
'Til the Lord parts the waters,
Sets His people free.

True to His promises
His word will endure

Entrenched, enslaved to sin was I,
Chasm 'tween us was so wide,
Nothing I could do to escape,
Chained to my rebellious pride,
'Til the Lord comes to earth,
Rescues and purifies His bride.

The Lord is faithful
His love is sure

In the desert Israel did cry,
No sustenance to be found,
Grumbling against the great I AM,
Raising a rebellious sound,
'Til the Lord opens heaven,
Bestows manna on the ground.

True to His promises
His word will endure

Even now in my great need
Before Your feet I humbly kneel,
Overwhelmed and terrified,
Such pain and fear I feel,
'Til You gently comfort me,
My weary soul You tenderly heal.

The Lord is faithful
His love is sure

Oh true to Your promises
Your word will endure
Lord, You are faithful
Your love is sure

"The God who speaks"

(Composed in the light of Isaiah 6 and Psalm 115,
On the morning of January 26, 2010).

Crudely carved block of wood,
Lump of blackened stone,
Sun-baked ceramic figurine,
Fragment of broken bone,

Behind museum glass they sit
Beneath fluorescent light;
Permanent exhibit they form,
Here each day and night.

Artifacts of ancient lands,
Revered as gods were they,
Now people pass, children laugh
In line for the café.

Their little ears hear no sound,
Eyes unable to see;
Their lips cannot form a word,
Nor answer an urgent plea.

Praise the Lord who hears our prayers;
He listens to our cries!
Rejoice! Jehovah sees our needs
And graciously provides!

Sing for joy all ye earth
For ours is the God who speaks,
Transforming hearts, changing lives
Of anyone who seeks!

"The Little Lamb's Tale"

(Composed November 19, 2009).

The sun is in full bloom today,
A few wispy clouds overhead.
Birds are chirping in the meadow,
The promise of adventure in the air.
Prancing about the open field
Through green pastures and wild flowers,
A butterfly catches my eye,
So I skip after it to get a better look,
Its golden wings shimmering.
Among the trees I wander
Over roots and fallen leaves
Following the distant glittering.
My hooves now sore, throat dry,
Grown raspy with want of water,
Still I trample onward.
Entering shadows, hidden from the sun,
I stumble after the elusive sparkle.
Finally drawing nearer I hobble,
All my energy, just a few steps more...
My eyes riveted on the growing gold...
Suddenly the earth gives way beneath me,
As I fall downward, air rushing my face,
Landing hard, and SNAP!
"AHHH!" I cry out in pain,
My leg throbbing, pressure floods my ankle.
"HELP!" I moan, but no one responds.
Alone in the darkness I sob,
"Is there no one to help me?"
There is only silence.
Feet flailing I try to crawl forward,
But I am too weak.
Pushing harder I try to stand,
But I fall once more.
Utterly exhausted I curl tightly,
Clinging to a lone scraggly bush.
I wrinkle my nose as a bit of dirt
Falls from the cliff above.
Bleating once more, now with hope,
I lift my eyes heavenward.
Gentle hands surround me,
Embracing my thorn-filled fleece,
As he lifts me from the ledge.
The sharp pang in my leg
Seems to ease under his touch,
Wrapped in his strong, secure arms,
Held tightly to the shepherd's heart.

"The baby's cry"

(Composed September 29, 2009).

In the somber chapel, the parson spoke,
His words gently lulling the congregation,
A beam of sunlight in the stained glass shone,
Casting a warm glow throughout the room,
Dripping of rich honey and liquid gold.
WAAAAAHHHH!

The baby’s cry shook the sleepy crowd
Like the trumpet-led blast of Jericho.
The little stentatorian could have drowned out
The resounding hooves of a stampeding herd
Or the thunder of a charging cavalry unit.

A couple older gentlemen cleared their throats,
As some of the teens began to whisper.
Blushing, the mother leapt to her feet,
Drew the infant into her arms and ran out.
The preacher shook his head and continued reading.


