I Give This Craft to Thee

I need Thee Lord

To steer my craft

Among life's stormy sea

To safely reach

That higher destiny

Where sorrows cease

And loved ones wait ashore

Dark nights ahead

The lighthouse dim to me

Uncertain - scared

I give this craft to Thee

Thou long ago

Life's sorrows braved

And safely crossed

Each "towering wave"

In Thy scarred Hand

The craft is saved!

- Jennifer Rene Daniel

How Fortunate Infinite Wisdom Prevails!

I love, love, love Ruth Bell Graham's poetry... Mom introduced it to me in fourth grade when she gave me a copy of Ruth's book, "Sitting By My Laughing Fire" and told me to learn to write poetry. {I never did write anything worth saving.}

At the time, I thought her poetry was annoying and hard to understand.

Then I grew up a little and lived a little life and started to savor some of her Ruth's words.

And now, there are few things I like more than a Ruth Bell Graham poem. The realness just oozes from it... and her words say what my heart never managed to put into words.

I'll share one of my all-time favorites tonight.

Had I been Joseph's mother

I'd have prayed

protection from his brothers:

"God keep him safe;

he is so young,

so different from

the others."

Mercifully she never knew

there would be slavery

and prison, too.

Had I been Moses' mother

I'd have wept

to keep my little son;

praying she might forget

the babe drawn from the water

of the Nile,

had I not kept

him for her

nursing him the while?

Was he not mine

and she

but Pharaoh's daughter?

Had I been Daniel's mother

I should have pled

"Give victory!

This Babylonian horde-

godless and cruel -

don't let them take him captive

-- better dead,

Almighty Lord!"

Had I been Mary -

Oh, had I been she,

I would have cried

as never a mother cried,

"...Anything, O God,

anything...

but crucified!"

With such prayers

importunate

my finite wisdom

would assail

Infinite Wisdom;

God, how fortunate

Infinite Wisdom

should prevail!

-- RBG

Jesus of the Scars

Jesus of the Scars

If we have never sought you, we seek you now;

Your eyes burn through the dark, our only stars;

We must have sight of thorn-marks on your brow,

We must have you, O Jesus of the scars.

The heavens frighten us; they are too calm;

In all the universe we have no place.

Our wounds are hurting us; where is the balm?

Lord Jesus, by your scars we know your grace.

If, when the doors are shut, you then draw near,

Only reveal those bloodied feet and hands

We know today what wounds are, have no fear;

Show us your scars, we know you understand

The other gods were strong; but you were weak;

They rode, but Jesus stumbled to a throne;

But to our wounds only God’s wounds can speak,

And not a god has wounds, but You alone.

Edward Shillito

I Walked A Mile...

I walked a mile with Pleasure.

She chattered all the way;

But left me none the wiser

For all she had to say.

I walked a mile with Sorrow,

And ne'er a word said she;

But, oh, the things I learned from her

When sorrow walked with me.

~ Unknown

Freely Spill

The golden poppy is God's gold,

The gold that lifts, nor weighs us down,

The gold that knows no miser's hold,

The gold that banks not in the town,

But singing, laughing, freely spills

Its hoard far up the happy hills;

Far up, far down, at every turn -

What beggar has not gold to burn!

~ Joaquin Miller

Spaces in the Heart for Joy

Defeat may serve as well as victory
To shake the soul and let the glory out.
When the great oak is straining in the wind,
The boughs drink in new beauty, and the trunk
Sends down a deeper root on the windward side.
Only the soul that knows the mighty grief
Can know the mighty rapture.
Sorrows come
To stretch out spaces in the heart
for joy!

-- Unknown

Restoration of My Wretched Heart

'Twas yesterday that I pondered on another.
Their sin, their pride. . . their wretched heart.
As I thought of my response,
How to restore. . .
The Finger of God pointed at my heart:
"Thou art that person!"
I was smitten, ashamed.
I saw the filth, the pride, the rebellion
Within myself.
'Tis I who needs restoration.

I see my sin.
I feel my guilt.
I bow my head.
Words... they do not come.
Brokenness I need - that I know.
But tears, where are tears?
My heart is cold and stale and limp.

I want to push this back inside the closet
. . . Rest.
This confusing, jumbled mess.
I hate it, but not enough.
The nudging of a still, small Voice at night. . .
How I hate this, nagging when I want to rest.
And yet - and yet - I fear it ceasing.
I am terrified of growing comfortable with this.

Plowing of my crusted, hardened heart
Will not be easy, quick.
That I know.
I dread the agony, the pain,
The bitterness of yielding up my will. . .
And yet, I cannot be right and whole
Until I have given all again and hold no claims to Self.

I know that I should care enough to change.
But tonight my heart seems far away.
I sort of care.
For I hate the person I've become.
In retrospect, I see the hardening of my heart,
The numbing of my conscience. . .
As time has passed
As days and weeks and months have marched on.
I am me, but I am not the person I once was.

