The Isle of Long Lost Dreams

Behold the Isle of Long-Lost Dreams. 

   There are many on the shore it seems, 

Who've crawled from sea and shipwreck mess

   Upon this isle for final rest. 

Once brave, these dreams, on open sea,

  Plotted course towards lands mighty.

From captain's chair a vision formed:

   Ocean conquered, new land stormed.

But raging winds and waves they came.

   Life had happened all the same.

Now dreams lay stranded on these shores

   Resting here forevermore. 

But rest upon these shores might be

   A better dream than fighting sea.

The chaos left behind as test,

   To see if He would be our rest.

The dreams might some day sail again,

   But never venturing far from sand.

For these sweet shores are now the place

   Where long-lost dreams live in His Grace. 

The Clockwork Boy Dreamed

The clockwork boy dreamed. 

To the clockwork boy, it seemed,

That all the books he’d read

With boys and men of whom its said

They dared to reach beyond their state

And out of need, fulfilled their fate

Doing deeds, that were great

So maybe clockwork boy could be

More than clockwork, he would see. 

The clockwork boy waited. 

He dared to dream a time was fated

For him to reach beyond his state

And do a deed considered great

So wait he did for proper time

In meantime reading prose and rhyme

Dreaming big he hoped to shine

So maybe clockwork boy could do

A thing that poets will write too. 

The clockwork boy observed. 

Watched for needs where he could serve

Based not on gifts he bore innate

But hoped that gifts were born of fate

So plunging in when need arose

Not a dipping of the toes

A head-first plunge is what he chose

So maybe clockwork boy could trust

That though he lacked, it’d be enough. 

So clockwork boy acted. 

And gears and springs were all impacted

By strain of acts beyond his scope

But clockwork boy did naught but hope

That maker did have this in mind

When gears installed and springs he’d wind

Crafted as… one of a kind. 

So maybe clockwork boy won’t break

If acts were done all for his sake. 

So clockwork boy functioned. 

Doing deeds with one assumption

That deeds were done, not based on skill

But acts of grace done by his will

For to proclaim the gospel call

When fools and weak give their all

Then wise and strong of world will fall

And now clockwork life exhibits

Sufficient grace in all that it is. 

Then clockwork boy seemed

To fill his hopes and live his dreams

But clockwork parts won’t this strain take

Springs will fail and gears will break

No greatness now like stories old

Deeds unwritten, life untold

Wood hay stubble now unfold

Picked-up pieces moved aside

Pondering now what he had tried. 

So clockwork boy pondered. 

“What went wrong?” is what he wondered

He thought it wasn’t based on skill

Or wits or might or force of will

Weren’t it simply gospel grace

Enabled feeble, take their place

Along with chosen glorious race

Now he huddled, parts in hand

No strength remained to even stand. 

So clockwork boy darkened. 

No longer heard the call he harkened. 

No longer see the light from sky

No longer feel a breeze go by

Now alone in depths of pit

Ridiculous joke, piece o’ shit

Absent hope, this was it. 

No clockwork repairs in the deeps

Utter despair… a miserable heap. 

The clockwork boy looked

For any hope in maker’s book. 

He longed to find a simple word

From voice of him he often heard

Convey kindness when he spoke

Loved with simple lightweight yoke

The laden who were not a joke

But crafted with eternal thought

Into this scheme clockwork bought. 

The clockwork boy was let down. 

It seemed to him he had not found

The things that maker said were true

Of what a clockwork boy could do

Where was he when springs did break

When gears did fail and did not make 

Any difference for his sake? 

Does he stand now so far off

While the scoffers choose to scoff. 

But clockwork boy remained. 

Through grief there was some faith sustained

That maker had not failed at all 

But kept a plan with greater call

Beyond the clockwork boy’s own thoughts

With greater plans and fuller plots

Tying clockwork mind in knots. 

But written by a loving hand

He trusted now the makers plans. 

So clockwork boy picked up 

Broken pieces all messed up

Worthless now it seemed to him

For anything he might have been 

Tomorrow is an unknown thing

Miseries or joy to bring

Letting go of everything

He clung now to this only thought. 

His life by shed-blood had been bought. 

All My Love

All My Love

A Poem for Valentine's Day

She had all of his love.

But what does this really say?

What is “all” and what is loved?

Could it be explained in any possible way? 

I love you more.

 Dearest Charity,

I love you more.

I love you more than Diet Dew.

I love you more, I really do.

I love you more than TV shows.

I love you more, I hope you knows. 

I love you more than sugar cream pie. 

I love you more, you know that I...

do love you more than free days off. 

I love you more, please don't scoff

at the corny way I love you more. 

Cause I love you more and more and more.

