Follow Me

 

Follow Me. . .

I'll be yours and you'll be mine;

Follow Me. . .

You'll cast out my fishing line.

Follow Me. . .

Don't wait for another time;

My flame will make your candle shine--

Come, follow me.

Come and see

Where I walk and where I dwell;

Come and see. . .

Watch me make the crippled well.

Come and see. . .

What I've planned I cannot tell,

But I see I've rung your bell,

So come and see.

It isn't all I've come to call,

Just you who know your need. . .

The cheaters and the harlots, too,

Might enter in ahead of you!

You must be blind to see the truth,

In prison, to be freed!

Learn of Me. . .

Sit in wonder at my feet;

Learn of Me. . .

Taste, and see my words are sweet.

Learn of Me. . .

Here where care and comfort meet,

Hear the call of my heart's beat,

And learn of Me.

Bear the tree. . .

Be prepared to give your all;

Bear the tree. . .

In the world or "to the wall."

Bear the tree. . .

If you truly heard the call,

Though the cost be big or small,

You'll bear the tree.

I came with truth and miracles,

But you would not believe;

You wouldn't let me salve your eyes--

Instead you plotted my demise.

But you're welcome still to claim the prize

If my words you'll receive.

You'll be free. . .

From the lies that gripped your past;

You'll be free. . .

From the King's approaching wrath.

You'll be free. . .

In my Kingdom, coming fast--

Safe in my loving arms at last,

You will be free.

MNA

c. 2000

In the City of Man

 

"Like god. . ." the serpent had said.

Not so with Abel and Cain.

Marked out, the guilty one fled,

Now that the faithful lay slain.

But the earth-cursed wanderer

Who should have known better

Soon built his palace on the plain,

Marked out his will and his plan:

Raised up the City of Man.

"We'll build," the rebels declared,

"So high, His judgment won't reach."

All pride imagined was dared,

Till God confounded their speech.

Still, the scattered wanderers

Who should have found wisdom

All built their bastions on the beach,

Someday the whole earth to span:

Their pride, the City of Man.

"Woe! Woe!" all nations will cry

When fallen Babylon burns.

No cache of cultures can buy

His grace when Jesus returns!

Now the wine-dulled wanderers

Who should have read Scripture

Will wake to ruin when they learn

Their pride makes way for the Lamb:

He who fells the City of Man.

O beware! The City of Man

Fights a battle it never can win.

Sleeper, wake! Your Vanity Fair

Is an apple with a broken skin.

We can't repair the damage we've done;

We must be born again. . .

Before the King takes His stand

Once again, in the City of Man.

Foe of the Faithful, friend of the Beast,

God even now makes ready His feast. . . 

But safe in a City "not made by hands. . ."

(Only the blood-bought citizen understands!)

MNA

c. 2000

Pandora's Box

Pandora's box is empty now;

Our pride unlatched the lid somehow.

We wonder how we could allow 

Such evils to escape?

Yet, lessons deep in history

Have long uncovered this for me;

This fabled, former mystery

That often changes shape. . .

Men garner blessings so immense

From wooing, pard'ning Providence,

And start, with gratitude intense,

God's goodness to extol.

But getting gifts is but the hem

Of holding and enjoying them;

So oft, ingratitude will stem 

From loving their control.

It never seems enough for us

To see the wind for what it does;

We yearn to find out what it was

Before it blew our way.

So, inwardly, we curse the craft

That caused breath o'er our souls to waft,

That bade us know, then seeming laughed

That limits dimmed our day.

We try to trace, we need to know

The tempting gifts of twilight-glow

Whose rays impel us to and fro

With no real place to land. . .

For truly science can predict

From laws the Lord chose to inflict

Such outcomes as He wisely picked

For wise to understand.

But we, like Job the upright man,

Still vexed within a hidden plan,

Fight for a knowledge greater than

Our faithful God reveals.

That Tree we robbed from, we admit,

Robbed us of His rest, bit by bit---

Made us the carnal conduit

Of whining, proud appeals.

Now in our minds, all things we store,

And prize, outside them, gifts galore,

Yet seek that longed-for "something more"

That teases, tests and tempts.

We think that Hand that prunes the vine

And stores His joy in simple wine

Now from the child of gifts divine

Such fruitfulness exempts?

