The Satisfaction of My Father

April 21, 2015

The Satisfaction of My Father

I can’t do this anymore, my Lord! I long

For things out of my grasp, out of my reach,

For things that are short-lived, inferior,

To that which, by the Gospels, I've heard preached.

A husband is the thing I long for most,

The one that comes most often to my mind.

Sometimes a panic-longing washes me,

And, reeling, I'm no match for it, I find.

Oh, will he come? Will I e’er have a man?

(But what a question!) Is a man the height

Of that for which I ought to wish, to long?

Is he the one on which I fix my sight?

Is not My Father quite enough for me?

Is not He strong that ransomed my lost soul?

Is not He faithful and all-loving in His thoughts

That He, by His own self, would make me whole?

And why do I look now for someone else,

Another who might “truly satisfy”?

Can a mere man do what the Lord my God

Can only do for them He sanctifies?

Ah, LORD! I find my longing quite too much!

Too much to conquer or to quite contain!

Thou art enough for me, this I have heard,

But I must hear it from Thy mouth again.

Oh, LORD, speak now into my frantic heart.

Whisper or blow in me Thy softest breath.

Speak in my ear with Thy still, calming voice,

And all these sinful fightings put to death.

Thou art enough. Thou art enough for me!

I cling to Thee with spindly human arms.

But greater than that which now clings to Thee,

The Gracious Love that wraps out all alarms.

My LORD, Thy love is sweeter than I know.

Open mine eyes that I might see Thy face,

Draw me that I might closer to be to Thee

And trust Thee more because of this dark place.

Song of a Mother-heart (Isaiah 54:1-3)

April 19 or 20, 2015

Song of a Mother-heart

(Isaiah 54:1-3)

I sing to Thee now, O LORD, Who hast made me,

I sing to Thee now, for Thou, Lord, hast bade me.

A barren woman, no husband nor child,

I break forth into singing, aloud do I cry,

Thou hast given me children, (more than body could bear!),

They are mine by Thy working, through service and prayer.

I praise Thee! Thou wrought this! I am not without child;

I am not without husband, Thou art my Strong Guide!

I enlarge now my heart, take in each dear one;

My "tent" receives all, each daughter and son.

This tabernacle holds far more than I dreamed;

Though I fade like a flower, Thy blessings I see.

So I stretch forth my curtains, my cords I lengthen;

The canopy is spread; my stakes I strengthen.

And then this: (bless'd thought!) Thou providest the bread!

(Thou first feddest me, now these shall be fed!)

Thou clothed me with finest and whitest of linen,

And now, by Thy Spirit, Thou clothest my children.

So many to name, so many I love!

Unnumbered, save only by Jehovah above.

These spiritual babes I've been given by Thee;

Teach, make them Thine for eternity!

"This Certain World"

April 16, 2015

"This Certain World"

Jesus, I have this burden.

Every time I brush “this certain world”

Something happens up here,

Up in my head,

Something I can’t explain.

And down here, in my heart,

Something ties up;

Emotions tangle,

Ready to burst forth, to

Vent themselves,

Almost to drown me.

Not wanting to be found out,

(Too late sometimes),

I seek a place alone where I can cry.

Down from my head and

Even in my heart,

Something spills out.

I can but gasp:

Reigning King, use me for Your glory!

Enough for me: to serve Thee as Thou wilt.

This “certain world” is Your eternal Kingdom

Our mantra: Your way of serving others.

Be there few Christians, few who will be faithful,

Enduring One, I desire to live for Thee.

Jesus of the Scars

April 8, 2015

Jesus of the Scars

(I got the idea for this poem from the title of something I saw online by Edward Shillito:

https://wmson.wordpress.com/2006/05/19/poets-corner-jesus-of-the-scars/

Jesus of the Manger,

A Baby sweet, serene.

Church is comfortable with this,

Fondly view this scene.

Jesus of the Crowd:

Teacher Who could Heal.

The One Who spoke in Mercy,

Who made the storm be still.

Jesus of the Scars,

Another picture this.

A gruesome sight, the crucifix;

Mockers jeer and hiss.

The scars are raw and deep,

The blood is running red,

My Lord is there upon the cross—

I can but bow my head.

Such agony is there,

Such shame and misery!

What spineless wimp I find myself!

I am not strong as He.

He took it all up there.

Abuse and thorny wreath

Had come before and now nailed high,

God’s wrath would find relief.

He poured it out on Him

Who knew no speck of guilt.

Christ drank the cup to bitter dregs

For man His blood was spilt.

Jesus of the Scars,

I know You stayed not there;

They buried Thee and, come to life,

You made me “Righteous Heir.”

And still I see Thy scars.

They’re in Thy hands and side.

I see the Christian life is hard

There in Thy sober eyes.

And what will be my lot?

To what will I be sent?

What battle field will my eyes see

For Him Who ‘fore me went?

The stripes well might be more

Than I could ever dream;

The scars may, too, be deep

As Thine that I have seen.

I know Thou wilt be there,

But will my courage last?

Will I be true and brave for Thee?

(And is this wrong to ask?)

I blush to say this, Lord,

But, I’m afraid of pain.

What horrors Thou in courage took,

I bow my head ashamed.

It is the truth, though, Lord.

Oh, Jesus of the Scars!

If only trials will draw me close

To Thee, bring Thou what mars.