The Battle Over

On January 13th my hero went to heaven. Robert Christian Hueni was my father-in-law and a man I held in the highest honour. He lived a life of profound faithfulness and godliness in the little town of Bremen, Indiana. He was never featured on a giant stage, never wrote a book and never sought the limelight. But let me tell you, the man could preach, and pray and write - letters. Thousands of them by my estimation. Showering the world with the Gospel wherever he could.
I will have much more to say about him in the days ahead, but for now I am posting a poem I read at the family funeral. Dad loved poetry and we had a habit of writing to each other in verse - mostly silly, sometimes serious. This time, I get the last word.

The words were prompted by my reflection on David's lament for Saul and Jonathan after their deaths in battle.  That is found in 2 Samuel 1.

The Battle Over

“How the mighty has fallen

in the midst of the battle”

Who stood there unshaken

By the Enemy’s prattle (Eph 6:13)

So few are so faithful

As that man on his field

Who drew his sharp sword

His ground would not yield (Eph 6:17)

From youth he accepted

Both his place and his lot (Ps 16:5)

Said, “I’ll seek to be faithful

With all that I’ve got.” (Mt 16:24)

With that he marched forward

In Zion’s great army

And wrestled with enemies

Dark and alarming  (Eph 6:12)

Some outward, most inward (Ro 7:22)

With prayer and with fasting (Mk 9:29)

He clashed in the strife

With blows that were lasting (Ro 8:13)

Eyes set on his Captain (Col 3:2)

He listened for orders

And helped to expand

Sweet Israel’s borders

[How many citizens

Of that blessed mount (Ps 69:35)

Will credit this messenger (Ro 10:15)

For proclaiming the Fount?]

Assaulted and battered

To Jordan’s dark shore

The last strike the fiercest

From Babylon’s Whore (Rev 17:6)

Yet with jaw set like flint

To resist that Pretender (Rev 19:2)

He whispered a final,

“Never Surrender” (Heb 12:4)

A true son of Bremen

He fought like a lion… (2 Sam 1:23)

Then breathed his last breath

And stood white-robed in Zion! (Rev 6:11)

Yet, I’m broken to lose you

My friend and my brother

Jonathan-like love (2 Sam 1:26)

I’ve had for no other

“How the mighty has fallen”

You’d reject the word, “mighty” (1 Tim 1:15)

And tell me to man up

And not get all flighty

But I’ll mourn for my David

And rejoice in the grace

That carried you through

To behold His pure face (Rev 22:4)

And I’ll seek to follow

The example you’ve left (Heb 13:7-8)

Never forgetting

Nor forever bereft

But thankful and grateful

I saw your great story

And eager to stand

With you, brother, in glory. (Rev 21:3-4)

The Father's Whistle

My friend Michael Haykin is a poet. He writes things that you have to think really carefully about to understand.
I, on the other hand, sometimes find myself saying sentences with last words that rhyme. And for some reason I post them here once in a while. The example below is simply what popped into my head at the end of last Sunday morning’s sermon on Zechariah 10 and 11. I am never sure what to do with these little rhymes (most of which I write out and ignore) but the imagery of that passage was so unique I thought it a helpful way to pull together some of the big themes.
Anyway, here it is for free. I hope in some little way it points you to Jesus.

Behold the flock whipped along to what is certain slaughter
Behold the Father whistling clear for every son and daughter
Is it your name the Shepherd calls and invites to endless bliss?
Turn from the flock doomed to death, to heaven from the abyss.

He’s made a way for you to come, the price: his own Son’s blood
And all who venture faith on Him are met by mercy’s flood
Those worthless shepherds will yell and clutch and try to prove they own you
Just trust the Saviour, friend, and come; He never will disown you.

Poem: AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. GEORGE WHITEFIELD. (Part Three)

