There is a type of liberty for soldiers on the sea.
They long for restful moments when their spirits can feel free.
So they disembark the vessel, leaving their service behind,
taking leave of all their duties – enjoying fun of every kind.
This liberty so sanctioned still keeps its soldier’s heart,
for that can’t be separated as liberty makes its start.
Liberty, in this regard, is freedom in the deep.
It rouses strength from slumbering minds, which battles put asleep.
Freedom for God’s soldier does not mean we leave the load,
as much as we find rest in God’s loving abode.
I pray that God’s truth here will never be lost –
Our liberty is free, but Christ paid the ultimate cost.
The mountain is God’s altar view where a marriage finds it voice.
Its love echos throughout the slopes, with a bold, robust rejoice.
Strolling up the mountainside, on the avenue of dreams,
one soon is sure to realize that marriage is not what is seems.
Up close, the trail winds tightly around the curves and rocks of life,
and it often changes landscapes for a husband or a wife.
Hand in hand they’ll tread the mountain height, and look up to gauge
its worth. Only when we let God bring it forth, can a marriage truly work.
The path of marriage finds itself imbedded in coarse stone.
It weaves itself around the two who ask God to help alone.
New breezes blow dead leaves off of the branch.
Gives grandest feeling you still stand a chance.
For life to be re-born after sorrow’s stand off,
To reclaim the cycle where the going’s been rough.
Blowing winds leave me breathless as I stand in its force.
Blustery movement within nature’s resource.
The deadness is fallen, lain in separate condition,
While life visits branches in its new season of rendition.
As the wind whispers calmness, it allows me to glean
Cherished moments in stillness, as I view the same old scene.
Scene is the same in its fortress, but it’s new to my mind’s touch,
For new growth gladly sprouted telling the story, as such.
I can now smell flowers without seeing funeral’s spray,
And flow in the presence as the wind gently plays.
The breeze blows outward; leaving deadness behind.
Let God’s nature present its message to all of mankind.
Sadly, all seeds must die, bursting underground growth.
A part of God’s creative purpose, of His own solemn oath.
Butterfly wings hail the eternal truth we explore.
Death comes before life. Now we know what is in store.
There is a place of warmth and light, of beauty and of grace.
It emanates from logs of wood, and fills all of the space.
The stones of strength are gently placed and formed around the fire,
Encased without the ashen state, to find a burning choir.
The sparks of fire erupt as if they’re speaking from the flame.
It seems as though you are to me a notion just the same.
The crackle of the stokes of fire caused then this glowing poem.
The brightness of your laugh and smile make all feel right at home.
You stay within your structure strong, and yet the sparks come through.
The beauty, love and grace you show gives such a lovely hue.
You fill the air with warmth so much, embracing all who see.
Just think from one lone anchor gal the fire does burn so sweet.
You do not try, but manage to invade our houses fair.
With your own brand of humor and a heart that’s first to care.
Written for Diana Pierce KARE 11 anchor, who warms our hearts night by night (October 5, 1994).
Homebody, that is my true self. Less traveled, I may be.
Yet when a book is opened wide, a new world beckons me.
The pages where I feel their pain; I see acute distress.
I recognize I’m not alone. It helps me strong express.
The paper trail it leads me on expands each page that’s turned.
Visiting places, viewing sights of things I thought I’d learned.
Through books I’ve seen the castles where mighty ones did reign.
And read accounts of those whose lives were stenciled by the pain.
The manuscript of literature does more than spew forth word.
It brings description, feeling, and pathways to things I’ve not yet heard.
Strewn on the road, in reverence, they, declared His royal state.
Used branches as a carpet for triumphal entry great.
The crowds burst forth with shouts of praise, in joyful notes and yet,
The Lamb’s reply was cross’ wave – His palms none would forget!
Painting sprawled on door and frame, to signify death’s roulette game.
Blood droplets marked lintel’s place: here testify dread’s coming face.
Millions muffled in Pharaoh’s grip, could not respond by way of lip.
Remittance sent through upward flow; intercepted tyranny below.
Expression crisp, angelic share. To those devoted, shackles can’t bare.
“When I see blood, I will pass over you”; final decree, came not too soon.
Passed over – not in terms of preference, indulgence of indifference.
Unwelcome intruder, death’s pallor, a flood.
Application drawn up and signed in life’s blood.
Individual occupant, choice to be made. Future of first born, lifetime arcade.
If unwilling to apply the fresh blood to their door, then the eldest of
males would not live any more.
The Lord’s Passover was not neglect; observant was His gaze.
He’ll look past sin’s death, if blood is there – this hallmark sound of praise!
To: Pastor John,
Just for fun…..
I remember when you asked me to be the Worship Leader and you indicated that you wanted my tenure to be about twelve years – or until you retire.
That made me think of the song: “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, so I wrote this in that spirit:
Beginning my 12 years of service, the pastor said to me
“Please keep up the worship, you see”.
From the first year and onward, we’ll see how it should be-
Twelve – church is over
Eleven – pastor’s preaching
Ten – singer’s practice
Nine – the prayer and Sunday School
Eight – quilting’s over
Seven – Board is summoned
Six – feed the kidlets
Five – start the Kid’s club
Four – visit Banfill
Three Cupryna children
Two – potluck’s over
And One pastor too tired to retire.
When you’re talking to her picture, it is framed in love’s intent.
She cannot answer in this life, but your message still is sent.
She will answer through the lives of those she touched while living here,
and in the sound of your children, you’ll know Genevieve is near.
When you’re talking to her picture, you can see her lovely face,
which is a great reminder that she’s alive in heaven’s place.
There, she’s talking to the Savior of her life down here below.
It’s a picture of eternal love that one day will surely grow.
When you’re talking to her picture, listen close to Jesus’ words,
for the loss and emptiness you feel are the hurts our Savior heard.
Wally, treasure that dear picture and talk daily as you wish,
for the thought of Genevieve supplies God’s precious daily kiss.
This trinity of hearth and home is felt throughout the miles.
It lends itself to lands unknown and God’s own Triune style.
There’s a physical home of dwelling – Andrea’s life in residence,
And the Spirit one unto mansion’s fair, with the Sovereign’s own Presence.
Then, the one wherein her soul delights, her missionary call and station;
Each home’s entwined with the tri-fold cord of deep and glad affection.
Home, in itself, is that plot of ground where we’re free to live and grow.
God has blessed you that you’ll never roam, for you’re always safe at home.
