Possessing All Things

It’s a story
That came to me,
Late spring, early one
Thursday evening.
We were walking
The university grounds.
(Still hoofing it
Or busing or taxiing-
No car in the driveway.)
We had been to the
Main Library.
Hilary dabbling in Huguenot history,
Celtic folklore,
Charles G. D. Roberts’
Animal stories for the kids.
I, following the canoe
Of Grey Owl,
Or the letters of
My beloved Rutherford
And Scottish Covenanters.

The evening was
Lazy-warm and the
Leaves on the maple and oak
In full splendour.
The little campus stream
Was trickling toward
The duck pond,
And the two of us
Leaned on the aluminum
Bridge rail,
Arm-in-arm, silent, contented.
Watching Mother Mallard
Convoy her paddling brood of nine
Toward overhanging bushes.
No students passed.
(Campus population at
A seasonal minimum.)
Waterloo traffic noise
Muted through
Surrounding wood-lots.
I was impressed by
A suggestion from within:
“All things are yours,
And ye are Christ’s
And Christ is God’s.”

(A morning’s reading
Had prompted this thought
Some days before…
Seems a little house-maid
Worked in a large mansion.
Many rooms, exquisite.
Lots of dusting, cleaning, polishing.
She reserved a special time
Each day to enter
Her employer’s study to work.
There it was.
Four-by-five oil-painting
Of the Scottish Highlands.
For him, “a good investment
Picked up on tour overseas
With his wife.
Last appraisal – hundred and twenty-five
Percent jump in value.”

To the maid, this scene
Was Heaven. Multi-coloured
Heather, dramatic variable skies,
Distant snow-capped peak,
Ruddy little Highland cattle,
And one old Jock following
With plaidy and staff.
With such a feast for the eyes
Work became a luxury,
Day’s chores completed with joy.
Now who owned that painting?)

Hilary tapped my elbow:
“This is nice, isn’t it.”
The two of us headed down
The path,
Fragrance of lilac from
Somewhere up ahead.

Sometimes, Strange Help

Oh, I could not touch the process
As you neared the Living Fire,
As He pained and purified you,
As He raised your standards higher.
Though I heard your cries of quandary,
And I saw your tears of shock;
It was clear you were His project.
(I refrained from soothing talk.)

There was only my prayer corner
Where I dared to let it out.
Where I got beneath your burden,
First with moaning, then with shout.
And His Spirit reassured me
This was how it had to be,
That you might receive your treasure
And a gracious victory.

It must all be of His working,
Measured out to challenged trust.
Marvelous, such metallurgy!
Making gold of baffled dust.
Dare I frustrate such a Craftsman,
As He works His glorious art?
As He gives the form and purpose?
As He re-creates the heart?

No, I could not, and I would not,
For I had my times alone.
When the arm of flesh was absent
And I had to storm His throne.
And the bounty from the battle
Seems my richest gain to date,
Which the Living Fire had purposed
In His mercy, as my fate.

Oh, I love you brother, love you,
And it hurts so much to stand
At the outskirts of your struggle
Clenching tight the helping hand.
But the Master sits beside you
As your bark braves wind and wave;
And the passage proves Him able
To the uttermost to save.

Robert Moffat

Gang awa frae tha Glen
Tae a fearsome place;
Where tha darkened souls
Hae na gleemps o’grace.
Where tha work must fit
A new tongue and race.
Gang awa frae tha Glen for a wheel.

“Tis for certs He has ca’d
Ye, and ye must roon;
Tae a land o’ plagues
And o’ blastin’ sun,
Where tha rule o’ richt
Hae just sceerce begun.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, Robbie, chile.

There be muckle tae ken
O’ tha people’s need;
O’ tha crops that thrive,
O’ tha life they lead;
O’ tha daily thirst;
O’ their warfare, greed.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, and be wise.

Tho’ tha ship be worsted,
Tho’ tha trail be long,
Tho’ tha beasts be awful,
Ye’ll arrive anon;
And commence tae cant
Tha sweet Gospel song.
Gang awa frae tha Glen, in His love.