Innocent.
Pure.
Transparent.
Humble.
Submissive.
People used to call me that.
In truth,
I may still look like that.
But I am not.
I know the motives of my heart.
I never saw them clearer than when God pointed His finger yesterday.
Ugh. Why did I have to get here?
Its too hard to go back. . .

It scares me to see that I AM this.
Not, I might become.
But I am.
But it terrifies me most to know
That I am too tired, too lazy to change tonight.
I'm not happy with this mediocre plane
And yet I don't hate it enough to do what it takes
To purge the sin from my heart.

I'm not broken enough by the hardness of my own heart. . .
If I cared, I would be sobbing.

Instead, I sit here numbly, staring at the stars,
Fingering my worn Bible.
Waiting for repentance to well up,
But finding none.

Instead of weeping, broken,
I mourn the loss of purity of heart.
I mourn as though staring at my neighbor's casket.
Numbly, sadly, regretfully. . .
But not desperately.

Am I resigned?
What once was mine no longer is?
Never will be mine again?
Oh, Dear God! No!

I do not as the broken mother does. . .
Clutch the stiff, cold body of her baby.
Sob, and writhe and pull away from those who love her most.
Refuse, refuse to let her baby go.
. . . Hold its now empty body to herself as if
Her heart-wrenched groans could bring him back. . .
Wail into the night. . .
Refuse to think of better days,
Because this, her treasure, her light is gone.

I have bit adieu to my once-pure heart?
I have let it go?
Oh, God! What have I become?
All these years of fighting what Self wanted,
Of yielding to Your Will. . .
I will give it up for this?
I say the effort is too much?
I choose the easy road. . . now?

"Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it. . ."
The words of haunting melodies come floating back.
I have wandered.
I feel it.
I see it.
This ugly path where walking is easy.

Why would a man yield his soul
To gain the world of Self?
And yet I have.
O foolish, hardened one!
And then the words,
"Pray when you don't feel like praying,
And pray til you feel like praying. . ."
Prompt me.
And so, I kneel
Beside this bed and try to pray.

The still, small Voice, it prompts again.
"Are you willing to yield anything?"
Anything?
My heart - it clutches - rags of
Self-will
Pleasure
My reputation -
Oh, spare deep embarrassment, Dear God!

I clench. . . and then, slowly, let go.
I drop those worthless bits that mean so much to me.
"Yes, Lord, it is Yours.
I am Yours, if only
You will bring repentance. . .
Clear the mess,
Restore my tender heart."

I hold my breath,
Tremble. . .
I have given God my reputation in this?
Permission
To take all I love
To smash my idols
To break me through and through
To make me whole?

Yes.
I swallow hard.
. . . And wait.

I've yielded, given God
The keys to hopes and dreams.
But, still, repentance real, where?
My eyes fall
Upon the well-worn book of Genesis.

If I like Jacob, wrestle and take hold
And clench the hem of garments white
And cry,
"I will not, will not let Thee go,
Until I am right with Thee!"

If I wrestle with my God til morning light
And will not let Him go 'til dawn breaks through
And I am whole again,

Can God, my Father refuse and turn away?

A broken, contrite spirit draws His gaze,
A desperate heart - His hand.
My Savior's Blood -
It pleads before the Mercy seat.

And as I cry,
"God, be merciful to me, a sinner!"
I am whole again.
The clouds have lifted.
I have battled with my foolish heart.
But GOD has conquered ME!

The grace of God has reached e'en here.
And washed with fresh floods of repentance
O'er this dry and barren ground.

I am whole and live again!

~ Mary,
May 2009

Forgiveness That Wasn't There

To heal a hate
takes grace
that isn't. There
is churning hurt
and bitterness
- and black despair.
No love. No grace.
No power to choose.
I heard a stillness.
Then
I felt a face.
His searching eyes
held mine
and would not turn me loose.
then through hot tears
I saw and understood:
He hung cross high,
a spear was in my hand
that dripped with blood,
a helmet on my head.

I watched Him die;
but just before, He said,
"Forgive them for
they know not what
they do" . . .
then He was dead.
Slowly I raised my head:
the clouds were unarranged,
the sky was fair,
the warm sun shone,
nothing had changed:
the hurt was still there
only. . .
the hate was gone.

- Ruth Bell Graham, Collected Poems


Ruth Bell Graham's Collected Poems has become one of my treasured favorite volumes to read again and again. You ought to order yourself a copy. I promise it will be well worth it! :)
http://www.amazon.com/Ruth-Bell-Grahams-Collected-Poems/dp/0801011388/

Die, Son; But Do Not Sin

Die, son:
but do not sin.
It is too high a price
for living -
if "life" it can be called
to wallow
(briefly even)
in that which God forbids.
Satan has desired you:
shrewd,
he will not use
revolting sins
to lure,
but "lovely" ones,
"respectable,"
"desirable,"
and "pure"
(or so they seem);
far better you should die
honorably,
and clean
than craven-hearted,
nearsighted,
weak of will
and mean,
your birthright you should sell
for a mere mess of pottage,
squander your inheritance
in wild living,
then fain
fill your belly with
the husks of swine.

