Deep Change (a poem on sanctification)

God works all things for our good,
To conform us to his image.
All his commands obey we should,
As we behold his visage.

So daily do his cross we bear
And of our sins repent;
And daily give ourselves to prayer,
And for his work be spent.

For holiness is our goal;
Towards this end we strive.
Deep change he works within our soul
And Hope he keeps alive.

Soon we will in his presence be:
Spotless, holy, blameless, free,
Because the Lord on Calvary’s tree
Gave up his life for you and me!

Should I Write Poems?

Should I write poems?
Could I make a difference doing so?
If not, why waste the time
and effort
creating mediocrity?

I throw pebbles into the pond
and watch the ripples grow
and disappear.

That is my life.
A few investments here and there;
a few waves, small and large;
and then gone . . .

I have no confidence writing poetry.
I do not know whether I do it well or no.
All I know is:
I do not dislike making some.

(Photo by Jordan McDonald on Unsplash)

Whale Sharks at Oslob

The sun is hot, the sea is calm,
the boats move in a circle.
The boatman feeds the sharks with shrimp;
they eat without a struggle.

The tourists swim beside the fish;
they’ve paid to get this close.
The children shriek: they feel the rush
when nearby a shark goes.

A toothless maw sucks in the tide;
they’re big but pose no danger.
There is no sign of a Great White;
of whale sharks I am fonder.

(Note: Feature Image taken from trip advisor.com.ph)

Grace Cannot Die

Alive the grace of God in me
Though Sin may rage ferociously.
Grace shall not falter, shall not fail,
And in the end it will prevail!

Though bruised and battered Grace may be
Underneath Sin’s wild melee:
Let bloody kicks and punches fly,
‘Tis all in vain – Grace cannot die.

Thus, bleeding, fallen in the fight
Still, will I trust in God’s sure might.
The grace of Christ will give the victory,
I will arise and put on glory!

The Plant in the Pot

Image

(For impatient teachers, advisers, etc.)

The plant in the pot was growing slowly and well;
Though slowly, yet surely and freely and well.
But the maid in the house had a mind of her own;
She believed not in slowness but in sudden quick growth.
So she flooded the pot in a merciless way,
Pouring water and water until dawn of next day.
And when pouring was over, to her shock and dismay,
There was water but – oh! – no more plant, only clay.

The Mystery of Injustice

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The gavel’s thrown outside the court:

To justice there is no resort;

For laws are bent to serve the strong,

What sure is right can be made wrong.

The tears of the offended plead,

Their twisted faces you can read:

The pain and anger, grief and hurt –

O let not God their cause desert!

But wealth can move its friends on high

And easily let even justice die,

While the oppressed to heaven cry,

“Are you, God, deaf; if not, then, why?”

November 28, 1988

O Blessed Retirement

O blessed retirement, friend to life’s decline,

Retreats from care, that never must be mine,

How happy he who crowns in shades like these

A youth of labor with an age of ease;

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

And, since ‘tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

– Oliver Goldsmith, from The Deserted Village