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?
Could I make a difference doing so?
If not, why waste the time
I throw pebbles into the pond
and watch the ripples grow
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)
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)
Oh Father God,
Have mercy now
On me Thy wayward son.
Please change my heart
And make me pure;
Make me willing to endure
Thy judgments just,
For then I trust
I will come forth as gold
Refined in fire,
with cleansed desire:
To love Thee above all.
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
a victim of 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.
His grace will give the victory;
I rise above the enemy!
Pit yourself against granite…
Our lives flower and pass. Only robust
works of the imagination live in eternity…
make your elusive dream
in the resistant mass of crude substance.
from “Art”, in Denise Levertov’s Collected Earlier Poems
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