Would you trade
fellowship with Him
for tarnished coin
and raveled end of rope?

God's hand is on you, son;
far better then
the furnace, seven-times heated,
the denned and starving lions,
the stones that honored Stephen,
or a cross. . .

The choice is yours:
God grant you
eyes to see
and ears to hear,
a loyal heart
and will of steel,
forged to His will,
sound in His fear.



So. . .
die;
but do not sin;

such death
is not life's end -
but its beginning.

~ Ruth Bell Graham, Collected Poems

Think Through Me

Think through me, Thoughts of God,
My Father, quiet me,
Till in Thy holy presence, hushed,
I think Thy thoughts with Thee.

Think through me, Thoughts of God,
That always, everywhere,
The stream that through my being flows,
May homeward pass in prayer.

Think through me, Thoughts of God,
And let my own thoughts be
Lost like sand-pools on the shore
Of the eternal sea.

- Amy Carmichael, Toward Jerusalem

Lost Day

When hope was sealed in its integument
Day of dark gestation,
Nameless day
Slipping quietly between the drama of a Friday
And the glory of a Sunday.
Rest, pause, muted time-beat,
Symbol of so many of our days
Wherein we grow invisibly,
Wherein we only climb and do not know it.
Day torn between the grasping hands
Of the past and the future.
Aerial hollow nestling between the two flaming wings
Of a sunset and a sunrise.

Edith Lovejoy Pierce

The Boy and Butterfly

The Boy and Butterfly

Behold how eager this our little boy
Is for this Butterfly, as if all joy,
All profits, honours, yea, and lasting pleasures.
Were wrapt up in her, or the richest treasures.
Found in her, would be bundled up together,
When all her all is lighter than a feather.
He halloos, runs, and cries out, Here, boys, here,
Nor doth he brambles or the nettles fear.
He stumbles at the mole-hills, up he gets,
And runs again, as one bereft of wits;
And all this labour and this large outcry,
Is only for a silly butterfly

This little boy an emblem is of those
Whose hearts are wholly at the world’s dispose,
The butterfly doth represent to me,
The world’s best things at best but fading be.
All are but painted nothings and false joys,
Like this poor butterfly to these our boys.
His running through the nettles, thorns, and briars,
To gratify his boyish fond desires;
His tumbling over mole-hills to attain
His end, namely, his butterfly to gain;
Doth plainly show what hazards some men run.
To get what will be lost as soon as won.
Men seem in choice, than children far more wise,
Because they run not after butterflies;
When yet, alas! For what are empty toys,
They follow children, like to beardless boys.

-- John Bunyan, author of Pilgrim’s Progress

Make Me Thy Fuel

From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,
From fearing when I should aspire,
From faltering when I should climb higher,
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier would follow Thee.

From subtle love of softening things,
From easy choices, weakenings,
Not thus are spirits fortified,
Not this way went the Crucified,
From all that dims Thy Calvary,
O Lamb of God, deliver me.


Give me the faith that leads the way,
The faith that nothing can dismay,
The hope no disappointments tire,
The passion that will burn like fire,
Let me not sink to be a clod:
Make my They fuel, Flame of God.

Amy Carmichael

I Would Gather Children

Some would gather money
Along the path of life;
Some would gather roses,
And rest from worldly strife.
















But I would gather children
From among the thorns of sin;
I would seek a golden curl,
And a freckled, toothless grin.















For money cannot enter
In that land of endless day;
And roses that are gathered
Soon will wilt along the way.




















But, oh, the laughing children,
As I cross the sunset sea,
And the gates swing wide to heaven -
I can take them in with me.

-Author Unknown

My Little Girl

Carefree,
she ran to the park to play,
her face uplifted to the sun;
That day...
while I
aware of brewing storms
that etched the sky,
clutched at a fear
and nursed it.
Then I
saw her hand
outstretched
like a small child;
and while I watched,
Another Hand
reached down and clasped it.
I heard the distant thunder
with a smile.

~ Ruth Bell Graham

My Will

Laid on Thine Altar, oh my Lord Divine,
Accept my gift this day for Jesus' sake.
I have no jewels to adorn Thine shrine,
Nor any world-famed sacrifice to make.
Yet here I bring within my trembling hand
This will of mine - a thing that seemeth small,
But Thou alone, O Lord, can understand
How, when I yield Thee this, I yield Thee all.
Hidden therein, Thy searching eye can see
Struggles of passion, visions of delight,
All that I have, and am, and fain would be,
Fond hope, deep love and longing infinite.
It hath been wet with tears and dimmed with sighs,
Clenched in my grasp till beauty it hath none.
Now from Thy footstool, where it vanquished lies,
The prayer ascendeth, "May Thy will be done."
Take it, O Father, ere my courage fail,
And merge it so in Thine own will,
That e'en if in some desperate hour my cries prevail,
And Thou give back my will, it may have been
So changed, so purified, so fair have grown,
So one with Thee, so filled with peace divine,
I may not know it, feel it as mine own,
But gaining back my will, may find it Thine.

Author Unknown,
Streams in the Desert, Vol 2