The encounter


To think that my flesh and blood is already in heaven,
What a thought,
That to my being eludes,
No other explanation renders me more satisfying,
Than that of my humanity.
It is graced, blessed, honored, and digified,
By him whose death on the cross did not see the face of curruption.
To prove an empty grave,
But what physical proof is this?
Compared to the jewel of that faith,
That beyond any shatttered doubt,
Keeps me running the race.
All because of the Saviour,
Whose ascenion into eternity,
Did not leave behind a speck of that physique,
So as I trod through lifes endless wanders,
That all too soon descend in the bowels of this classic,
My eyes are fixed to that Which I believe.
As I walk to the finish line,
To await this crowning,
Which has become that of mine.

Just Rite (inspired by Gary McDonald’s "Time can forge our hatred"’.)


Lay Not Thine Hand On The Lad
Image via Wikipedia

The shadows of yonder that befalls my blunder,
With no more a mask I wonder,
Has not this day descend to the brave under,
Where the thoughts no longer me plunder.

But of truth I behold that nothing renders,
That from within seeks not this wander,
From this that was,
To the bosom of thine own is.

And so in life’s oblivious moments,
This cradle of truth doth seek to be,
In that might of lightning slumber,
As thine eyes to me beseech such another,

For in life’s glide so gently that ride,
Where footprints have all but inhibit this slide,
I have dawned to break this impending pride,
That renders this soul to be at peace.

And so gently I ride…