How blest the messenger whom Jesus owns,
How swift with the commissioned word he runs!
The sacred fire shut up within his breast
Breaks out again, the weary cannot rest,
Cannot consent his feeble flesh to spare,
But rushes on, Jehovah’s harbinger:
His one delightful work, and steadfast aim
To pluck poor souls as brands out of the flame,
To scatter the good seed on every side, 200
To spread the knowledge of the crucified,
From a small spark a mighty fire to raise,
And fill the continent with Jesus’ praise.
What recompense for all his endless toil?
The Master pays him with a constant smile,
With peace, and power, and comforts from above,
Grace upon grace, and floods of rapt’rous love.
When often spent and spiritless he lies,
Jesus beholds him with propitious eyes,
And looks him back his strength, and bids arise, 210
Sends him again to run the lengthened race,
Prospers his work, and shines on all his ways.
The man of God, whom God delights t’ approve
In his great labours of parental love,
Love of the little ones—for these he cares,
The lambs, the orphans, in his bosom bears;
Knowing in whom he trusts, provides a place,
And spreads a table in the wilderness,
A father of the fatherless, supplies
Their daily wants—with manna from the skies, 220
In answer to his prayer so strangely given,
His fervent prayer of faith that opens heaven.
What mighty works the prayer of faith can do!
The good of souls, and Jesus in his view,
He sees the basis sure, which cannot fail,
Laid by the true divine Zerubbabel;
The rising house built up by swift degrees,
The crowning-stone brought forth with shouts he sees:
The Lord hath finished what his hands begun,
Ascribe the gracious work to grace alone. 230
The house is built; and shall not God provide?
Plentiful help pours in on every side,
From hearts inclined the hungry lambs to feed
By him, who satisfies the poor with bread;
Whose blessing makes the earth her riches yield,
The wilderness become a fruitful field,
Bids golden harvests round his house arise,
And turns a waste into a paradise.
With heart enlarged, with confidence increased,
In all his purposes and labours bless’d, 240
The steward wise, and faithful to his trust,
Gives God the praise, and sinks into the dust,
And cries, o’erwhelmed his Master’s smile to see,
“O when shall I begin to live for thee!”
More grace is on the humble man bestowed,
More work on him that loves to work for God;
By whose supreme decree, and kind command
He now returns, to bless his native land,
(Nor dreads the threat’nings of the wat’ry deep,3
Or all its storms, with Jesus in the ship) 250
To see how the belov’d disciples fare,
Fruits of his toil, and children of his prayer,
A second gospel-benefit t’ impart,
And comfort, and confirm the faithful heart.
So the first missioners in Jesus’ name,
Went forth, the world’s Redeemer to proclaim,
The crucified, supreme, eternal God,
The general peace and pardon in his blood;
From clime to clime the restless heralds run,
To make their Saviour through the nations known, 260
Planted in every place, to serve their Lord,
A living church, and watered by the word,
While heaven was pleased their ministry to bless,
And God bestowed the thousand-fold increase.

Poem: AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. GEORGE WHITEFIELD. (Part Two)

Here is another section of Charles Wesley's poetic eulogy of George Whitefield. You can read part one here.

Yet soon he bows before the will divine
Clearly demonstrating its own design,
Called by a prelate good, no more delays
T’ accept with awe the consecrating grace,
And offers up, through the Redeemer’s blood, 120
His body, spirit, soul, a sacrifice to God.
He now begins, from every weight set free,
To make full trial of his ministry,
Breaks forth on every side, and runs, and flies,
Like kindling flames that from the stubble rise,
Where’er the ministerial Spirit leads,
From house to house the heavenly fire he spreads,
Ranges through all the city-lanes and streets,
And seizes every prodigal he meets.
Who shall the will and work divine oppose? 130
His strength with his increasing labour grows:
Workman and work th’ Almighty hath prepared,
And sent of God, the servant must be heard,
Rush through the opening door, on sinners call,
Proclaim the truth, and offer Christ to all.
“Sound an alarm, the gospel-trumpet blow,
Let all their time of visitation know;
The Saviour comes! (You hear his herald cry)
Go forth and meet the friend of sinners nigh!”
Roused from the sleep of death, a countless crowd, 140
(Whose hearts like trees before the wind are bowed,
As a thick cloud, that darkens all the sky,
As flocking doves, that to their windows fly,)
Press to the hallowed courts, with eager strife,
Catch the convincing word, and hear for life.
Parties and sects their endless feuds forget
And fall, and tremble at the preacher’s feet,
Pricked at the heart, with one consent inquire
What must we do t’ escape the never-dying fire?
Made apt to teach he points them out the way, 150
And willing multitudes the truth obey;
He lets his light on all impartial shine,
And strenuously asserts the birth divine;
The Spirit freely given to all who claim
That promised Comforter in Jesus’ name;
The pardon bought so dear, by grace bestowed,
Received through faith in the atoning blood.
While yet he speaks, the Lord himself comes down,
Applies and proves the gracious word his own,
The Holy Ghost to thirsty souls imparts, 160
And writes forgiveness on the broken hearts.
But lo! An ampler field appears in view,
And calls his champion forth to conquests new:
Nor toils, nor dangers can his zeal repress,
Nor crowds detain him by his own success:
In vain his children tempt him to delay,
With prayers and tears invite his longer stay,
Or ask, as sharers of his weal or woe,
To earth’s remotest bounds with him to go:
He leaves them all behind, at Jesus’ word, 170
He finds them all again in his beloved Lord.
See, where he flies! As if by heaven designed,
T’ awake and draw our whole apostate kind!
He takes the eagle’s with the morning’s wings,
To other worlds the great salvation brings,
As sent, with joyful news of sins forgiven,
To every ransomed soul on this side heaven!
With ready mind th’ Americans receive
Their angel-friend, and his report believe,
So soon the servant’s heavenly call they find, 180
So soon they hear the Master’s feet behind:
He comes—to wound, and heal! At his descent
The mountains flow, the rocky hearts are rent;
Numbers acknowledging their gracious day
Turn to the Lord, and cast their sins away,
And faint and sink, beneath their guilty load,
Into the arms of a forgiving God.
His Son revealed, they now exult to know,
And after a despised Redeemer go,
In all the works prepared their faith to prove, 190
In patient hope, and fervency of love.

