His Still, Small Voice
Poetry, Praise and Prayer
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Jesus of Galilee (ottava rima) There are things I won’t forget about my past. Lessons, many strewn throughout my heart and soul. Endless tears sometimes bleed, feel they’ll ever last. Those tears pass by, and I know they’ve made me whole. I’ve been blessed to know God wouldn’t leave me downcast. His love and grace, bound to comfort and console. Where He leads, I’ll follow, seeking His relief. He restores my hope and peace, soothing my grief. There are restless lures that try to dim my light, Despite my worst fear, I have One who is brave. For my soul, He isn’t scared to stand up and fight. He’s the King who died for sinners He forgave. Since I know Him as my Lord, my heart is right, Oh, my, my, how I love that King who can save! Reflected in each dawn are hints of His love. He always stirs my heart with joy from above. There is music He plays, love so like a song, His gentle love feels like the sweetest embrace. Where I’m downright weak, He makes me fully strong. When I’m most humble, He tells me of His grace. Knowing love like this will never lead you wrong. I’m so eager to meet Jesus face-to-face. When I leave this world, I know He will meet me. I’m grateful for my Jesus of Galilee.
What Satan put into the heads of our remote ancestors was the idea that they could “be like gods”—could set up on their own as if they had created themselves—be their own masters—invent some sort of happiness for themselves outside God, apart from God. And out of that hopeless attempt has come nearly all that we call human history—money, poverty, ambition, war, prostitution, classes, empires, slavery—the long terrible story of man trying to find something other than God which will make him happy. The reason why it can never succeed is this. God made us: invented us as a man invents an engine. A car is made to run on petrol, and it would not run properly on anything else. Now God designed the human machine to run on Himself. He Himself is the fuel our spirits were designed to burn, or the food our spirits were designed to feed on. There is no other. That is why it is just no good asking God to make us happy in our own way without bothering about religion. God cannot give us a happiness and peace apart from Himself, because it is not there. There is no such thing.
Lewis, C. S.. Mere Christianity (p. 54). Horizon Ridge Publishing. Kindle Edition.
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A Gentle Rain
While the dawn collects its rhythm,
Quietly protecting the whispers of a new day,
Tangerine sunsets composing chrysanthemum hymns,
Risk their gentling tones in rarest glimpses,
Through the silence, into the fated feelings,
Where truth glows and kindness flows…
Shadows listen to the grace beyond the gates,
Forever rising seas, nocturnal rhythms,
Peace, in trembling pieces of heartfelt mysteries,
Blessing away the darkest storms,
Healing the moments, reassuring the stars,
Dusty breaths of kindled hope…
Arising, like the tides – ebb and flow,
Erasing the quivering seasons, burdened
By reflections of yesterday’s sins,
Neglected poetry, birthed by pain and written,
In heartfelt verses – stanzas uplifted by the soul,
Who knows the blessings of remembering…
Still as the daybreak, in flames of faith,
Awakening the heartfelt – love like a prayer,
Soothing and sentimental, yet as strong and gentle
As the most intriguing sunset, tangerines wish,
Overcome by buttery moments who believe,
Light sees beyond the winds, the trees…
Into the music that startles the dreams,
Colors, in detail, the wonder of a beautiful,
Far more alive than the dusk, the twilight,
Breathing prayers of yearning,
Enchanting, even the nocturnal, with light,
Softly tracing a silhouette of weakness, struggling…
In faith, in hope, in love – sunset’s grace seeks,
Quaint and windy echoes,
Feathery seasons, in moonlight and star strewn,
Heavens caressing the light’s flow,
Amazing us all with the night’s glow,
Flames of forever, in music that is destined…
For love, the star’s flame, seeking our pain,
Settling the darkness, the fear, the lulling rain.You and I need a middle C. Haven’t you had enough change in your life? Relationships change. Health changes. The weather changes. But the Yahweh who ruled the earth last night is the same Yahweh who rules it today. Same convictions. Same plan. Same mood. Same love. He never changes. You can no more alter God than a pebble can alter the rhythm of the Pacific. Yahweh is our middle C. A still point in a turning world. Don’t we need a still point? Don’t we need an unchanging shepherd? We equally need an uncaused shepherd. No one breathed life into Yahweh. No one sired him. No one gave birth to him. No one caused him. No act brought him forth. Though he creates, God was never created. Though he makes, he was never made. Though he causes, he was never caused. Hence the psalmist’s proclamation: “Before the mountains were born or you brought forth the earth and the world, from everlasting to everlasting you are God” (Psalm 90:2 NIV).
Lucado, Max. Safe in the Shepherd's Arms (pp. 13-14). Thomas Nelson. Kindle Edition.
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Birds (ode) “The reason birds can fly and we can't is simply because they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings.” - J.M. Barrie, The Little White Bird Robins, wrens, sparrows, quivering, yet silent, still on limbs and branches, boughs, heavy with rustling leaves, their feathers brilliantly flaunted, in cloaks of crimson, indigo and lemony yellow, creating music with arms, soft wings singing to the shattered trees, in altos, sopranos and gentle tenors, laughing, chattering, chortling, teaching the skies their cozy songs… wrestling with the crisp of winter, hesitating on the melody, alive… more alive than the breathless winds, shivering through the oaks and pines, washing away all the sun’s spun wishes, singing light on the ridges, murmuring joy and peace and love, in angelic voices, lifted in praise, silencing the grief, the pain, the heartbreaking in the distance, the heart breaking, like a whisper… birdsong, bird’s song, alive and warm, in tones of hope, poured out like the sun, gentle and fond, adoring, worshipful, rising to the skies, tender falling over the promises, the fanciful reflections of a love, who is peaceful like the dove, bird’s reassuring, in hues, all colors, rising and susurrant,… praising, praying, promising forever spun on gold threads of light, softly falling on shadows, restoring the life, resurrecting insights, inspiring, imaginations, alive… so alive, the bird’s sing and, while the night, so silent, presses in on the soul,… we are remembering the call of hope, peaceful and praising, every praising, like the wind through the trees, the singsong breeze, each bird trembles with the need, to please, simply please, singing to the One who erases the dark, fills the heart and silences the shame, as the heart continues to pray, and praise, oh, how they praise, singing like the love who stirs life, inside each story, inspires love that is ever worthy.
Jesus gave us the key to forgiveness when He said to those gathered around, “He who has no sin among you, let him throw the first stone.”
Rice, Helen Steiner; Snapdragon Group, Rebecca Currington. Little Daily Graces: A Celebration of Thankfulness (Helen Steiner Rice Collection) (p. 71). Barbour Publishing, Inc.. Kindle Edition.
Regina, your writing is so beautiful and fragrant—Jesus of Galilee. The depth of His forgiveness and grace continually unfold making life better and better🙏🏾. Amen.