Parables Will Do A Thing More Bold

Here is a piece of poetry inspired by Luke 8:4-15. I wrote this as I was studying for my upcoming sermon that I will be preaching on Sunday, October 24th, 2021, on this passage. 

The stories that our Savior told,
unlike sweet scripts from modern fold
those pictures that our preachers mold,
parables will do a thing more bold.

Good preachers like to make it clear,
but Jesus would those secrets steer
only to hearts that have an ear:
parables are heard by those who hear.

Sown seed: God's Word, so rest assured
a heart that's hard is what's referred
when on trodden path lands the word,
parables are snatched up by a bird.

To stony ground some seed will fly

start quickly, growing toward the sky

no root is there so by and by
parables in shallow hearts will die.

On thorny ground with weeds in play

overgrown lusts put on display

with other loves fed day by day

parables will soon get choked away

But many seeds land in good soil

take root and grow without recoil

the sower cares not for wearied toil

parables will not always spoil.

Good dirt has room for seed's new shoot

tilled, watered, and manured suit

so in the heart God's Word takes root

parables produce abundant fruit.

Dual purpose: sown word to the field.

For many its truth has been concealed,

but those who have produced a yield

parables were God's word revealed.

I hope this is helpful and enlightening.

Blind Unbelief is Sure to Err

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head. 

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face. 

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower. 

Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

William Cowper,
God Moves in a Mysterious Way

Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God

From prayer that asks that I may be
Sheltered from winds that beat on Thee,
From fearing when I should aspire,
From faltering when I should climb higher,
From silken self, O Captain, free
Thy soldier who would follow Thee. 

From subtle love of softening things,
From easy choices, weakenings,
(Not thus are spirits fortified,
Not this way went the Crucified,)
From all that dims Thy Calvary,
O Lamb of God, deliver me. 

Give me the love that leads the way,
The faith that nothing can dismay
The hope no disappointments tire
The passion that will burn like fire,
Let me not sink to be a clod:
Make me Thy fuel, Flame of God.

Poem by Amy Carmichael, quoted in Basics for Believers by D.A. Carson

The Calvinist by John Piper

The Calvinist by John Piper

See him on his knees,
Hear his constant pleas:
Heart of ev’ry aim:
“Hallowed be Your name.”
See him in the Word,
Helpless, cool, unstirred,
Heaping on the pyre
Heed until the fire.
See him with his books:
Tree beside the brooks,
Drinking at the root
Till the branch bear fruit.
See him with his pen:
Written line, and then,
Better thought preferred,
Deep from in the Word.
See him in the square,
Kept from subtle snare:
Unrelenting sleuth
On the scent of truth.
See him on the street,
Seeking to entreat,
Meek and treasuring:
“Do you know my King?”
See him in dispute,
Firm and resolute,
Driven by the fame
Of his Father’s name.
See him at his trade.
Done. The plan is made.
Men will have his skills,
If the Father wills.
See him at his meal,
Praying now to feel
Thanks and, be it graced,
God in ev’ry taste.
See him with his child:
Has he ever smiled
Such a smile before,
Playing on the floor?
See him with his wife,
Parable for life:
In this sacred scene
She is heaven’s queen.
See him stray. He groans.
“One is true,” he owns.
“What is left to me?
Fallibility.”
See him in lament
“Should I now repent?”
“Yes. And then proclaim:
All is for my fame.”
See him worshipping.
Watch the sinner sing,
Spared the burning flood
Only by the blood.
See him on the shore:
“Whence this ocean store?”
“From your God above,
Thimbleful of love.”
See him now asleep.
Watch the helpless reap
But no credit take,
Just as when awake.
See him nearing death.
Listen to his breath,
Through the ebbing pain:
Final whisper: “Gain!”

Here is this poem being read by many of my favorite authors and speakers...



The Calvinist from Desiring God on Vimeo.

A Manger Scene is on Display

Consider this, my friends today,
    when baby Jesus, in a manger lay:
    that God's glory has been put on display,
    and in a most magnificent way,
    that as a baby, now grown to man,
    he has completed his most glorious plan.
Love can be seen, but with real clarity now,
    not just through, but by pain upon his brow.
    This is how God's love is best displayed,
    when justice met mercy on the cross that day.
    And only through birth and life and death
    did resurrection show its breadth:
Sin and Satan and Death defeated,
    no hold on Christ had they completed,
    now victorious he sits upon a throne
    and we through faith in Christ alone
    by grace are cleansed from sin: atoned!
    partakers in this glorious reality
    captured by his love: complete finality.
No other name have lips ever formed,
    that took the universe in such a storm:
    glory, grace, love, justice, his name,
    every knee will bow, one day, proclaim
    but this address to him completed
    first by Mary when... "I'll call him Jesus."
So consider this, my friends today,
    when baby Jesus in a manger lay:
    that God' glory has been put on display,
    and in the most magnificent way,
    that little baby will grow to man,
    he will suffer and die according to plan.
    so bend your knee in awe today:
    a manger scene is on display.