Poem: AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. GEORGE WHITEFIELD.

From their days together at Oxford and throughout their earthly ministries, Charles Wesley and George Whitefield remained friends That friendship was tested at times due to their strong doctrinal differences and some of the actions of Charles’ brother, John, but by the two men remained friends and even saw that friendship grow much deeper in later life.
Wesley wrote a hymn concerning Whitefield and this following “elegy.” It is a long poem that essentially tells the life of the great evangelist. I will post the first part today with more to come!

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. MR. GEORGE WHITEFIELD.

And is my Whitefield entered into rest,
With sudden death, with sudden glory blest?
Left for a few sad moments here behind,
I bear his image on my faithful mind;
To future times the fair example tell
Of one who lived, of one who died, so well,
Pay the last office of fraternal love,
And then embrace my happier friend above.
O thou who didst, in our degenerate days,
This chosen vessel for thy glory raise, 10
My heart with my companion’s zeal inspire,
And touch my lips with the celestial fire,
That while thy servant’s labours I record,
Sinners may see, and magnify his Lord,
Bow to the saving name, and thankful own
The good on earth performed is wrought by God alone.

His sovereign grace vouchsafed a worm to choose,
The vessel fitting for the Master’s use:
God from the womb set for himself apart
A pastor fashioned after his own heart; 20
Infused the infant-wish, the warm desire,
To minister like that angelic choir,
And bade his simple soul to heaven aspire.
Awed, and delighted with a God unknown,
By glimpses of his face led gently on,
The powerful, sweet attraction he pursued,
And feared the crowd, and sighed for solitude;
His sins and wants in secret to declare,
Or wait for blessings in the house of prayer,
Devotion by the altar-fire to raise, 30
And join the first-born church in solemn songs of praise.
But now the Lord, who sends by whom he will,
Ready his own great purpose to fulfil,
Inclined the creature’s heart as passive clay,
And pointed out his providential way
To learning’s seats, for piety designed,
For knowledge sound, with pure religion joined,
Schools of the prophets’ sons, and well employed,
When training servants for the courts of God.
’Twas there he dared his father’s God pursue, 40
Associating with the derided few,
(Who, newly started in the Christian race,
Were blindly following after righteousness,
Outcasts of men, and fools for Jesus’ sake!)
He longed their glorious scandal to partake,
Courageously took up the shameful cross,
And suffering all things in the Saviour’s cause,
Vowed to renounce the world, himself deny,
And following on with them, with them to live and die.
Can I the memorable day forget, 50
When first we by divine appointment met?
Where undisturbed the thoughtful student roves,
In search of truth, through academic groves,
A modest, pensive youth, who mused alone,
Industrious the frequented path to shun,
An Israelite without disguise or art
I saw, I loved, and clasped him to my heart,
A stranger as my bosom-friend caressed,
And unawares received an angel-guest.
Marked for an angel of the church below, 60
Must he not first severe temptation know,
Fly from the flaming mount with guilty awe,
And quake to hear the thunders of the law,
Th’ accuser’s cruel buffetings sustain,
Still of unconquerable sin complain,
With cries, and tears that seemed to flow in vain?
Long in the fire, long in the desert tried,
He daily languished, and he daily died,
Long by the spirit of fear in prison bound,
Groaned for relief, yet no deliverance found; 70
Till quite forsaken both of man and God,
And fainting underneath corruption’s load,
His fastings, prayers, and struggles he gave o’er,
Sunk in despair, and gasped for help no more.

