Prophecy

Prophecy.
The Word of God
touching the will of man.

Man's struggle to surrender
and God's given grace.

Words of hope
and promise,
waiting to be grasped
and carried towards birth.

Sometimes rejected
they fall to to the ground,
waiting in expectation
for others to receive them,
and redeem them as their own
in years to come.

Generational blessing
manifested,
by those who choose
to walk on God's safe paths,
goodness and protection,
not fettered,
but free to live the fullest life.

Word of God
and will of man
in co-operation,
vision seen to birth
and growing to bear fruit.

God's Word in prophecy
carrying infinite power,
touches our mortality,
and allows us
to hold eternity in our hearts.

Furnace Fire

Furnace fire
from the throne room,
crossing onto
the threshold of earth.

Swirling around us
as we pray,
glimpsing God's
great glory and power.

Fire and whirlwind
combined encircling,
as His Holy Spirit
manifests miracles
in our midst.

Deep peace at the center
of the rushing flames,
wrapping in
manifest presence.

Deep delight
in revealed goodness,
healing free gift
by grace received.

Wonder and awe
at eternal majesty,
drawing near
to touch our frailty,
with so much love.

Wide Eyed Grief

Wide eyed grief,
as silent and as still as death,
wraps my soul
in darkness.

I cannot comprehend
normal life,
and uncaring faces,
that glance but do not know
my journey.

Knife edged grief,
piercing and prodding
at inopportune moments,
causing complete crumpling
of my paper heart.

Eyes so tear blurred,
they cannot see
the carded words of comfort,
and must blink away
as worn out windscreen wipers,
accomplishing nothing.

Thick fogged thoughts
in a heavy head,
grapple with everyday chores,
ten times slower
and done without delight.

Heavy numbness
alternating erratically
with shooting pain.
The heart jostled
by crowded emotions,
unable to find
the space to breathe.

Regretted unspoken words,
and more so completed actions
that can no longer be undone,
linger as fellow mourners.

Death is always unwelcome
whatever the arrival time,
as it ushers in
this wide eyed grief.

What Time Is It?

It is time to count
with the measurement
of eternity,
and not with the short trapped gaze
of this passing age.

It is time to lay up heaven treasure,
so that we do not
with wistful tears,
wonder what our lives
might have been.

It is time to go into the
harvest fields,
and with word yoked actions
pull forth
weight of blessing into other lives.

It is time to talk with those
whose grief edged loneliness
smothers them,
allowing their fragile formed words
space and time.

It is time to refuse to judge
when help is needed,
and to not wait for thanks,
knowing recompense
will come in other ways.

It is time to run the race,
to fight the good fight,
and to hear the well done,
when this time comes to an end.