Poems

God holds His children in the secret of His tabernacle, a spiritual home where nothing changes, not even day to night. God answers our prayer.

Off I went to work one day. Opportunity came for me to pray.

How could she be so vindictive— especially when she knew I was trying to help her, and everyone said I was right? I rolled down the hill—faster and faster—gathering the dirt of resentment, self-pity, self-righteousness, and self-justification until I hit bottom. And it was "easy," rolling down.

The peace, the peace is so worth the struggle against futile human reasoning. Besieged by worldly ideals, I searched for morality, clarity, hardly expecting joy, much less bliss, as final reward.

I'm in great need. Please tell me plainly what your pastor says.

I can't ever fall out of His hand, out of His plan established for me so perfectly. I am engraved upon the palms of His hands.

I felt no tender love for my antagonist. My thoughts were dark as they ran around in self-defense.

My heart And voice Sing Praise unto Life Unconfined. Free From bonds I sing Of mirrored likeness Brighter than the sun.

Where is home? Is it lost in the heart's sad memory, a sanctuary taken by material change? Can you damage it, abuse it, lose it— or can it be seen indestructible? I had a house, sunny and glad, that then was shaken, taken out of helpless human hands. But I found a promise there, beautifully guarded.

I hear the song of Soul. A quiet phrase, so pure and clear, above all earthly noise, stirs my slumbering sense and points to higher ways.