Then in the last extreme of hopeless grief,
Jesus appeared! And helped his unbelief,
Infused the faith which did his sins remove,
Assured his heart of God’s forgiving love,
And filled with glorious joy, the joy of saints above.
Who but the souls that savingly believe, 80
The raptures of a faithful soul conceive?
The joy unspeakable, the love unknown,
The peace he felt is understood by none,
By none but those who know their sins forgiven
Through God the Holy Ghost come down from heaven.
Born of the Spirit now, divinely led,
He hastes in his dear Saviour’s steps to tread,
Eager his faith’s sincerity to prove
By all the works of piety and love;
Fruits of repentance first, and legal fear, 90
They now the genuine marks of grace appear,
Their own superior principle maintain,
And justify his faith to God and man;
While list’ning to forlorn affliction’s cries,
Swift to assist on wings of love he flies,
Help to the sick, and needy prisoners gives,
And more than their external wants relieves;
Alarms the souls that sleep secure in sin,
Till urged the one great business they begin,
Instructs them how to ’scape the judgment nigh, 100
“Ye must be born again, or dead forever die!”
Nor let the scrup’lous sons of Levi fear
He thus invades the sacred character:
Thus every candidate should first be tried,
In doing good, in Jesus’ steps abide,
Then exercise aright the deacon’s powers,
Son to his church, as Whitefield was to ours.
Moved by the Holy Ghost to minister,
And serve his altar, in the house of prayer,
Though long resolved for God alone to live, 110
The outward call he trembled to receive,
Shrunk from the awful charge, so well prepared,
The gift by apostolic hands conferred,
And cried, with deep unfeigned humility,
“Send, Lord, by whom thou wilt, but send not me.”

Poem: The Meaning of Christmas (at the Mall)

One way to understand a culture is to study the songs, poems and art that it cherishes. Some have argued that you cannot understand a culture until you can interpret its poetry...even write it. I took this challenge to heart this year in my effort to understand Christmas.
Although I was rather certain I had a good grasp of the meaning of this holiday, my recent study exposed some gaping holes in my knowledge. Thus, I took it upon myself to write a poem that reflected the true meaning of Christmas... from the perspective of mall music.
I am rather excited about it… even with the somewhat Puritanical Title…

The Meaning of Christmas
(or, a Reflective Sonnet Upon the Various and Sundry Nuances and Fancies of December in North America)
A long time ago in Bethelehem
In a winter wonderland
A little drummer boy drove into town
With Frosty the Snowman

Giddy up, giddy up, giddy up let’s go
They sang that midnight clear
And turned their headlights way down low
To avoid red-nosed Reindeer

The boy had five golden rings
Frosty, two turtle doves
And stuffed with figgy pudding then
They gleamed the light of love

They drove on city sidewalks (busy sidewalks!)
To a certain unstirring house
And met three wise men at the door
Of Mr. and Mrs. Klaus

A fat man wearing red underwear
Answered the door with a list
And elvish folk rocked ‘round the tree
Singing of their dental wish

Then someone called on Frosty’s cell
And said they would be home
The boy began to play his drum
The wise guys read a star tome

Parson Brown knocked at the door
Bearing awfully bad news
“Grandma was reindeer-trampled
After drinking too much booze”

So, Mrs. Klaus called the cop
To charge, he did not know
But then a thumpety-thump-thump
Was heard on hills of snow

For Frosty owned that herd of deer
And afraid it was his Cupid
He snuck off to retrieve his pet
But this, my friends, was stupid

For all the rest chased him far
And he started to perspire
Which when you’re made of snow and ice
Is like you’re eating fire

And so ‘neath lights of red and green
They chased him on the double
But when they caught the culprit snowman
He was nothing but a puddle

And so this cryptic story
Its message now construes...
And once I figure what that is
I’ll be sure to tell all of yous.

Really Bad Poetry

Last week one of my good friends, Tom Gee, replied to an email I sent out to all our small group members urging them to stay home if the weather turned foul. He replied in poetic form... which led to a poetic reply... which led to a poetic war! Of course, I am using the term “poetic” very loosely here.
So, for anyone who cares to eavesdrop on a series of flow of consciousness poetry between two friends (‘cause, you know, there are a LOT of people who scour the interweb looking for THAT...) here you go!