And ye’ll spot tha dee
When it starts tae click.
As they bring their young,
And they bring their sick;
For o’ Jesus’ kind
They ken nae sic lik..
Gang awa frae tha Glen, tae be used.

An’ it’s nae sa muckle
That their needs ye know,
Whuch’ll fan tha flame,
Cause your strenth tae grow;
But tha confeedence
“Tis your Laird says, “Go!”
Gang awa frae tha Glen, ‘til you’re gone.

(Robert Moffat, Pioneer Missionary to South-west Africa)

Note: The story is told of the early day in the mission of Moffat when his camp was confronted by a prominent chieftain. The man demanded to know the purpose of the missionary's visit and the authority who sent him.

Through an interpreter, Moffat advised that he represented the greatest of all Chiefs and that he was bringing news and help for the best in life. The native said that he would kill Moffat and his chief. The territory was under his absolute control. He brandished a menacing spear. His retinue stood at the ready.

Calmly Moffat loosened the breast of his jacket. Striding to within inches of the man's face, he pointed to his own heart and said, "My Chief lives here. If you intend murder, do it now, for I will not be held back from my purpose."

The other's jaw dropped. His spear hand faltered. His bluff had been called. The two would soon become fast friends.

Setting Captives Free

I’ll have to think about it.
Something is happening here.
This morning,
H Block’s exercise period,
East-side fitness yard.
Usual pick-up basketball,
Games of catch,
Half-hearted aerobics.
Twenty minutes out.
Kipper got into trouble.
Dealer Kipper, old-timer,
The Joint’s entrepreneur.
Smokes, bandages, magazines, canned treats.
(No rumours of hard stuff.)
Went long for a pass.
Still pretty fit.
Lost track of where he was;
Barreled into Dutch’s corner.
Dutch, the Man.
Protection boss. Double-lifer.
Hand in every trick in the Joint.
Favours, payments, or else.
No love lost between the two.
(Something about a disputed “tariff”.)
Dutch’s corporals,
Lonzo, Turk and Kruger
Slammed him against the chainlink.
Flurry of arms, feet and
Shimmering steel.
Kipper, down, motionless,
Twisted in frightening posture.
Bleeding from the nose, throat, shoulder.
Hands on the abdomen.


“Doc, get over here, now!”
Call me Doc.
(Short stint as a para-medic
In Philadelphia.
Before the armed robbery career.)
The scene, heavy:
Guts spilled, shoulder perforated.
Expert shiv work.
Tower guards not moving.
Kipper, unresponsive to my efforts.
Five terrible minutes.
Buddy pressing torn jacket against open wounds.
No vital signs; plodding C.P.R.
Somewhere behind me
Voices- the guards?
Sounds like praying.
Parson Eddy on the scene
With his hallelujah bunch.
Bible class-“born-againers”.
I step back.
Circle of prayer moves in:
“We rebuke death.
Devil, Kipper will not be taken!
Raise him, Lord, raise him.
For your glory.”
Variations on this rap continue.
Hands on our fallen friend.
Three guards, Ed, Nelson and Donny
At the periphery,
With the stretcher,
Watching.
“Devil, you have already lost.
Our Lord whipped you at Calvary.
We rebuke you, in Jesus’ name.
We plead the blood of Jesus.
Lord, now, like Lazarus.
Bring him back.”
And then it happened.
I swear it.
Kipper inhaled.
Long and beautiful.
A smile graced the bloody lips.
The rascal-eyes blinked open.
Alive! Jesus!
Had to be thirty-five men around,
Between us and Dutch’s
Dark corner.
Bible class will never be the same.
Stretcher work underway.
Eddy’s hand placed on my shoulder:
“Check out John Chapter Eleven,
Doc, John Chapter Eleven.”

Lazarus

Is there news of his arrival?
Have they seen him on the way?
How we need his hand of healing,
How we need his strength to pray!
Yet this waiting, wretched waiting,
While our brother slips away.

