I dream in 40-point, italic font of all I long to give to You— the One who loves me most. I type my aims into reality— or so I try, but everything is paper jams and out-of-inks— a mangled, tear-smudged page of faint, illegible, ugly-colored words— not the marvel You deserve. My fingers hesitate to […]
Read more "I Dream in 40-point, Italic Font"
While at His greatest work, His mercy stitching ancient words into reality, preparing the way age by age for the sunrise from on high, the salvation of His people, the hope of mankind— the LORD also lifted the life-grief of one barren woman whom He loved.
Read more "The God of Elizabeth"
Elusive— a whiff in the air a flash in the night the sparkle of dew before it is gone. ••• Locked— water beyond guards gold behind glass homeland of exiles who may not return. ••• The key— a nail through His hands my sackcloth and ashes the balm of chains unlocking joy. ••• Ubiquitous— a […]
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Look what Christ can do— bound as He was to a cross, weary and strangled in pain, a joke on the lips of man, a curse on the lips of God— death of the Immortal. He died like no one else— the pride of the Father’s eyes, a portal torn in the veil from Satan’s […]
Read more "What Christ Can Do"
He had the hands of a man,
grown from curled-up baby hands
to dirty, in-a-hurry boy hands
to hands that could wield
a hammer and nails;
hands obscured for thirty years
in seas of Jewish hands;
revealed—man-defying Teacher hands,
hands that could hold
and shelter and bleed;
hands, nearer with every breath,
to nail-intruded hands,
to weighed-with-the-sins-of-the-world hands,
the hands still moving,
washing dirt from feet.
His hands are the hands of God,
blameless, righteous, holy hands,
the died-and-lives-forever hands,
the hands that welcome
sinners into life.
Read more "The Hands of Christ"
No darkness, no cross, no death-wound of heart could keep Christ from his friends. They ate and talked and sang and slept while He loved them till the end.
Read more "Till the End"
The winter world is cold— and withered and old— the trees droop, still and bare, in the scathing air, clothed only in gray loss— mourning the leaves lately buried with the frost. … But the sky is soft as mother-love for children wounded of life— it is older than the cold and beautifully, gently bold.
Read more "The Winter Sky"
Love is just a song we think we wrote. Expecting much, but never prizing more, we seek to seize the vial, tip, and pour the joy we want, but never yet could quote Till one day, looking out beyond our moat at cherry blossoms on the other shore we see the longed-for things, despised before […]
Read more "Bridge of Love"
Thank You, Lord, for children— little humans, full of life— laughing, jumping, singing, running; little robbers, demanding money, time, energy, patience; still, little diamonds, worth the cost— their words, their smiles, their hands, their hugs! small, magnificent treasures, lost in the quest for jobs, houses, clothes, cars; little children— made by God— whom Jesus never […]
Read more "Thanksgiving: Children"
Above the clouds— swaying grass, tickled feet; the summit view— sprawling earth-blend art; an eagle passing; the rich, unending sky; the thrill of going heart on heart— forever. –
Read more "joy"