They say “Stage four, There’s not much more To do for you.” “A pack of pills Prolong your ills, We’ll numb the pain, But not much gain Under the sun Is left. Just run… Your best.” “My best?” you say, “Is this the way All sputtering To go? Say No.”

Doubtful hours Proved by wilted flowers When they scattered Petals, like hopes shattered Hours lasting Years, too many, stashing Up with fears too Heavy, petals that grew. There is a face That darkness can’t erase, Though rain obscure, But always it is pure. Stems stark and bare Stand brave, remember

“Satan has asked” (May it be abhorred!) “Satan has asked,” Now draws his sword. “To sift.” What does he seek To keep? And what to throw away? “As wheat.” Cast to the threshing floor Or to with flail beat. “But I have prayed,” (May that be weighed!) This must mean

I hope you will enjoy this poem by George Herbert, who lived from 1593-1633. I suggest reading it twice, as the first time lends a powerful shock, and the second reading brings richer understanding. Redemption Having been tenant long to a rich lord, Not thriving, I resolvèd to be bold,

Ours is a world of gorging Half blind. Looks alright, take a bite, Leave it behind. Fast paced, So little time to taste, Seeking sustenance- “Was that a crumb That fed me well? But with no permanence…” Gnawing- (How did we get here?) On a pig’s ear. Satiated- (Are we

There’s no analogy in life Sufficient for man with his wife Heavenly vision has contained That glory lest it be profaned- Of course though yet, a man may choose To cast away all Heaven’s views. Angels weep that desecration That destroys one flesh relation. But now- move on to brighter

He had hemmed me in Behind and before, Drew the lines that fall But I thought to soar Past sunsets that looked Like bars might prove more. Pastures green, like plain Bread, stale and dry Rolled on for days; Streams Meandered nearby- My eyes gazed elsewhere, I refused to lie.

To know the inscrutable Eternal God, This is where my heart Must trod. To know Him near and wholly mine This piece of clay the great Divine. An awesome task with shudder To with miry Hands raise diamonds to Fiery Sun, while mucking there the glassy Cuts might make such

One of the reasons I love this hymn, written in 1882 by George Matthison, is for its rich poetic content. If you like, here is the story surrounding the hymn. The lyrics deserve to be read slowly, and you will find Chris Rice’s version of the song below. “O Love