Tom is normal font, and I reply in italics: (context – Tom had been up the better part of the night working on a homiletics assignment)

-----

Neither rain nor sleet nor hail nor gale
could restrain us in the swale,
for our vessel is sure and our snow tires are on,
our gunwhale fast and our ribs made strong,
We shall set sail for the blissful land
of the Martin's gospel band,
though our sheets be torn and our lines be ragged,
the rocks be bare and the reef be jagged,
For our courage shall sustain us,
our hearts will make us bold,
(unless it looks really scary out .... y'know, we're gettin' kinda old.)

-----

With volcanic force
His mouth erupted
In a wild torrent
Of speech corrupted

Hours of sleeplessness
Took its toll
And Tomgee's words
Flowed like a scroll

Of endless verbiage
Misunderstood
And wracked with poisons
From bitter wood

Why dost he speak?
And not lay down?
He seeks from Bob
The homiletic crown

Sleep, Tomgee, sleep
There's no better tonic
For your verbal blasts
Be they supersonic.

-----

Wow! I am humbled.
To the very dust
Before the master's
verbal thrust.

With words well-chosen
and scansion keen
You make your point
Both neat and clean.

I want to walk
In your footsteps strong
Although your stride
Is much too long.

But it is all joy
To follow in your wake
Though a wobbly trail
I wobbly make.

And I have a habit
Between the lines
Of adding syllables
Which don't quite rhyme (or scan).

But I must return
To my labour sore
To continue writing
Where I was before.

For these Gospel giants
Wait for no man.
But boy could they preach!
And make you understand!

The peril of sinners
In God's angry hands
Brings chills to my spine
O, time's running sands!

But you're my favourite
Gospel preacher by far
So preach on, my brother!
...ok, I'm out of time. :-)

-----

Tempted as I am to gain the last word
I yield to your needs, knowing if you heard
Yet another verse from my prose-laden lips
You'd feel compelled to give another rip!

-----

Aha, now my printing's done!
The report is finished!
And now for fun!

Because I also get to preach today
and to practice, my essay
(my manuscript) I did reduce
to bullet points, so I'll be loose
to speak more freely, less note-tied
so fewer people will run and hide
and snore and blink and nod and yawn
(and all other ways to carry on
when they are bored), instead they'll be
quite enraptured, I hope to see,
and if they sleep, then I'll abort
for if you can't be good, be short. :-)

-----

Now this, by far, was your best work
Your meter did not go berserk
your adjectives were quite compelling
providing a descriptive shelling
like bombs exploding in the air
each one sharp and loud and fair
why not preach today in rhyme?
i think you'd have a lovely time
and Bob would never fall asleep
although your grade may end up deep

-----

Not a bad idea, it might work well
But I'm afraid my conceit may swell
And before I know it, I'm preaching in rap

Cause y'know, bro', wats up wi' dat?
I don' think gettin' down at Jarvis St.
Would with T. T. Shields' approval meet,
An' he would frown, smile upside down,
An' glare upon my furry crown.
But Dr. Penhearow, he's flexible,
But he'd not be happy, gi' me trouble,
He'd say, "Hey homie, wat is dis ting?
And besides dat, where is your bling?"
With no sleep, my bling has fled.

So I'd better be good, then get to bed.

-----

"And besides dat, where is your bling?""

YOU WIN!!!!!

On 18 Years Together...

Sunday marked 18 years of marriage for me to Susan. She remains my one true love. To honour her for putting up with me for so long, I wrote an epic poem... part of which I read to her on Sunday night at church. You may not like the fact I read it to her in front of my friends at church, and I assure you that is not something I do every week... but I had some things to say to my flock about my wife.

Here is the poem. I hope you are in some manner encouraged by the thoughts behind the mangled verse!

On 18 Years Together
Poetry is not my strength
Especially when serious
I tend to make my listener’s shout,
“Please stop, Tall Sir, you weary us!”
And this is tied to the fact
That words, to me, are pun-ish
Perhaps you think that I am cracked
I like to think it’s funnish
But enough of me, at least for now,
For I’m out to write of another
A woman, wife, church member, friend
And the very best of mother

I met her back in 85
Me 19 and she 18
When I first saw her, I came alive
And started my long waiting
She had another suitor then
And then another and another
Until my best friend took her out
And I was tempted to think, “Why bother?”