In the temple of Jerusalem they grew angry,
Disgusted and filled with hot disdain,
The arrogant priests and scribes dismissed the youth.
From the ‘naïve little ones’ who cried, “Hosanna!”
They turned their faces and walked away.

From the lips of children and infants
You have ordained praise
Jesus rejoiced to hear their song,
Their eager squeals of joy and glee.
The jumping, running, dancing whirl,
Tender smiles on their little faces,
Sweet enthusiasm for their King.


The disciples dusty and weary from the journey,
Crowds pushing in on every side,
Herded the little rambunctious rascals,
Isolating and shoving them away.
The rabbi was surely too busy for these.

Let the little ones come to me
And do not keep them away
Jesus stood with arms wide open,
Calling little ones to His embrace.
Those overlooked, ignored, and weak,
In these He placed fervent delight,
Rejoicing in His dearly loved children.

"By his stripes"

(In reflection after taking
the Lord's Supper in August 2009).

"Nothing but the blood," the pastor sings,
As I make my way down the aisle.
Dipping the bread in the cup, I say, "Amen,"
And return to my seat with morsel in hand.

Permeated pinch of bread, lifting to my lips,
I squeeze too hard and it drips on my hand.
'Clumsy, irreverent fool!' I shriek.
The crimson trickles down my skin,
As a trail of blood on my palm.

Startled my fingers curl.
My other hand flies to the spot,
Cupping my hand, as though
Protecting a bloody wound,
Covering an exposed gash.

I gaze at the scarlet.
Such were his stripes that day
When his hands they pierced
And his flesh they flayed.
Sweating tears of blood,
So flowed the cleansing flood.

Like the coal-purged lips of Isaiah,
Once leprous, Naaman's childlike flesh,
Hemorrhaging woman or epileptic boy,
The sinful, withered hand of my soul.
Broken, shriveled, rotting
Now redeemed, renewed!

By his stripes we are healed

"Jesus saves!"

(Heard the song, voice resonating
on July 12, 2009).

Cheerful smiles, giggling eyes,
Bouncing golden curls and clapping hands,
Little Nicholas jumps and plays.
The happy tune fills his soul.
In jubilant innocence, infant delight
He shouts, "Jesus saves!"

"Times are tough.
We are going to have to let you go."
The words echo in his head,
As he trudges to the car.
Hands trembling, mind racing,
He sees the question in their eyes,
His dear wife, even now,
Hungry little faces round the table,
'There's no food in the pantry.
What am I to do?'
That childhood ditty dances in his mind,
In quivering voice, eyes to the sky
The chorus repeats: "Jesus saves!"

"The cancer is back,"
The doctor in his starched white coat
Walks out of the room.
Their eyes meet in silence
Gently looking into the depth.
His brown eyes water as he looks into hers.
He leans in to kiss her cheek.
"Jesus saves!" she whispers in his ear.
He reaches out and draws her into his arms.

Hobbling up the church steps
He makes his way to the pew.
No hand in his this week
For she is with her Maker now.
Over these many years
The strength of his voice has faded,
Yet like the steady,
Deep roar of the ocean,
He rumbles on, "Jesus saves!"

"Your rod"

(Composed on May 18,
Victoria Day 2009).

Swinging his stick back and forth
Over the line 'tween grass and cement,
Clicking his cane in a series of taps,
Testing the surface, measuring its expanse.

His eyes do not assist in his journey,
Nevertheless able to see the way,
With his trusted rod at his side,
Observing the distinct textures, he remains
On the constant and unchanging path.

With his staff ever-moving,
Searching, testing and trying,
Leading the way home,
He need not fear.

A telephone poll ahead,
An electric box grow near,
Yet his rod warms of danger, and,
Though he approaches obstacles,
He is not overcome.

The future, as a dim haze,
Wrong often seems right.
My eyes are unable to see.
Ever-clinging to the Word of life--
Your rod and my staff--
Might I not wholly lose my way!