The mountaineer that climbs the heights
And staring up from down below,
For down below the second time
Reveals the true heart clear.
Break my heart for what breaks Yours.
Burden me to pray through doors.
Tell me all that makes You cry,
And let my eyes not go dry.
But oh, You’ll never share such to
Those who briefly stop by You,
So teach me prayer that takes much time,
For then I’ll find Your heart divine.
“I love you.” Three small words of mine,
Three words I’ve yet to give.
Three words of mine for whom I have
To one day with me live.
“I love you.” Three big words of mine,
Three words which will hold truth.
Three words in which I’ll never say
To her in early youth.
“I love you.” Three rare words of mine.
Three words saved for that day:
Three words for when I’m on one knee
To let her hear me say,
Cue the lights and cue the tears,
Cue heaven’s joyous cheer..
“(My darling) I love you.
Will you marry me?”
For the up and coming MACS Fine Arts Festival, I was selected to do the Creative Writing – Poetry test. The instruction was this, “Write a poem about how an elderly person sees the world through his or her eyes.”
I wrote this:
When I was young, I was kept safe
And nurtured in the light.
My school, and Church, and family
Had held me from the night.
And as I grew, they told me that,
“The world means to kill,
So, therefore, you must never touch
The world, but be still.”
And in those days, they made the world
Seem like a foe that won.
“Don’t try to fight what’s hard to beat!
Accept that you’re but one!”
But then they said, “Of course God wins,
For in the end, He’s Lord!
But until then remember that
The world holds a sword!”
Yet as I aged, God took my life
And fashioned it with Christ.
He showed me, though I’m in the world,
That He alone sufficed.
He washed my eyes and showed me that
The world tries me true.
Its fires reveal His true gold!
“Therefore, My child, walk through!”
Now in my age, I see the world
Through skillful sailor’s eyes.
For every storm has truly proved
My Captain never lies.
And in my age, I see the world
Through bloodied soldier’s tears.
For every charge has truly proved
My Leader never fears.
And in my age, I see the world
Through journeys near and far.
For every mile has truly proved
My Shepherd heals each scar.
And in my age, I see the world
Through sixty-six old Books.
For every page has truly proved
Our weapons seek not looks.
And every day I’ve dared to live,
I’ve lived it as God deems.
For victory is not the end,
But also His choice means!
Now when youth ask me what I see,
I smile ever grand.
“I see a world lost, yet loved,
And in my Savior’s hand.”
This is a speech which I wrote for the MACS Speech Festival. It took first.
It’s a simple word, and it’s very small. However, it carries a sincere call. “A call?” You ask. “Yes,” I say; a call to you, for an answer today. You see, a call more than a voice. It’s a plea from the heart, provoking a choice. “Explain!” you demand, and such I’ll do, as long as you promise to hold your peace too.
So stop for a moment, put self-thoughts aside, and imagine a girl at her bedside. Her tears remind you of those tears you once had: tears from your childhood with your loving mom and dad. But back to her, for her story gets worse. It starts with her parents and ends with a hearse. It was a dreadful day she had to face, with a horrible car wreck at too quick a pace. They pushed her out at the cost of their lives, pushing her to safety, from certain death to life. And as time’s flown by, we now see her cry at her bedside with one unspoken plea:
But on to the next, although you seem vexed, and think of a man, asleep alone in a van. “A van?” You ask. “Yes,” I say. But don’t judge too quickly, because I’ll explain today. You see, the van’s not his, and not his to keep. But on this stormy night, he needed somewhere to sleep. Now, we look down on his life choices that led him there, and yes they’re his, so let’s be fair! He threw his life away and gave himself to death; he obtained every drug from alcohol to meth. And yet, as he lay in his choices of pain, can’t we hear his unspoken call through the rain?
“Stop!” You say. “Why not something more relevant to today? Something for me, within my reach, something that doesn’t fall through my silent breach.” Alright, my friend, a fair request from you, but consider my answer. It’s thought-provoking, but not new.
Consider the people you walk beside: your closest of friends, your daily ride. How about the strangers you pass day by day? They’re always so busy, but have nothing to say. Have you ever thought that they have a past; that they too have baggage that was built to last? “Everyone has baggage, whether they say it or not.” That’s what my mom had always taught.
And if you don’t believe me, think back, and I don’t intend to attack, but remember that day your friend seemed to have something to say. Recall that so sad look in your friend’s eye: the look of one about to cry. You asked if your friend was okay or alright, and all your friend said was, “I’m fine, good night.” It crossed your mind, I’m certain to say. You heard that word, I’m sure, that day. You heard it ring in your ear all night, you heard the cry of an endless fight. You thought to help, but were content with such, so you let it be and never said much. But remember that word, soft and sure:
Now let me remind you about Someone who answered that call: Someone who decided to lose it all! Someone who looked into angry eyes, and looked beyond their endless lies. He stopped to listen and heard that cry. He saw that word in every eye. He looked through every moment of time, and said, “Enough! No more of ‘I’m fine.’ You’re broken and dead! You’ve lost all stead! Enough! Wake up! I’ll help you right now, but first, accept My final vow.” And with that, He hung on a tree, and it was there I realized He hung for me. His moment had come, the time was right, that’s when He said his final vow with all his might, “It is finished!” rang through an endless crowd, an answer to a call so clear and loud:
That cry was answered that very day. And with that, I have little else to say. Not even the grave has a comment to give because even the grave knew the Savior must live. But stop and consider what you claim yourself to be. Because if you’re a Christian, you’re nailed to the same very tree. You’re dead to self, the grave still claims your blood; you’ve been rescued through the ark of Noah’s flood. Only Christ walked out of the grave that day. Through Him you live, so you have nothing else to say. That being the case, hear this word once more,
Because it’s through us now, He answers that call. So if we never answer, why be here at all? If we claim to be the body of Christ, let’s remember that we live for strife. We live for those souls who cry out in pain, we live to run through that pouring rain. We live to lift up that girl beside her bed, and we live to hold up that wretched man’s head. We live to share our hope with the lost, and we live to help the helpless at all cost.
A story holds words by paper or mouth.
It carries a depth going north or south.
It travels through hearts both large and small.
It inspires the heroes both young and tall.
But how does it start? Is it simply made up?
Or was there one who never gave up?
“Every lie has a kernel of truth.”
But maybe that kernel began in one’s youth.
It began with a child on the edge of his bed.
Hearing a hero take his firm stead.
It gave him strength to believe there’s more.
It made him think he could truly soar.
He searched for the truth and found it real.
So he held it close and let it heal.
A warrior was he, a man of great strength.
A champion of truth who knew no length.
And now our children sit close on their bed.
Listening of him who held his stead.
They sit in awe of stories of old.
They can’t believe such stories could be told.
But what a story,
Could truly be true,
If such a hero,
Could truly be you?
Time is a funny thing.
You get more each every day.
A gift from God, a reservoir;
Not all that people say.
It comes and goes. It’s here and gone.
We shake our heads and smile.
But oh potential, so you leave.
God gave you for awhile.
It hunts for the bravest few.
The ones who’ll fight till dawn.
The ones who will look and say,
“Oh God, it’s not yet gone!”
It treasures only faithful true.
The ones who use it right.
The one’s who look to God and say,
“Your time will win the fight!”
I long to be a man of prayer,
A man who prays for every care,
A man who prays under the stage,
A man who opens every cage.