But patience paid her sweet reward
In 1988
When I said, “Um, well, hah-hah... Sue,
Would you go with me on a date?”
She answered, “Yes.” O, sweet word!
A dream come true for me!
I barely believed what I had heard
The Year of Jubilee!

And soon that girl was more than friend
I knew for sure I loved her
Time for courting drew to an end
Marriage is what I preferred
And to my joy, her Dad said, “Yes”
That’s two “yes’s” for those now scoring
But it was that third and final, “Yes”
That sent my heart a-soaring!

The great day came 10 months later
When she walked an aisle
Vows made before our Creator
Then out we went with smiles
To a world unfriendly to couples wed
In purity and love
But with a God who spoke and said,
“Just set your eyes above.”

Thus, 18 years ago, this day
I took to me mine wife
And God has blessed in every way
Through joy and even strife

Now you should know, dear GFC
How much you owe my bride
There’s much to her you do not see
But let me be your guide
Of meals sent and people in
More coffee brewed than Starbucks
A home where guests feel free to grin
And the food is beyond deluxe

A place this pastor wants to be
Even though he’s there all week
Not a home he tries to flee
And “greener pastures” seek
So I am freed to pray and think
To study in the Word
It’s my bride you should thank
If a decent sermon you’ve heard!

And you don’t see the love she gives
When sinned against by me
Nor do you watch just how she lives
Praying for you faithfully
Then sitting here week by week
With 4 kids all alone
While trying to listen to the weak
Words of me as I intone

But I see, Susan, at least in part
And am so glad you said, “Yes”
For when I’m near you, my Dearheart
I feel so deeply blessed
And I want these folks to know
(Yes, that’s partly this poem’s end...
And hope my words and roses show)
You’re still my very best friend.

[end of part one] [part two is private]

My Daughter Was Baptized

What a great night!

It was my joy to baptize 4 tonight... one of whom was my own daughter.

I wrote her a poem on behalf of her mother and I, surveying the 14 years and 10 months of life God has granted her. I asked permission and she said I could share it here. I had thoughts of reading it at our service tonight, but we were blessed to have so many unbelievers with us that I feared they might get distracted from Christ and His Gospel if I threw this in... so here it is now, primarily for my church family.

Praise God for what He has done in my eldest’s life!

On Your Baptism...
On October 1st of ’92
You entered the world of air
All “girl,” bright-eyed, dainty, sweet
With locks of golden hair
I watched you grow and saw God’s curse
Had not passed you by
When fooled by promise of God-less pleasure,
You’d rather sin and cry
Than follow Him and His Word
That path just seemed to bore you
Deceived, deluded by false delight
Like mother and father before you

And then those YEARS where outwardly
The world saw smile and joy
But inwardly, we both knew,
Brewed anger fierce and coy
Thus, in His grace, God let you see
Your sin both “crouched” and real
In your own strength He let you fight
So sin’s “sinfulness” you’d feel.
Yet, in that same grace, He also preached
Through family, friends and church
The priceless Gospel of His Son
The end of your soul’s search.
“Flee to Him! You’re dead! You’re lost!
Your only hope is Christ!
He alone can justify
By His perfect sacrifice!”

You heard the news...You felt your sin...
And then, one day, THE LIGHT!
When “facts” turned “Truth” and scales fell off
A blind girl granted sight!
To see the Saviour, not just a story
Of redemption from some vague “fall”
But, Jesus Christ, your life, your hope,
Your King, your God, your all!
And in an instant (unknown to us)
With resurrection power
Your soul was transferred to Light from Dark
Yes, in that very hour!

And tonight, my dear, like saints before
You enter the sacred wave
And humbly preach to all that watch
Your hope beyond the grave
A hope not in water, courage,
Looks or testimony true
A hope both now and future set
On Christ alone who saved you
For earthy graves await us all
Unless this Lord appears
And only He can carry young women
Through failures and their fears

Thus, may this day be just a start
To a life lived all for God
Come temporal blessings or martyrdom
Until that Day of Awe
When every soul now gathered here
With every soul on earth
Shall stand before the King of Kings
Creation’s Supreme Worth
And all “twice born” (O the grace!)
Shall be ushered to His side
And stand by Him their sins had killed
And join the swelling tide:
“Great and amazing are Your deeds
Lord God, so just and true
All Your ways are right, my God
Who cannot delight in You?!”

