Poetry Saturday—The Course Of Prayer

May 25, 2019 — Craig T. Owens
Even so, the course of prayer who knows?
   It springs in silence where it will,
      Springs out of sight, and flows
         At first a lonely rill: 
But streams shall meet it by and by
   From thousand sympathetic hearts,
      Together swelling high
         Their chant of many parts. 
Unheard by all but angel ears
   The good Cornelius knelt alone,
      Nor dream’d his prayers and tears
         Would help a world undone. 
The while upon his terrac’d roof
   The lov’d Apostle to his Lord
      In silent thought aloof
         For Heavenly vision soar’d. 
Far o’er the glowing western main
   His wistful brow was upward rais’d,
      Where, like an angel’s train,
         The burnish’d water blaz’d. 
The saint beside the ocean pray’d,
   The soldier in his chosen bower,
      Where all his eye survey’d
         Seem’d sacred in that hour. 
To each unknown his brother’s prayer,
   Yet brethren true in dearest love
      Were they—and now they share
         Fraternal joys above. —John Keble
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Poetry Saturday—O My Soul What Means This Sadness

May 18, 2019 — Craig T. Owens
O my soul! what means this sadness?
Wherefore art thou thus cast down?
Let thy griefs be turned to gladness,
Bid thy restless fears be gone;
Look to Jesus, look to Jesus,
And rejoice in His dear name.


What though satan’s strong temptations


Vex and grieve thee day by day,


And thy sinful inclinations


Often fill thee with dismay;


Thou shalt conquer,


Through the Lamb’s redeeming blood.




Though ten thousand ills beset thee


From without and from within,


Jesus saith He’ll ne’er forget thee,


But will save from hell and sin.


He is faithful


To perform His gracious Word.




Though distresses now attend thee,


And thou tread’st the thorny road,


His right hand shall still defend thee;


Soon He’ll bring thee home to God.


Therefore praise Him,


Praise the great Redeemer’s name.




Oh that I could now adore Him


Like the heavenly host above,


Who forever bow before Him,


And unceasing sing His love.


Happy songsters!


When shall I your chorus join? —W.B. Bradbury






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Poetry Saturday—A Mother’s Day Wish

May 11, 2019 — Craig T. Owens 




When I consider how my life is spent


The most that I can do will be to prove


‘Tis by His side, each day, I seek to move.


To higher, nobler things my mind is bent


Thus giving of my strength, which God has lent,


I strive some needy souls’ unrest to soothe


Lest they the path of righteousness lose


Through fault of mine, my Maker to present.


If I should fail to show them of their need


How could I hope to meet Him, face to face,


Or give a just account of all my ways.


In thought of mind, in word, and in each deed


My life must prove the power of His grace


By every action through my living days. —Nelle Reagan (President Ronald Reagan’s mother)






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Poetry Saturday—Thanksgiving

May 4, 2019 — Craig T. Owens 




We walk on story fields of white 


And do not see the daisies, 


For blessings common in our sight 


We rarely offer praises. 


We sigh for some supreme delight 


To crown our lives with splendor, 


And quite ignore our daily store 


Of pleasures sweet and tender.




Our cares are bold and push their way 


Upon our thought and feeling; 


They hang about us all the day, 


Our time from pleasure stealing. 


So unobtrusive many a joy 


We pass by and forget it, 


But worry strives to own our lives, 


And conquers if we let it.




There’s not a day in all the year 


But holds some hidden pleasure, 


And, looking back, joys oft appear 


To brim the past’s wide measure. 


But blessings are like friends, I hold, 


Who love and labor near us. 


We ought to raise our notes of praise 


While living hearts can hear us.




Full many a blessing wears the guise 


Of worry or of trouble; 


Far-seeing is the soul, and wise, 


Who knows the mask is double. 


But he who has the faith and strength 


To thank his God for sorrow 


Has found a joy without alloy 


To gladden every morrow.




We ought to make the moments notes


Of happy, glad thanksgiving; 


The hours and days a silent phrase 


Of music we are living. 


And so the theme should swell and grow 


As weeks and months pass o’er us, 


And rise sublime at this good time, 


A grand thanksgiving chorus. —Ella Wheeler Wilcox






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Poetry Saturday—Our Sins The Cause Of Christ’s Death

April 27, 2019 — Craig T. Owens 




Infinite grief! amazing woe!


Behold my bleeding Lord!


Hell and the Jews conspired His death,


And us’d the Roman sword.




O the sharp pangs of smarting pain


My dear Redeemer bore,


When knotty whips, and ragged thorns,


His sacred body tore!




But knotty whips, and ragged thorns


In vain do I accuse;


In vain I blame the Roman bands,


And the more spiteful Jews.




‘Twas you, my sins, my cruel sins,


His chief tormentors were;


Each of my crimes became a nail,


And unbelief the spear.




It was you that pulled the vengeance down


Upon His guiltless head;


Break, break, my heart! O burst mine eyes!


And let my sorrows bleed.




