Poems 2

Poems 1 - Poems 2 - Poems 3 - Poems 4 - Poems 5 - Poems 6

10) City Dwellers

There was a day when I was filled with the excitement of knowing that God is our sufficiency in all things. My mind then turned to the city and what makes a city. I knew that firstly, His rule applies in all things of life and secondly, that the city was void in all areas of His rule and healing power. Furthermore, it was those who were in authority who were supposed to be teaching, directing, leading, delivering but instead were the ones responsible for the corruption and degeneration of the people. Only outside the city but not far away was the remedy, THE Remedy.

Hey, you city dwellers!

Do you see that yonder Light?

He is the Standard of all standards;

He lights the way so you can see...and not stumble.

He is the Walkway to lead you in sure directions

To take you where you need to go.

 

He is the Grocery Store;

He is your Bread and Butter and all good food,

Without additives...or subtractives;

You'll find no nourishment elsewhere.

Why are you so gaunt, city dweller?

 

He is your Post Office;

To Him messages must go

And from Him they will come.

Mail service is timely and free;

Why don't you pay your postage?

 

He is the local Drug Store

But for good and not for hurt.

In Him are the leaves

For the healing of the nations.

 

See that Jewelry Store around the corner

And there you'll find precious stones

To grace the chest of one who wears them.

No costume jewelry here.

The gold is real, the stones are genuine;

He is not here to deceive.

 

He is your Clothing Store

To clothe you with clothes that cover and not expose;

To clothe you with decency and humility, city dweller;

To hide your shame.

Why do you pass by? Do you prefer your nakedness?

 

Drug pusher John, why do you dwell

In the darkest recesses of the alleys?

Are you afraid of the Light Standard?

Why do you betray the people in whose midst you dwell?

There is no hiding from the Light Standard, John.

He shines around corners and even through walls...it only seems to take

A little more time.

Your time is at hand, and how quickly it has come,

Tailored to your needs.

 

He is the Policeman;

Not a pig but the Lamb;

Not to injure or to trap but to help;

Not to condemn but to deliver.

 

Gather the rubbish, city dweller.

Clear the streets of its stench.

Throw your waste away which lies up to your waist

Into the receptacles of repentance so that

The Garbage Man may take it away

To the city dump of fire and forgiveness.

 

Counselors of the dwellers, where are you?

Why is there rubble in your streets?

From where comes the stench of garbage?

Why is the Water cut off and the Power?

Where are you, counselors of the dwellers?

Counseling yourselves in your high places

While the dwellers languish below?

Sewers for water and water for sewers!

Woe to the counselors who don't know the difference,

And teach from the high places of darkness.

 

Repair the lines!

Turn away from your own comforts and gains, counselors,

Or you too will be in the garbage truck,

On the way to the fires.

You'll receive the greater damnation

For the price you've exacted at the cost of

Dwellers near and far.

Give them the Pure and Living Water

So that they thirst no more.

Take away their waste

Instead of causing them to consume yours.

 

They worship you and honor you,

And ask for more of what you give,

Yet go away empty, darkened, hungry and without comfort.

You have what you are after.

 

Why is not the Light Standard shining?

Why are the streets so dark?

Let the price be paid by those who would have It shine.

Let the streets be seen again, if not for the first time.

And let the way be known;

Let it be obscure no more.

 

City dweller! There is little time

To rush, to push, to do;

There is a Park where you can go;

Sit down awhile, rest and think.

Where are you going?

What are you doing?

City dweller, why are you here?

Where will it end?

 

So you make your million. Then what?

Take your ease and enjoy?

Sit awhile longer, city dweller, and think again.

Those who seek their million neither rest nor enjoy.

They have only learned to make their million...

And another...and another.

 

City dweller, go to the Park; stop and consider for your life...

And consider until you have it.

On the edge of town just up the hill is a gate

With nothing between here and there but refuse.

Clear it out and make your way to that gate...a narrow gate,

Which opens to the City Lodge.

There you'll find rest and food and comfort

And the Light Standard inside.

Lethbridge, Aug 14, 1984

11) Evolution - A Poem of Tact, Diplomacy, and Gentle Persuasion

[worthy of those addressed]

It has occurred to me that if there ever was a lie, if there ever was anything so unscientifically accurate, if there was anything so preposterous, if there was anything so utterly stupid and incredibly farcical, if there was anything that made supposedly educated and intelligent men look like babbling idiots and pea-brained morons, it is the theory (or even more so, theories, each proving the other wrong!) of evolution.