‘Til then, my dear, keep your eyes
Set quick on Christ your King
And trust Him no matter what the trial
Yes, trust Him for everything
And remember water does not save,
Nor going to church or giving
Only Jesus takes the dead
And instantly, makes them Living!
So to Him we entrust you now
Just like the day you were born
And should He call us first to Heav’n
We’ll wait for you on that shore

We love you, dear. And thank God for the good work He has done in you.

- Dad and Mom

“The End” – A Future Tense Tribute Poem to My Good Friend Darrin R. Brooker

A season is a very long time

To watch your bison graze
But what tastes worse than pickled lime
Is when they fizzle out in a haze

That time has come for Buffalo
The city of perpetual losers
And dear friend, Darrin, its time you know
That your bisons are not hoosiers

Unlike that magical team, so small
So unlikely to win the big game
Your sabre-rattling cotton balls
Are about to fade out in shame

So, D.R., I urge you friend
As one who cares for your well-being
Accept the fact, tonight is the end
You’ll find it rather soul-freeing!

GO OTTAWA GO!!!

The Second Generation Scandal

I was involved in a long conversation with a second generation Christian the other day – a man that had “grown up” in the church. During our talk, he consistently disparaged what he called, “my tradition;” a reference to the denomination of churches of which he was a part.

He spoke quite plainly as to how he considered them to be very incorrect in a matter of doctrine... and with a kind of nudge and wink told me of how he endured their condemnation of his views. In other words, he had no intention of leaving that church or denomination, even though he disagreed with a very important doctrine which they taught.

You might consider that admirable.

I thought it was pathetic.

If a man believes something to be true, then he ought to live like it is so! If my church began to assert that belief in the deity of Jesus was optional, I am duty bound to stand up and stand for the Truth: Jesus is God!

This man’s dismissal of the “uneducated” and “simple” members of his church manifested the all too frequent Second Generation Scandal. The second generation does not believe what the first generation was willing to die for, but they are too bound by familial obligation and social pressure to admit it. They will wait for the first generation to die off, then quietly move the church away from its secure foundation.

This brought to mind the words of John Reisinger as he happily pontificated (in the best sense of that word!) for a bunch of seminary students in my living room a few years ago. “You must indoctrinate the next generation of Christians, that is how the Truth passes down through the ages. And part of that indoctrination is teaching them to indoctrinate those who follow.”

Should you find that theory odd, I suggest you consult 2 Timothy 2.



It reminds me of one of my favorite poems:

THE BOY WE WANT
A boy that is truthful and honest
And faithful and willing to work;
But we have not a place that we care to disgrace
with a boy that is ready to shirk.

Wanted--a boy you can tie to,
A boy that is trusty and true,
A boy that is good to old people,
And kind to the little ones too.

A boy that is nice to the home folks,
And pleasant to sister and brother,
A boy who will try when things go awry
To be helpful to father and mother.

These are the boys we depend on--
Our hope for the future, and then
Grave problems of state and the world's work await
Such boys when they grow to be men.

Resurrection Hymn - Something to Sing with Joy on Easter Sunday!

Here is a hymn I wrote ten years ago that focuses on what the Resurrection means to the Christian. I think I might have posted it here before... sorry if this is redundant.

It can be sung to different tunes, but my personal favorite is Henry T. Smart's Regent Square... with GUSTO!

Resurrection Hymn
Sing, O Church, your glorious praises
Christ, your Lord, rose from the dead!
He, the proof that God will save us;
Jesus, our own glorious Head!
He our Master! He our Saviour!
He the Victor over death!

Raised by God to reign eternal,
Never did He see decay.
Now He reigns from heav’n supernal
Death no longer holds its sway.
O, the power of the victory,
How His grace and love display!

What a wondrous consolation
Jesus’ death was not in vain.
Raised as God’s own confirmation,
That the Son broke sin’s domain.
He is living! He is living!
Shout forth now this glad refrain!

Men will mock and disbelieve Him
Worry not at their refrain.
They shall bow the knee before Him,
To their sorrow and their bane.
He’s the Champion! Mighty Conqueror!
All will bow before His Name!

Praise Him for the grace He gave you
To repent and to believe.
Praise Him for His love that saved you,
Calling you Him to receive.
Praise the Saviour! Risen Saviour!
Worship Christ the Risen King!