Was the message given promptly?
Was he begged to make all speed?
Was he told our fears for Lazarus?
Was he made to see our need?
Oh be coming, please be coming,
Jesus, hasten! Intercede!

Down the road at last, his figure,
But alas, then much too late.
“Had you been a little sooner,
Lord, you might have changed his fate.
But our brother, precious brother
Has already passed death’s gate.”

Then he asked that we might take him
To the place where Lazarus slept;
And we passed through friends and family,
All who tearful vigil kept;
And we heard the Master groaning.
And we watched as Jesus wept.

At the tomb door, still our champion,
Praying through our wicked doubt,
He addressed the bitter fact of death
With victory and a shout;
There the Master, still the Master,
Crying, “Lazarus, come out!”

And the place of death was shaken
By the challenge which he hurled.
And the soul of him once taken
Was recovered to our world.
Thank you Jesus for our brother!
And the graveclothes were unfurled.

How I pale now at the memory
Of my thoughts and words of fear,
And of pitiful self-pity
Which would deem Christ insincere.
He was caring, deeply caring,
Ever strong and ever near.

He had purpose in delaying
Which was far beyond our view;
And when everything seemed lost he proved
Both trustworthy and true
To a mighty love that neither
Grave nor death could e’er subdue.

Loaves and Fishes

The crowd had his blessing,
The desert place too.
The teaching refreshed like the early morn's dew.
The sun now was setting,
The homeward trip long.
And Jesus took pity upon the dear throng.

He’d given them wisdom,
He’d given them power,
He’d spoken the Word of God hour after hour.
And not a one waivered
At what he had said.
Their spirits still hungry, their flesh needing bread.

And so he had sent us
To gather up food;
To feed the five thousand, his dear foster brood.
And doubting, we set out
To meet the appeal,
But I of the twelve alone spotted a meal.

“What have you got, Andrew?
Bring it to me.
Fetch your resources, lad, that we might see,
How now the multitude
All will be fed.
Gifts from a faithful lad, fishes and bread.”

Sheepishly I conveyed
What I had found.
How could this boy’s treat be passed all around?
Look at their numbers, Lord.
Look at this snack.
How now will plenty be made from such lack?

Then from my hands he took
All that I had.
Two little fishes, five loaves from the lad;
Blessed them and broke them
And called us to share
Portions abounding with all gathered there!

Now where it all came from
Not one of us knew,
But faith’s little offering just grew and it grew,
Once given to Jesus
To meet the demand,
With blessing surpassing what men could have planned.

What have you got, Andrew,
Bring it to me.
Time or resources, your own ministry.
Give without sparing.
Leave all in my care
And find it sufficient with ample to spare.

Note: What an image is here! The food blessed, broken and distributed. The same is true of Christ's life. Will it be true of ours?

Point of Combustion

The day will come.
Incontrovertible truth
Presented.
The messenger’s face
Bright, direct
With sincerity,
Thanksgiving
And assurance;
The sufficiency
Of Christ.
His noble service.
His victorious ethic.
His blood-letting.
His invigorating Spirit.
The words are
From God;
Seeds of life
Through the ages.
Your arguments
Dissolved.
Your idols
Cracked and
Tarnished.
Your tradition
Picayune.
The trying moment
Comes.
Lab-testing
Of alloy.
The metal strip
Presented to burner.
Ignited and red,
Rushing to flame?
Flash of light?
Ethereal wind
Unleashed?
Or charred and limp,
Refusing transformation?
Lacking the inner
Accelerant.
Such a day
Will be yours.
Expect it.
Pray for
Christ’s constitution.
His agenda.
Disparage the
Experiences of
Soiled self.

Neighbours

The pigeons around
The Old Court House
Know nothing of
Issues at stake.
No money nor marriage
Nor murder
Disturbs all the cooing
They make.

The pigeons beside
City Council
Know not if the
Tax rate is high.
Nor whether last winter’s
White deluge
Had pushed traffic
Costs to the sky.

The pigeons at
Cenotaph Corner
Will rest on the
Soldier’s bronze gun.
With no sense of
War’s devastation,
Or what was the cause
Or who won.