Mingling with Splendors

This is going to be an extended quote from the book How the Gospel Brings Us All the Way Home by Derek W.H. Thomas: (I believe it is worth reading all the way to the end.)

Derek Thomas introduces this lengthy quote by C.S. Lewis in this way:

Surely our vision of what lies before us is too small. Great things are in store for those who are in union with Jesus Christ. Allow C.S. Lewis to expand your idea of what glorification is:

And then he shares these thoughts from C.S. Lewis:

We are to shine as the sun, we are to be given the Morning Star. I think I begin to see what it means. In one way, of course, God has given us the Morning Star already: you can go and enjoy the gift of many fine mornings if you get up early enough. What more, you may ask, do we want? Ah, but we want so much more -- something the books on aesthetics take little notice of. But the poets and the mythologies know all about it. 

We do not want merely to see beauty, though, God knows, even that is bounty enough. We want something else which can hardly be put into words -- to be united with the beauty we see, to pass into it, to receive it into ourselves, to bathe in it, to become part of it. That is why we have peopled air and earth and water with gods and goddesses and nymphs and elves -- that, though we cannot, yet these projections can enjoy in themselves that beauty, grace, and power of which Nature is the image. 

That is why the poets tell us such lovely falsehoods. They talk as if the west wind could really sweep into a human soul; but it can't. They tell us that "beauty born of murmuring sound" will pass into a human face; but it won't. Or not yet. For if we take the imagery of Scripture seriously, if we believe that God will one day give us the Morning Star and cause us to put on the splendor of the sun, then we may surmise that both the ancient myths and the modern poetry, so false as history, maybe very near the truth as prophecy. 

At present we are on the outside of the world, the wrong side of the door. We discern the freshness and purity of morning, but they do not make us fresh and pure. We cannot mingle with the splendours we see. But all the leaves of the New Testament are rustling with the rumors that it will not always be so. 

Some day, God willing, we shall get in. 

When human souls have become as perfect in voluntary obedience as the inanimate creation is in its lifeless obedience, then they will put on its glory, or rather that greater glory of which Nature is only the first sketch ... And in there, in beyond Nature, we shall eat of the tree of life.

Sequence Ravelled Out of Sound

I felt a Cleaving in my Mind --
As if my Brain had split --
I tried to match it -- Seam by Seam --
But could not make them fit. 

The thought behind, I strove to join
Unto the thought before --
But Sequence ravelled out of Sound
--
Like Balls -- upon a Floor

Emily Dickinson (1864)


These words ring true of my ADD mind.

This Will of Mine

I have been reading, on a weekly basis, The Hidden Life of Prayer by David McIntyre. I have also been sharing some of what I have been learning with my church on Wednesday night prayer meetings.

Near the end of Chapter 3, titled The Direction of the Mind, there was a poem that I felt.  Do you know what I mean by that?  I mean, really feeling a poem.  You feel it down deep because you have experienced what the author is describing.  I may not have actually written those exact words, but it felt like I did.

I don't know if the poem had a title or not.  I am also not really sure who actually wrote it.  It is simply sitting at the end of a section about honesty in prayer.  Not only being open and honest before God, but also willing to hear the honesty from God as He might bring things to mind while you are praying.  Things you might have to deal with.

I want to continue to give you the background to this bit of writing, but instead, I am just going to share it with you:

Lord, here I hold within my trembling hand,

This will of mine - a thing which seemeth small;

And only Thou, O Christ, canst understand

How, when I yield Thee this, I yield mine all. 

It hath been wet with tears, and stained with sighs

Clenched in my grasp till beauty hath it none;

Now, from Thy footstool where it prostrate lies

The prayer ascendeth, Let Thy will be done.

I've been there.  Had my will, my wants, my dreams, clenched firmly in my grip. I am sure to most, it wouldn't have seemed like much, but Christ knew.  He knew that to yield this to Him was yielding everything.  To finally release, lay it at His feet and say, "Lord, whatever you want.  Even that."  Those were hard words.

I urge you.  I plead with you, if you are reading this blog, to begin your prayers with a heart that is willing to give your all, to yield to the will of God.

no special haiku

It's no special day
that I write this haiku, but
I'm thinking of you.

Birthday Haiku

it is her birthday,
celebrating her life with
butter cream icing.

Happy Corporation Day!