Taught as fact, contradicting truth, and while in some cases and ways trying to accommodate God somewhere in their schemes, these men have denied Him and rather than coming from monkeys, have made monkeys of themselves. Yet they will not believe me when I tell them creation is regressing.

Madness, are you an accident?

In all your incredibility, can it be possible

That you came from a mere explosion of gases?

Madness, you have so many forms!

One form is to believe that so many forms

Have been an accident.

Bang! And there you began.

And you grew and grew and grew

And grew and flourished

And spread!

Madness, could as much as you

Come from so little?

How can a genius as great and powerful as you,

Reigning as you do over the hearts of the wise,

Come from a mere bang?

 

The world raves in you;

You have evolved much farther than they.

Those you call accidents are your subjects;

You make monkeys out of them.

Leave me out of it.

More than that, I'll speak to them...

Without your help or your hindrance.

 

One thing is certain:

Truth is not one of your subjects,

Neither are reason and understanding.

You have no sway over them;

They know.

May they speak with me.

 

You idiots! What man would stand and claim

That a Seiko watch could come

Out of an explosion of gases?

What fool could believe him?

But madness has done her perfect work!

 

You idiots! From where did those gases come

And the spark to ignite them?

And from where did the space come

For these things to happen?

 

Mad fools! Hopelessly bound in your chains of darkness!

For which is it easier to believe?

That the complex man who devised a Seiko

Was devised himself

Or that he was the product

Of a mere haphazard explosion

With haphazard results

In a billion haphazard directions

Just as you declare of a Seiko watch?

 

jf fj w nenwqjnfmfdmf,m/xw'[pgjrekq'faaj

jfkf,l; ,fld mfwoggfmgk v r

(Just thought I'd chance it for a moment and see if the absence of order and intelligence might prove you right after all! Did it or did it not? Perhaps more time...like eons and eons?)

 

Mad idiots!

Theories you call facts and sound knowledge myths.

Black is white and white is black.

Monkeys, in their places,

Far excel in wisdom over you.

Are you sure your evolution is not in reverse?

Perhaps the universe is shrinking

And your mentality is doing its share and more.

 

It is one thing to hear such folly;

It is another to know why it is spoken and believe.

To acknowledge a Supreme Intelligence

Is to acknowledge one's self as less.

To know there is One Who is above all

Is to consider the possibility that

He may require an accounting

Of word and thought and deed.

 

"The fool has said in his heart, There is no God."

Damned fools are you all as the Scripture says.

Asses you are, less than monkeys in ways

To declare your shameful thoughts

And teach them with pride when you ought to

Hide your faces in embarrassment

At the very idiocy of it all.

 

You interventionists! Are you any better?

"We say Yes to evolution only if God intervened

To give man a living soul."

Intervention indeed!

And who was running the show

Before He intervened?

Was all in chaos, out of control

But advancing quite well nevertheless

To the ape?

Can you produce an ape

Just like your Seiko watch?

Damned fools you are as well,

With false religious flavour!

Will you please God with your conditional assent

To a theory truth does damn?

 

Madness, you reign indeed!

And idiots pay you homage,

Lunatics praise your name!

Could they ever come as far as you have?

Could they dare hope to rule over others

As you do over them?

 

Everywhere we look, we see degeneration

But evolution marches on.

"A missing link! A missing link!"

Fools, in your understanding there are missing links!

And until you turn from your obstinacy

Of resisting the truth,

The missing link remains.

 

Three theories taught as fact,

Each proves the other wrong;

Chase your tails you monkeys,

While Madness sings her song.

Lethbridge, Aug. 1984

Click HERE to go to “Exposing Evolutionists.”

12) Abortion

Social and moral issues abound. There is no want of them - ever. And rarely are they settled to the true benefit of all. Debate goes on and on and on. The minds involved grow deeper in darkness until, with all their statistics and evidences, arguments and logic, all sides are as raving mad men, utterly failing to put their finger on the problem, much less finding a solution for it.

This writing came quite spontaneously and basically expresses the truth that darkened evil minds must be given the right and the opportunity to suffer the fruits of their thinking. Their consequences will speak far louder than the voices of those who try to spare them their folly.

Abort the mark of tragedy;

Abort the evidence of pleasure;

Abort the stark reminder

Of consequence for evil.

 

Rid yourself of nuisance;

Rid yourself of cost;

Pay no mind but to yourself;

For your sake a life is lost.