But down at the
Park’s peanut corner,
A woman comes
Daily at four,
With treats for her
Fine feathered neighbours,
Who gather around
By the score.

Made for Storms

The storm’s approach
The eagle sees.
He waits for it
Atop the trees.

The meadow runs.
Retreats in fear.
The wily fox,
The fallow deer.

And skies grow black.
And crack with light.
And wind careens,
As day turns night.

The smell of rain
And topsoil stirred
Are ancient clues
To this great bird.

That soon will come
An upward rush.
His pinions locked.
A mighty push.

To launch the prince
Of loftier skies
Above the storm.
Or else he dies.

While far below
In gopher towns,
In flash-flood’s flow,
A partridge drowns.

Northern Night

The lake is calm,
Without a breeze.
Bedecked with stars,
Above the trees.
And Ursa Minor
Points the way.
While moonbeams
On the ripples play.
And standing on
The dock, I hear,
Kathunk, kathunk,
As boat bunts pier.
Some plashing faintly
Down the shore.
A creature lands
To rest once more.
The birches rustle
Just behind.
A single puff
Of cooling wind.
And peeper frogs,
With chorus sweet,
Perform where grass
And lilies meet.
Then basso bull,
In search of love,
With thunderous throat
His troth to prove.
Mosquitoes skim
The fluid face;
And waterbugs
Their etchings trace.
But then a hush,
A freeze, a pause;
Some recess called
By Nature’s laws.
And dimly, faintly,
He is heard.
The eerie voice
Of diving bird.
A plaintive low,
And yodel sighs.
Raised far out there
To Northern Skies.
Primordial scene,
And timeless tune.
The concert of
The Common Loon.

Holy Ghost, Indweller

Peace, be still, little heart,
I am here.
Now you have Christ as Lord-
Cease from fear!

I am your promised help,
Draw from me.
My sure wisdom is yours,
You will see.

As the mysteries of God
Are made known,
And the scriptures bring life
From his throne.

Did I not once inspire
Holy men
To record the Lord’s will
By the pen?

Will I not open such
Truths to you,
In a way just as clear
To your view?

We will grow in friendship
As you pray.
Simply ask for my help
Each new day.

I have kindled my spark
Deep within.
Please, permit it to burn-
You’ll not sin.

Once, my task was to claim
You from Hell.
Now, praise God, you have come.
All is well.

I will lead, I will check
‘Long the way.
Lest you err, I’ll be there.
Come what may.

Can you see, I am sent
As a pledge?
Just as deep calls to deep
‘Cross time’s edge.

There are fruits of my love
For each day.
Please, dear heart, do not grieve
Me away.

And, of course, you may ask
For my best!
A baptism of power,
You’ll be blessed!

Just as Peter emerged
From all fear,
In a Pentecost blaze
Of good cheer.

You will witness on fire
To God’s Word,
With a joy that is strength
From your Lord.

I will consecrate you
For the task.
And take charge of your tongue
If you ask…

As the finger of God
I will point.
And with ministry gifts
Oft’ anoint.

Thus equipped, you may serve
Much like Paul,
Who abandoned all else
For Christ’s call.

Learning sin had no hold
O’er one dead
To the flesh, but alive
Where I led.

Please, accept me as your
Inner guide.
Let us witness to Christ
Glorified!

I will offer help as
You allow.
Bold adventures in love
Begin now!


Note: I hope that this poem illustrates the humble behind-the-scene posture which the Holy Ghost always takes. He is primarily interested in bringing glory to Jesus and in guiding the believer progressively into spiritual truth and comfort. He never grandstands.

The Outing

It is a cooler
Late-summer Sunday,
When grand-daughter finally
Gets the time to take
Rose to the Park.

The two cross
The lawn slowly (walker included).
Shaded picnic tables
Invite to a comfortable
Vantage point.

Before arrival,
Half-dozen ducks
Amble toward them,
Chuttering welcome.
To Rose’s laughter and surprise.