We are not trolls or dwarves or elves,

Left to produce but for ourselves

And fill up endless trophy shelves

Or run and endless race. . .

Not merely livers of the Law

With passion plain and reason raw;

Men yearn to wield some ass's jaw

To win some highest place.

So, myriad voices boast to fill

That restless vacuum of their will--

Amuse them and entice, until

They break on the unknown. . .

And often find themselves entrenched

Deep in their souls, no hunger quenched,

Holding to life with soul-fists clenched:

A deathly, twilit zone,

Till they through many zones have moved,

Though every proud warpath has proved

To dull their hearts toward "God so loved. . ."

And drench His friendly flame.

The One who drafted space and time

And spoke His potent pantomime,

Then rushed to clothe His creature's crime,

Stark naked in our shame;

But stubborn flesh refused to cling

To shame that needed comforting.

We chose to ban that healthy sting

With medicine or myth. . .

We learned to bear it from our birth,

Say stoically, "It doesn't hurt". . .

Each wandering exile on the earth

Whose head is marked therewith.

Now full-ashamed of shame are we

And callously transplant the Tree

And reap a ruthless trinity

Of body, soul and pride.

We hasten to sate pride's desire

For stimuli, and magic's mire,

Fearing the truth of logic's fire

Would set dark dreams aside.

Besides, do we not have the wits

To shout down holy hypocrites

Whose story loud and long admits

To foibles, factions, strife?

How pitiful the church's shame

Must harken to a higher Name. . .

Just give them time; they'll find the same

Futility in life!

Yes, long ago we read their Book.

We gave their Christ a cursory look.

We sympathize how they mistook

His loving words for light. . .\

He sang them like the pipes of Pan

To bring us back where we began;

We found we must embrace the Man

Whose love refused our fight.

And His men strike us still that way,

Who weirdly weather His delay,

As if they've found some distant day

Where striving is no more. . .

Yet we will still, till cry the rocks,

Pick proudly the Creator's locks,

Convinced that no Pandora's box

Remains for us in store.

MNA

c. 2000?

IT'S PERSONAL

I said that I would seek the truth

   if I found it worth the trip. . .
Now I can show you living proof:
   truth is found in a relationship!
The truth can only set you free
   if you know where it begins. . .
I thought truth had eluded me,
  ’til I found I had avoided HIM!

Surprise! The truth is personal.
The goal I sought is a personal Being. . .
The line is irreversible:
In back of it all, it was GOD I was seeing.
A holy God loves me even though I sinned,
And His word reveals His face
As His Son redeems our race.
I received His grace. I was PERSONAL to Him.

Most people turn the truth away,
   for He’s not what they desire. . .
Our wicked hearts lead us astray,
   quenching rumors of eternal fire!
Meanwhile, we scar our personhood,
   trading fact for fantasy. . .
’Til one day, by grace I understood
   that this sinless Person died for me!

Surprise! The truth is personal.
The goal we seek is a personal Being. . .
The line is irreversible:
In back of it all, it’s GOD we are seeing.
A holy God loves us even though we sin,
And His word reveals His face,
As His Son redeems our race.
We received His grace. We were PERSONAL to Him.

Yes, the Bible tells the story.
   All the facts are written down.
I can pass your test,
   I can do my best to show you. . .
But upon that Day in glory,
   when all facts his voice will drown,
Will you hear Him cry,
   “Go away, for I don’t know you!”?

Surprise! The truth is personal.
The goal you seek is a personal Being. . .
The line is irreversible:
In back of it all, it’s GOD you are seeing.
A holy God loves you, even though you’ve sinned,
And His word reveals His face,
As His Son redeems our race.
O receive His grace. You are PERSONAL to Him!


MNA
March 8, 1996

His Signature?

We have madly delved for data

   where terran truths are fossilized,
And have filtered through the strata
   for hopes man has hypothesized. . .
We have linked our lives to labors
   of stuporous seeker, fractured fact,
As our shepherds sharpen sabres
   to hack apart each human act.

But a God of shadowy wonder,
   who encased this globe in gaseous gloom
Left us nether-beasts of thunder
   to remind our pride of Satan's doom. . .
Who rebelled from lack of knowledge--
   defiled one brave created race
Only to despoil the homage
   of one God raised up in its place.

