Poetry Saturday—The Blessed Morrow

July 8, 2017 — Craig T. Owens
’Midst the darkness, storm, and sorrow,
One bright gleam I see;
Well I know the blessed morrow 
Christ will come for me.
’Midst the light, and peace, and glory
Of the Father’s home,
Christ for me is watching, waiting,
Waiting till I come. … 


Oh the blessed joy of meeting,


All the desert past!


Oh the wondrous words of greeting


He shall speak at last!


He and I together entering


Those fair courts above


He and I together sharing


All the Father’s love. —Gerhard Tersteegen










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Poetry Saturday—The Hope Of His Coming

June 10, 2017 — Craig T. Owens 








There is a balm for every pain,


A medicine for all sorrow;


The eye turned backward to the Cross,


And forward to the morrow.




The morrow of the glory and the psalm,


When He shall come;


The morrow of the harping and the palm,


The welcome home.




Meantime in His beloved hands our ways,


And on His Heart the wandering heart at rest;


And comfort for the weary one who lays


His head upon His Breast. —Gerhard Tersteegen










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Poetry Saturday—Thou Sweet, Beloved Will Of God

September 27, 2014 — Craig T. Owens 




Gerhard TersteegenThe Will of God


Thou sweet, beloved Will of God,


   My anchor ground, my fortress hill,


My spirit’s silent, fair abode,


   In Thee I hide me, and am still.




O Will, that willest good alone,


   Lead Thou the way, Thou guidest best;


A little child I follow on,


   And trusting lean upon Thy breast.




Thy beautiful, sweet Will, my God,


   Holds fast in Its sublime embrace


My captive will, a gladsome bird,


   Prisoned in such a realm of grace.




Within this place of certain good,


   Love ever more expands her wings;


Or, nestling in Thy perfect choice,


   Abides content with what it brings.




Oh, sweetest burden, lightest yoke,


   It lifts, it bears my happy soul,


It giveth wings to this poor heart:


   My freedom is Thy grand control.




Upon God’s Will I lay me down,


   As child upon its mother’s breast;


No silken couch, nor softest bed,


   Could ever give me such sweet rest.




Thy wonderful, grand Will, my God


   With triumph now I make It mine,


And Love shall cry a jealous Yes,


   To every dear command of Thine. —Gerhard Tersteegen




 






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