Once seated,
Grand-daughter suggests
Cold drinks,
If that would be all right.
Leaving elder, in broad sun- hat.

Five-year old blonde,
In long braids, crying
For lack of sandbox toys.
Soothed by Rose’s reassurance
And peppermints.

Young couple, bicycling
Along cinder path,
All smiles and small-talk.
Reminding her of John
In that first summer after the war.

Grand-daughter back
With refreshments,
And apology for taking so long.
Rose gestures a “de nada”.
“It’s a good time for ice-cream line-ups.”

Distant, muted loud-speaker.
Rise and fall of children’s cheers.
Sunday-school picnic.
Cavalcade of colours - towels,
Marquis tent, sun-hats.

Grand-daughter feels no need
To struggle at conversation.
Rose’s eyes are everywhere,
Twinkling.
Wringing spotted hands, habitually.

The younger pulls out
A pocket novel.
The older swings her legs
Up and over the bench seat,
To face the park’s edge.

An open vista of
Beautiful blue and clouds,
Rustling poplars and
Two elegant ancient willows.
Hosting purple finches.

Ninety minutes is enough.
Back to the car, the apartment.
She will tell John about it for weeks.
He will smile back,
From the photograph.

At the Summit

The eyesight still is dazzled
And the thinking not too clear,
And the three of us amazed, Lord,
That you ever brought us here.
For the stillness of the setting
And the call to join in prayer,
Neath the vastness and the freshness
Of the silent mountain air,
Gave no warning of the wonders ,
Lord, that you would have us share,

As we drifted into comfort,
You had moved to yonder space,
And the fervency of prayer, Lord,
Soon came gleaming from your face!
How this stirred us from our drifting,
From our flagging in the fight,
As alone, atop that mountain
We were stricken with the sight
Of your face, you clothes, your person,
All awash with inner light!

Not alone now, but in session
With some other-worldly men.
Were they Moses? And Elijah?
Sent to you? To earth again?
How could we so undeserving,
Dare to look upon them so?
Or to catch their words of courage?
We just had to see, to know.
There were you, the Law, the Prophets
And the summit all aglow!

Then as quickly, they had vanished
And the power began to fade,
And our brother muttered out
That some memorial be made:
“You have walked and talked with Moses
At this heady, holy height.
You have shared prayer with Elijah;
Been transfigured in the light.
We must fashion some mementos.
Surely that would be alright!”

But no sooner had he spoken,
Than a brilliant cloud appeared,
Which engulfed us in its glory.
Falling on our face, we feared.
And a voice not heard by mortals
To our impudence decreed:
“This is my belov’ed offspring.
Hear ye him and him ye heed.”

James' Farewell Song

Galilee,
A strange new urge sweeps over me
A pull now stronger than the sea,
And I a son of Zebedee,
With ships and gear reserved for me,
With knowledge of rich fishery,
Through years of wooing azure sea,
Now casting off my bark for free
To follow Christ who beckons me …
Oh Galilee.

Galilee,
The gentle hills surrounding thee
Resound with news of folk set free;
Of sicknesses healed instantly,
Of torment turned to sanity,
Of guilt and shame absolved for free;
All this our privilege to see,
And Christ reserves a job for me?
And to his course I will agree.
Have you now lost your hold on me,
Oh Galilee?

Galilee,
Your moods can change so suddenly,
One moment calm as calm can be,
The next one pitching dreadfully,
Our small craft swamped with foaming sea,
While Jesus sleeps aft peacefully.
We’ve reefed and bailed in vain ‘gainst thee,
Safe harbour but a reverie.
Has Christ’s call brought this storm to me?
Is this your plan to reclaim me,
Oh Galilee?

Galilee,
What strange deep evil lurks in thee,
Provoking now to jealousy?
What raging winds and waves I see,
Where once you rolled so peacefully.
At last, Christ rises to our plea
And mounts the prow where all might see;
Commanding you to let us be!
Commanding such tranquility!
Displaying his supremacy!
Oh Galilee.