We enshrine unanswered queries
   as celestial screams fall on deaf ears;
Still, we chill at cemeteries,
   failing to inter our darkest fears. . .
We refuse to stand connected
   to a reasoned power past our own,
For our reason lies infected
   with viral visions set in stone.

Could our vision merely widen,
   we would feel, in answers never sought,
Creatures God chose to confide in
   who, for mercy's sake, by heav'n are taught. . .
Yes, the heavens are our teachers,
   as are hyacinth and zinnia;
Far more eloquent than features
   of Melchizedek's millenia.

One might think this God in error
   to deposit puzzles unexplained;
Earth would seem, perhaps, the fairer
   were all myst'ries in our minds contained. . . 
In no sense would He be worthy
   of His creatures' free, submissive love
If solutions all were earthly,
   if the vessels thrown could potters prove.

Should our science be so errant
   that signatures divine be lost,
Let us fear what cosmic parent
   would seek our ardor to exhaust!
But if God indeed has given
   insignias of such eloquence, 
Both the verbal and half-hidden,
   what counsel stands in our defense?

If this God came as a Brother 
   to invite with living blood and bone,
How can we search for another?
   Is it unjust that we die alone?
While all time and matter rages,
   while all energies in Him dissolve,
Will we yearn through endless ages
   for our higher power to EVOLVE?

MNA  
August 27, 1993

Home and Garden

The joys our God is growing

in the homes He will redeem
Aren't hidden in some hothouse,
locked away for leisure's show. . .
These bright bouquets immortal
ought in every room to gleam,
Where'er in you I'm taken
radiate their godly glow.

The peace and joy of Jesus
are not overgrown and lush;
They grow not as a jungle
for all clumsy scythes to claim. . .
The Gardener's knowing patience
works within a holy hush,
From room to room maintaining,
keeping each wild tendril tame.

Gay roses in the kitchen,
water lilies in the bath,
All need the expert urgings
of the Eden-crafter's care. . .
Dark-dwellers so deficient
and so lately saved from wrath:
How can we hope for harvest
if all rooms we fail to share?

So often we restrict Him,
Cultivator of the seed
That grace once gladly planted
in each box and every bed. . .
We set the stifled hours
when we think His hands we need,
Not dreaming that imprisoned
petals elsewhere lie half-dead!

Let us allow Him access
to each chamber of our hearts,
For flowers fully flourish---
sweetest blooms of loving joys---
Where He who plants is granted
ministrations of those arts
That gently loose each blossom
and position it with poise.

O Joy of my salvation!
not a closet would I keep
Unopened to Your presence,
for its flowers soon would fade. . .
O Jesus, gentle, joyful---
tranquil Spring so sure and deep---
You have free reign within me,
'til new Eden You have made!


MNA
June 30, 1995

Someone Else's Slave

Pond’ring pathways in my brain,

Finding phantoms I cannot explain,

Quite assured that I must be

So much more than I can see,

More than earthly life and limb contain…

Wond’ring why I choose to go

Far beyond the reasoned roads I know,

Reaching past forbidden doors,

Tasting fruit with poisoned cores,

Planting furrows that refuse to grow…

Wildly straining to be free,

There’s a chain that shackles me,

Binding conscience with how I behave.

Resignation fills my eyes,

For I’ve come to realize

Everybody is somebody’s slave.

We are precious merchandise,

Purchased once, created twice;

Carried off by cosmic lies,

Who could pay so high a price?

From the land where bonds are free,

To the home where foes are brave,

Jesus came to ransom me

To be Someone else’s slave!

Deathly sure of my repose,

Living for the gods I thought I chose,

Playing fast and loose with fate,

Hoping I’ll pass Heaven’s gate

By some clever logic I’d propose…

Laughing lightly at the laws,

Unseen hands effecting ev’ry cause,

Never noticing their scars

As they feed me through the bars,

Poised to snatch me from hell’s gaping jaws…

They say, “Check the lost and found;

Freedom’s train runs underground!

Angels told us that He came to save…

Child, you ought to know by now,

Let your mind conceive somehow;

Everybody is somebody’s slave.

Brother, fortify your nerve,

Bracing for the final choice.

Choose this day whom you will serve

And discern your shepherd’s voice.

Death’s defenses bursting through

From a resurrection grave,

Jesus came to ransom you

To be Someone else’s slave!”

MNA

12/4/1992