Poems

church is the crucible in which our consecration is refined, our patience is tested, zeal is tempered, hatred melts— the sanctuary in which our silent prayer is practiced, our longings find answer, our peace is renewed, our hearts yield to healing— the Lord's house where all are one family, Christ speaks to each heart, and God, good, reigns supreme. MARY McCONNEL DAVIS.

Well then .

No tremor of fear, heat, or tide Of human opinion can change The evidence of Spirit. Mortal beliefs, fallacious and fiery, Erupt like lava—then fall Into dust/nothingness.

Inspiration received is not time-locked— a treasure belonging to yesteryear/yesterday or a will-be to be had again someday. Once gained, it is ours always.

Worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness . (Psalms 29:2) Right in the midst of pressing obligations and wondering what I need to do next, I hear God talking to me.

Let this place be a haven for all those seeking spiritual uplift and peace. Let this place be an oasis for all those hungering and thirsting after Truth.

God sends everyone to Nineveh to prophesy, but, Jonah-like, we turn our backs and try to flee. Can you flee God's good command? Do you seek the belly of a whale? Return, wanderer, and bless the Nineveh you're bound for.

Lift up your life as loving sacrifice held like a cup in your hands and that one purpose, poised and deliberate, shall by His merits sustain you, until nothing remains but the pure distillation of all you would most willingly see accomplished, when, all hurts healed and all hardness at last annealed, you become your offering —the finally valid fulfillment of the heart's one absolute pledge. STEPHEN GOTTSCHALK.

Pen y llwyn —master of the coppice— the Welsh thrush is at his best in a sudden gale. In the fiercest wind, there he is defiantly perched on the topmost branch singing alone in all that wild swaying up above the torn leaves.

Jesus said I was not dead. He knew the light of Life shone in my heart.