Galilee,
For years you lured me out to sea,
Bewitching inconsistency;
Your song, your spray, your scent to me
Were tokens of some deity,
Some Mother Nature thought to be
The essence of eternity,
Yet somehow fickle, fancy-free.
But now I see, Christ masters thee, oh Galilee;
No other helmsman now for me, oh Galilee;
And from your charms I am set free, oh Galilee.


MATTHEW 4: 21, 22, 23 - And going on from thence, he saw other two brethren, James the son of Zebedee, and John his brother, in a ship with Zebedee their father, mending their nets; and he called them. And they immediately left the ship and their father, and followed him. And Jesus went about all Galilee, teaching in their synagogues, and preaching the gospel of the kingdom, and healing all manner of sickness and all manner of disease among the people.

Only the Shepherd

Such a memorable day
In the pastures of May,
And the brook sparkles
Just past the green.

And the flock is at rest
Where the grazing is best.
And the gambolling
Young can be seen.

On a prominent rise
Where the plover oft’ flies
Seated, handsome and
Strumming his lyre.

‘Tis the shepherd they see
With a new melody
Which the day and the way
Had inspired.

Now the trek had been steep
And his pace they did keep,
Till the luscious uplands
Had been gained.

And the grass was so sweet
Glistening under their feet,
For the previous night
It had rained.

Soon with grazing all done
And the warm mid-day sun,
There were many who
Stretched out and slept.

But a few cautious rams
Proudly eyeing their lambs,
Caught a glimpse of the
Dark shape which crept.

Oh the wolf had been keen
Smoothly agile and lean,
As he shadowed the
Flock in ascent.

And if he had his way
On this blissful spring day
Many young would be
Cornered and rent.

But the rams simply eyed
Their sweet singer and guide
To confirm that he
Saw the threat there.

And he, taking the sling
To deter the foul thing
Reassured there was
No need for care.

(Let us heed this tale well
Ere the forces of hell
Try to topple our
Climb to the height.

That when Evil comes on
Threatening slaughter and wrong,
We keep only the
Shepherd in sight.)

Ziklag

Pursuing Amalekites
With the image of their
Scorched village
Still fresh in their minds.
And angry, so angry
With the leader
Who had bade them depart from Ziklag.
Families left vulnerable.

Forgotten the times
Of his mastery,
His music,
His memories of
Meadow, stream and flock.
Of how he gathered them,
Some distressed, some in debt
Some discontented.

The trail and the camp
Had knit them.
He ever offering
Counsel and courage,
Just leadership,
Command with example.
Stores never failed.
Their shield and portion.

Receiving their rebuke,
He withdrew silently.
Alone with the
God of his sheepfold.
Gentle music perhaps.
Refreshment arrives.
Hope against hope
Glowing in his face.

There is nothing
But to follow him.
(Though murder had been
In their hearts.)
He also sorely misses
Wives and loved ones.
"There might yet be victory.
Let us be up and active."

1 Samuel 30:6 - And David was greatly distressed; for the people spake of stoning him, because the soul of all the people was grieved, every man for his sons and for his daughters: but David encouraged himself in the Lord his God.

Wings of Praise

Morning is up!
Whate’er the weather,
Night yields to praise,
Singing in feather.

Chorus of joy
Starting the day’s chores.
Still heard at dusk
Thanking for day’s stores.

Might all our ways
Copy the wee bird,
Filled with God’s praise,
Ever by Him heard.

Then so much more
Bless’ed a sojourn,
Would we but sing;
His tune of trust learn.

Life is a thrill,
Vivid and stirring,
Join in the song
Each day occurring.

Father in Heaven
Waits with rich treasure,
Loosed by our praise,
Giving Him pleasure.

Sometimes the sun
Warms all our heartstrings,
Bursting with song
For gifts His love brings.

Other times, praise,
Sacrifice dearest,
Meets cloudy days,
Singing faith clearest.

Whate’er befalls,
Music uplifted
Always enthralls
The breast so gifted.

Yet ours much more
Gladsome a chorus.
Jesus prepares
Endless spring for us!