Strike, mighty grace, my flinty soul,


Till melting waters flow,


And deep repentance drown mine eyes


In undissembled woe. —Isaac Watts






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Poetry Saturday—Christ Jesus Lay In Death’s Strong Bands

April 13, 2019 — Craig T. Owens 




Christ Jesus lay in death’s strong bands,


For our offenses given;


But now at God’s right hand He stands


And brings us life from heaven;


Therefore let us joyful be


And sing to God right thankfully


Loud songs of hallelujah.


Hallelujah! 




It was a strange and dreadful strife


when life and death contended;


the victory remained with life,


the reign of death was ended;


Holy Scripture plainly saith


that death is swallowed up by death,


his sting is lost forever. 


Hallelujah!




Here the true Paschal Lamb we see,


whom God so freely gave us;


He died on the accursed tree—


so strong His love!—to save us.


See, His blood doth mark our door;


faith points to it, death passes o’er,


and satan cannot harm us. 


Hallelujah! —Martin Luther






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Weeping And Rejoicing

April 6, 2019 — Craig T. Owens 




“First, I would bid you stand and see the place where the Lord lay with emotions of deep sorrow. O come, my beloved brother, thy Jesus once lay there. He was a murdered man, my soul, and thou the murderer.


‘Ah, you, my sins, my cruel sins,
His chief tormentors were,
Each of my crimes became a nail,
And unbelief the spear.’


‘Alas! and did my Saviour bleed?
And did my Sov’reign die?’


“I slew Him—this right hand struck the dagger to His heart. My deeds slew Christ. Alas! I slew my best beloved: I killed Him who loved me with an everlasting love. Ye eyes, why do ye refuse to weep when ye see Jesus’ body mangled and torn? Oh! give vent to your sorrow, Christians, for ye have good reason to do so…. My soul was drowning. From heaven’s high portals He saw me sinking in the depths of hell. He plunged in.


‘He SANK beneath His heavy woes,
To raise me to a crown;
There’s ne’er a gift His hand bestows.
But cost His heart a groan.’


“Ah! we may indeed regret our sin, since it slew Jesus.


“Now, Christian, change thy note a moment. ‘Come, see the place where the Lord lay,’ with joy and gladness. He does not lie there now. Weep, when ye see the tomb of Christ, but rejoice because it is empty. Thy sin slew Him, but His divinity raised Him up. Thy guilt hath murdered Him, but His righteousness hath restored Him. Oh! He hath burst the bonds of death; He hath ungirt the cerements of the tomb, and hath come out more than conqueror, crushing death beneath His feet. Rejoice, O Christian, for He is not there—He is risen.” —Charles Spurgeon 






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Poetry Saturday—Unanswered Prayers

March 30, 2019 — Craig T. Owens 




Like some schoolmaster kind in being stern,


Who hears the children crying o’er their slates


And calling, “Help me, master!” yet helps not,


Since in his silence and refusal lies


Their self-development, so God abides


Unheeding many prayers. He is not deaf


To any cry sent up from earnest hearts;


He hears and strengthens when He must deny.


He sees as weeping o’er life’s hard sums;


But should He give the key and dry our tears,


What would it profit us when school were done


And not one lesson mastered?




     What a world


Were this if all our prayers were answered. Not


In famed Pandora’s box were such vast ills


As lie in human hearts. Should our desires,


Voiced one by one in prayer, ascend to God


And come back as events shaped to our wish,


What chaos would result!




     In my fierce youth


I sighed out breath enough to move a fleet,


Voicing wild prayers to heaven for fancied boons


Which were denied; and that denial bends


My knees to prayer of gratitude each day


Of my maturer years. Yet from those prayers


I rose always regirded for the strife


And conscious of new strength. Pray on, sad heart,


That which thou pleadest may not be given,


But in the lofty altitude where souls


Who supplicate God’s grace are lifted, there


Thou shalt find help to bear thy daily lot


Which is not elsewhere found. —Ella Wheeler Wilcox






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Poetry Saturday—I See His Blood Upon The Rose

March 23, 2019 — Craig T. Owens 




I see His blood upon the rose


And in the stars the glory of His eyes,


His body gleams amid eternal snows,


His tears fall from the skies.




I see His face in every flower;


The thunder and the singing of the birds


Are but His voice—and carven by His power


Rocks are His written words.




All pathways by His feet are worn,


His strong heart stirs the ever-beating sea,


His crown of thorns is twined with every thorn,


His Cross is every tree. —Joseph Mary Plunkett






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Poetry Saturday—Let Not My Words

March 16, 2019 — Craig T. Owens 




Let not my words fall to the ground, O Lord, 


like Onan’s wasted, self-indulgent seed.


Let mine convey Your ever-fruitful Word,




and let them be far-flung, and gladly heard 


or read according to each person’s need.


Let not my words fall to the ground, O Lord,




like some discarded, useless, broken shard.


Let many take them up, and as they read, 


let my words bear Your ever-fruitful Word;




and in the chambers of men’s souls, deep bored, 


let them embed and germinate with speed.


Let not my words fall to the ground, O Lord,




but draw them from Your scabbard with Your Sword, 


and both together for Your glory wield.


Let mine with Yours be ever fruitful, Lord. 




This calling, this vocation, let me heed


with diligence and faithfulness, I plead.


Let not my words fall to the ground, O Lord,


but let them prove Your ever-fruitful Word. —T.M. Moore (based on 1 Samuel 3:19)






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