 

Still the witness, erase the interruption,

Forget the past, if you can;

Still the conscience

For crying against your deeds.

Is the conscience in your womb?

 

Rather than removing the turd,

Cover it with a mound of manure.

Now what?

 

But go and do your will, woman;

Exterminate your seed

Lest we be overwhelmed

With the fruits of your ways,

The posterity of your thoughts;

Haunted by mammoth mounds,

Perishing one and all.

Lethbridge, Aug. 19, 1984

13) The Specter of Fear

I have known fear, perhaps not as some have known it but many know fear one way or another, at one time or another, to such an extent that it cripples, paralyzes the soul. We think we have security in this world until one day we are rudely awakened from our pipe-dream. Security in this world is but an illusion. When our disillusionment comes, its comrade-in-arms is often fear. But that disillusionment needn't be our enemy. In truth, it can be a friend in disguise.

Nor do we need to fear as though there is no such thing as true and sure security, for then we would be prey to a lie, to our own destruction. There IS a sure security for those who will avail themselves of it.

My fear rides me like a stern rider

Rides his horse.

Unless I run his pace,

His spurs dig deep my sides.

I think blood flows at times...I'm sure of it.

I scarcely dare to think, to pause

For fear I have a rider

Who will not show me mercy

Who will not grant me pardon

Who will not make a move

To relent, to ease my pain.

"Run!" he says. I run.

"Faster!" says he. I go faster.

"Faster isn't good enough! You've had it!"

I think that if I drop,

I have sweet release.

He whips me as I fall.

Fear is not afraid to beat a dead horse.

He seems to relish it, delight in it.

The compassion of fear is tyranny,

His patience only scorn.

He takes the meat and feeds it to minks,

And then I think, "Aha!

There is rest in the mouths of minks,

Fear has no torment there!"

Until I find that my rider

Is possessor of minks as well.

He rides the minks

And feeds them me.

Fear holds all in Hell,

And when he skins the little ones

And sells their hides for gain,

Scarcely do the buyers know

They're clothed with fear and pain.

Lethbridge, August, 1984

14) Atheists Cry

Until the believer is perfected, there remains some atheist in him. He says he believes but in the final analysis, his fruits tell otherwise, quite.

Why do we fret or worry or pout? Why do we doubt or fear, if not because we do not believe? Certainly, we experience and dislike unpleasantries and therefore express some negative attitudes which may not necessarily indicate unbelief but examining ourselves in the light of Truth, we discover the truth about ourselves. And that light's source is the fire that burns to purge us of the atheist within, that fire being an enemy at first, a friend in the end.

How will I know I can stand the fire

Unless I am subjected?

How do I develop muscle to do heavy work

Unless I do heavy work to develop muscle?

How do I form calluses on my hands to prevent blisters

Unless I do those things

That make blisters?

I say I have faith to do anything,

To suffer all things and smile, even laugh

But how do I get that faith

Unless I suffer the very things

To produce the faith

To laugh at the things concerning which

I say I have faith?

How can I cry and say, "I believe"?

But when I believe, I shall not cry

When the fires come

Because the fires have done their work.

Lethbridge, August, 1984

15) Judging

Jesus said "Judge not according to the appearance but judge righteous judgment." Therefore there is a right and true and valid judging. The problem is that many do not recognize the difference between the right kind and the wrong, and many lawless, hiding their own sins, refuse to acknowledge that there is a valid kind to which they might be subjected by judges who are used by God.

What is the sure and fair standard? It is none other than the revelation of God, given to men who have died and received that understanding and wisdom in those matters they judge, having been given to know the secrets of the heart. The price is the beam by way of the cross.

Measure me! How long am I?

How tall? How big? How strong?

Is there anything to measure

When all is said and done?

Do I compare to what I was

Or what I will yet be?

And what will I be?

Do I compare to others?

What standard will you use?

What I have, will I always have it?

Is it worth having to lose it in the end?

Is the glory worth the shame?

Vanity! Utter vanity!

Our possessions aren't two cents!

One day they're here and then they're gone.

Failure never relents.

Judge me if you think you can;

What measure will you use?

Inner, outer, upper, lower,

Do you have any clues?

Appearance is not all there is

In fact, appearance isn't. It is NOT.

But how will you know what is?

Does reality not exist?

Is it not available?

Or is it here and unperceived

Only because you are blind?

 

There is an answer.