PSALM 92: 1, 2, 3
It is a good thing to give thanks unto the Lord, and to sing praises unto thy name, O most High: To shew forth thy lovingkindness in the morning, and thy faithfulness every night, Upon an instrument of ten strings, and upon the psaltery; upon the harp with a solemn sound.

Providence - Mine and Yours

I thought that I knew
What you’re going through.
I thought that I knew…
I was wrong.

I once had a bout
Of similar vein,
Of similar pain.
But not yours.

I sensed that the world
Had turned on me,
A cruel destiny,
Without hope.

And even my prayers
Met brazen skies.
The tears, the cries.
Where was God?

But one day the blue
Returned above.
I felt His love,
And it passed.

I now see the test
Had made me grow;
Christ’s heart to know.
I was changed.

And this was to be
My providence,
Of little sense,
‘Til I learned

That God has a plan
Which must use loss,
To show the Cross
To each child.

So I will not dare
Say what to do,
‘Til His work’s through,
And you’ve won.

But I will be here,
A needed friend,
An ear to bend,
Like the Son.

I thought that I knew
What you’re going through.
I thought that I knew…
I was wrong.

Come Down Now, Zacchaeus

I have scrimped and saved,
I have used the law,
I am now the richest publican around.
I have pressed for tax,
I know each excuse,
I am quick to confiscate and to impound.

Strictly business, yes,
Ranked among the best.
I am proud that I have risen to the top.
Men all know my name,
They seek my advice,
But I simply cannot make my conscience stop.

I have heard of one
Who heals all the sick,
And who speaks of Heaven’s blessings for the poor.
He has warned the rich
Not to lust for gold,
Just to lose to thief or death outside the door.

He has called all souls
To eternal goals,
And to do good neighbour’s deeds to each in need.
He seeks character,
This great judge of men,
And I sense his righteous standards have me treed.

In his presence now,
I’m a little man,
Yet I sense he holds out hope I might amend:
“Come down now, Zacchaeus,
I must sup with you.”
He is one before whom no one can pretend

Now I hear myself
Speaking from the heart
For the first time I recall in many years:
“I will settle all;
I will mend the hurts.”
I sense joy and great relief washed in my tears.

I am broken now
By the truth of Him
Who insists abundant life must start within you.
I’ll become His man,
Restore all I can;
Surely no work grieving Jesus should continue

PSALM 34: 18
The Lord is nigh unto them that are of a broken heart; and saveth such as be of a contrite spirit.

Solemn Spires of Rock

With blood and breath
They sealed the Oath,
Though parchment bore the gist
Of Covenant with Christ their King,
Whose court was moor and mist.

The shields of power
Had spewed a law:
That every soul must heed
The pulpits of the puppet-priests,
By worldly throne decreed.

But hearts enthralled
By Spirit’s touch,
And cleansed with Christ’s own blood,
Must have the shepherd-hearted prince
To preach to them God’s Word.

Now banned from kirks
And presbyteries,
The faithful shepherds fled;
To holy haunts on heathered hills,
To preach life from the dead.

And whispers thrilled
The villages,
And sought the lonely farms;
As secret calls to worship meant
A secret call to arms.

Though empty sat
The kirks of stone,
And empty sat their pews;
The glens and rills were filled with psalms
‘Neath grand celestial views.

And times would come
Of sacrament,
Of searchings-out of sin;
And fateful times when king’s dragoons
Would scatter to the wind.

And legends grew
Of gallant men
Evading musket-fire;
And matrons bold who harboured them,
To raise some villain’s ire.

And prophets saved
By providence
From Bloody Clavers’ men,
Would vanish into cave or fog,
Or stream, to preach again.

And gallows bore
The testament,
And prison glooms the tale;
And children saw the cost of truth
In those who walked death’s vale.

But still they sought
The sacred heights,
Where Grace did much abound;
Where bleat of lamb and lilt of bird
Were mixed with Gospel sound.

Still constant proved
The shepherd-heart;
And constant proved the flock;
And faithful proved the King of Kings,
‘Midst solemn spires of rock.