Corporate day is what it should be called.
Well no, not really, but maybe should be,
As items are bought so wife is enthralled,
And companies dance in Valentine’s glee.

Their corporate engines blazed to the full,
With radio, TV and ads galore.
All this talk of love has made me to mull,
Grazing over cards at the local store.

But then I see one that stirs the heart strings,
Purchase is made, in the envelope shoved,
Moved by the words and the thoughts that they bring,
Of those sweet years with the one that I’ve loved.

Rushing home with these thoughts, I really must say,
That every single day should be Valentine’s day.

The Bull

The Bull
by Matt Harmless

He stands within his stall of wood,
That long term resident the bull.
Around he's been since barn has stood,
With docile splendor at its full.
Be not deceived at quiet stance,
Impression made at the first glance,
For underneath the tranquil stare,
This behemoth doth really glare.
So when the wooden fence is lowr'd
You'll find real quick you have been gored.

(Yes.  It has a secondary meaning.  I am not actually writing about a bull.)

A Considerable Speck (Microscopic)

by Robert Frost

A speck that would have been beneath my sight
On any but a paper sheet so white
Set off across what I had written there.
And I had idly poised my pen in air
To stop it with a period of ink,
When something strange about it made me think.
This was no dust speck by my breathing blown,
But unmistakably a living mite
With inclinations it could call its own.
It paused as with suspicion of my pen,
And then came racing wildly on again
To where my manuscript was not yet dry;
Then paused again and either drank or smelt --
With loathing, for again it turned to fly.
Plainly with an intelligence I dealt.
It seemed too tiny to have room for feet,
Yet must have had a set of them complete
To express how much it didn't want to die.
It ran with terror and with cunning crept.
It faltered: I could see it hesitate;
Then in the middle of the open sheet
Cower down in desperation to accept
Whatever I accorded it of fate.
I have none of the tenderer-than-thou
Collectivistic regimenting love
With which the modern world is being swept.
But this poor microscopic item now!
Since it was nothing I knew evil of
I let it lie there till I hope it slept. 

I have a mind myself and recognize
Mind when I meet with it in any guise.
No one can know how glad I am to find
On any sheet the least display of mind.

I really enjoyed this bit of Robert Frost.  I really feel a lot of the stuff he writes, but I definitely enjoyed this one.  Especially the last two lines of this poem.


The Poetry of Robert Frost
All eleven of his books-complete.
By Robert Frost
Edited by Edward Connery Lathem

Anniversary Sonnet

The sun is warm and yet the breeze is cool.
The grass is green and now is reaching high.
I watch it, though I seem to be the fool,
but watching stops its climb into the sky.
Intently looking at each blade so green,
still swaying from the cool air flowing by;
attention halts the time, or so it seems.
So watch with me in the sweet by and by.
But watching only seems to cease the grains
while falling through the narrow of the glass,
and holding tight though time cannot be tamed,
for grass is grass and always grows too fast.
And so my love I cherish moments past
and watch you close to make new moments last.

The Lord Our Righteousness

I just found this poem over at the blog Tolle Lege.  Loved it and had to share it with you.


Jehovah Tsidkenu
“The LORD our righteousness”
By Robert Murray M’Cheyne
November 18, 1331
(The watchword of the Reformers)

I ONCE was a stranger to grace and to God,
I knew not my danger, and felt not my load;
Though friends spoke in rapture of Christ on the tree.
Jehovah Tsidkenu was nothing to me.

I oft read with pleasure, to soothe or engage,
Isaiah’s wild measure and John’s simple page;
But e’en when they pictured the blood-sprinkled tree,
Jehovah Tsidkenu seem’d nothing to me.

Like tears from the daughters of Zion that roll,
I wept when the waters went over his soul
Yet thought not that my sins had nail’d to the tree,
Jehovah Tsidkenu—’twas nothing to me.

When free grace awoke me, by light from on high,
Then legal fears shook me, I trembled to die;
No refuge, no safety in self could I see—
Jehovah Tsidkenu my Saviour must be.

My terrors all vanished before the sweet name;
My guilty fears banished, with boldness I came
To drink at the fountain, life-giving and free—
Jehovah Tsidkenu is all things to me.

Jehovah Tsidkenu! my treasure and boast,
Jehovah Tsidkenu! I ne’er can be lost;
In Thee I shall conquer by flood and by field—
My cable, my anchor, my breastplate and shield!

Even treading the valley, the shadow of death,
This “watchword” shall rally my faltering breath,
For while from life’s fever my God sets me free,
Jehovah Tsidkenu my death-song shall be.

Love Haiku #5

differences we have
like scalpel, bandage and balm
in a surgeon's hands