Words: Paul W. Martin ©1997. Music: Henry T. Smart, Regent Square. Public Domain.

Another Masterpiece

My son came home from school today and held up a large painted blob on a piece of fingerpaint paper. "This is my masterpiece!" he shouted with the kind of pure joy that only he can express!

With very little joy, I direct you to my own latest masterpiece. It can be found over at Challeez place... and even comes with its own musical accompaniment!

Pride - the Source of Worry (A Poem)

Many of you will know that my father's health is declining in his two-year battle against cancer. My Dad, whom I love deeply, is not a believer in the Lord Jesus - and so I would greatly appreciate you praying the Lord would save him.

We needed to get Dad to the hospital on Wednesday night and while I was in the waiting room I determined to redeem the time. I did not have a Bible with me, so I decided to meditate on 1 Peter 5:6-7 ("Humble yourselves, therefore, under the mighty hand of God so that at the proper time he may exalt you, casting all your anxieties on him, because he cares for you"). As I rolled those words around in my mind, a couple of phrases came to me that I then wrote down.

You have to understand something. I know I am not a poet! So, most of anything I ever write stays secretly with me. But I read this to my family during devotions last night and they seemed encouraged. So, with no hope of recognition, I offer the words to you. I think the major thought is an important one: the foundation of "bad worry" is pride. Getting that concept squared away helps immensely in the mortification of anxiety.

Pride, the Source of Worry
Sufficient trouble in each day
Is sure to find you out
Enough to try the surest saint
And make the godly pout!

Unless fresh visions from the Word
Transform our feeble minds
Anxiety and dreadful doubt
Are all that we will find.

The Master spoke of birds and blooms
As under God’s control;
He slept while waves and wind were strong
Still trusting through it all.

When heart rates rise and worries soar
And adrenalin starts flowing,
These are the signals pride is strong
And the humbling best get going.

His mighty hand is no less strong
When circumstance looks bleak
As when all things seem to go well;
At both times – I am weak!

So keep me humbled, Lord, I pray
Beneath that mighty hand
And grant the grace to throw my cares
Upon the Son of Man.

© Paul W. Martin. February 14, 2007.

[UPDATE: If you read this far, you deserve more! Here is a much better poem from my favorite poet, John Newton:

Why art thou cast down?
Be still my heart! these anxious cares
To thee are burdens, thorns, and snares,
They cast dishonor on thy Lord,
And contradict his gracious word!

Brought safely by his hand thus far,
Why wilt thou now give place to fear?
How canst thou want if he provide,
Or lose thy way with such a guide?

When first before his mercy–seat,
Thou didst to him thy all commit;
He gave thee warrant, from that hour,
To trust his wisdom, love, and pow’r.

Did ever trouble yet befall,
And he refuse to hear thy call?
And has he not his promise past,
That thou shalt overcome at last?

Like David, thou may’st comfort draw,
Saved from the bear’s and lion’s paw;
Goliath’s rage I may defy,
For God, my Savior, still is nigh.

He who has helped me hitherto,
Will help me all my journey through;
And give me daily cause to raise
New Ebenezers to his praise.

Though rough and thorny be the road,
It leads thee home, apace, to GOD;
Then count thy present trials small,
For heav’n will make amends for all.

John Newton, Olney Hymns, #40.

The Love of God

The first time I studied Ephesians 2 I was completely stunned at the depth and intensity of God’s love for His redeemed. These thoughts so captured my mind that I eventually wrote a little poem as part of my worship to the Tri-une Lover of my soul.

Over ten years and many other poems and hymns and songs later, that piece seems rather “cute” and simple now... but it still draws my thoughts heavenward with refreshing remembrances of a sovereign love first discovered. I suppose that is one of the blessings of writing something.

It was an encouragement to me today, so I post it here:

The Love of God
The love of God is like the sea,
O drowning me in grace.
And cleansing me from all my sin
That I might see His face.

The love of God is like the sun,
With mercy its own light.
Exposing all my wickedness,
Then standing me upright.

The love of God is like the air,
Without it I'd lay dead!
For by His love He makes me live,
And holds me to the End.

I see Your love in all You've made
It's pow'r cannot be hid.
So let creation call to mind
All that my Saviour did.

And help me, Lord, to love like You;
To die to self each day.
O, make my mark, my aim, my goal,
To walk the Saviour's way.

Words ©1996, Paul W. Martin

Not Cowper or Newton, but a goodly theme to think on nonetheless!