Lethbridge, August, 1984

16) The Rest of God

I once thought I had entered rest when I was first converted...and I had! Compared to the former horrible state of darkness and misery, the realm of repentance was glorious and restful indeed. But I had not arrived.

Then came trials, urgings and purgings leading to the receiving of God's Spirit. Again, the realm of the Spirit was glorious compared to the one of repentance, and I rested because revelations came and great burdens were lifted and removed forever. But I had not arrived.

Chapters opened and closed and rest came at the end of each, yet beginnings introduced new fires, new terms of correction and purgings so that I could rest some more. But I had not arrived.

Then came a breaking at the hands of dark men. Healings poured in. Sight was increased and lifestyle corrected. We were blessed and we rested. But we had not arrived.

Years later, I wrote this paragraph after just having the severest trial I had ever had, likened by the Lord to that which Job had, yet alerted to the great contrast to his. (Job's was classical, for our sakes). But I was taken right back to my very foundation and was now different than before.

Years passed again and I found that I knew neither rest nor fires like they could be. In fire, I, again more than ever, writhed in pain. Rest comes in small doses and brief intervals, only to prepare one for more fire. (He that walks with God, walks in fire, until there is no more need of fire.)

Today, God is all in all. Those who enter into rest not only have it; they ARE the rest. This is Shabbat; this is the Feast of Tabernacles, that glorious union with the Lord Jesus Christ, Yahushua Adonai Ha Mashiach. It is His coming. This is the Day of the Lord, the Day of Vengeance, the Day of Yahweh, the Day of Yahushua Adonai. Blessed be His Name!

(This poem was written years before the reality. Many of the utterings of the saint in process are prophetic, not merely poetic, even as with David in his psalms).

How good is this rest, my Lord, my God!

How good is this rest!

To sit and wait with nothing in hand,

To be patient and willing to see that in store,

To know in the heart that all is Yours

How good it is to rest!

 

We've been climbing and struggling,

Working and crying,

With nothing in sight,

With all things far off,

With hopes deferred, promises delayed

Dreams and hopes dashed to the ground,

Shattered in many pieces.

 

We have lost and failed

Many times,

Toiling for unreachable gains.

 

But now we have our gain;

Now we have received our rewards.

Little did we know that we labored

For the goal of

Not having to labor.

Now we recline, now we rest;

In repose we have a new heart.

We can be patient, resting in

The bosom of Abraham;

Children of faith we have now become.

Yes, though the earth is removed

We know that Abraham needs no earth

To hold him up.

Being in his bosom, we have no need

To have our feet on passing ground.

We have our feet on solid rock;

We sit in His throne with Him;

We repose in heavenly places;

At peace we are within

Because nothing can remove us

From the safety we now have.

 

We see how little we have to fear;

We see how He provides.

"God is faithful!" are the words

That embed themselves in our hearts.

Our heart can no longer live without them.

God is all and over all;

We've sought to know that for years,

Verbalizing, rationalizing,

With head knowledge and lips;

We believed but did not know.

 

Give me the couch,

I have had the ladder;

I've climbed to the mountains of rest.

Let me repose, it is heavenly bliss,

The reward we have for our labours.

We have ceased from our works,

We have ceased from sin,

We have ceased from worry and fright.

God grant us this life forevermore;

May we be staid in His sight.

 

Thank You, Lord for giving us rest,

For so long we have so sought;

The rest You give those who seek after You

To reign and to be at peace.

No longer do enemies rule over us;

No longer do our needs hold sway;

The protection and provision

Which we now have of God

Are as a two-edged sword.

Firstly He gives us the privilege,

Secondly He gives us the goods;

Firstly He gives it within,

And then He grants it without.

 

Death has no sting,

The grave has lost,

The resurrection is robber and healer at once;

We are the goods He has wrested from Hell,

Repaired for Himself for all time.

 

Sing with the angels!

Dance with the saints!

Let Heaven explode with joy!

Celebration and feasting have fearful cause;

Nothing can stand in their way.

Sing, o creation and clap your hands!

Your smile has purpose unsurpassed;

This is your day and your hour

For deliverance from groaning and grief,

From vanity and awesome oppression,

From death and Hell itself.

 

A manifest son of God has risen

To set the captive free

To heal the broken-hearted,

To take away burdens of the oppressed.

Sing and dance and jump for joy!

Eat, drink and be merry!

No greater cause is there for such

When a saint has entered his glory.

 

There is a rest for the people of God!

No more thorn and thistle and briar,

No more toil and sweat and tear,

No more disappointment.

There is the restoration of Eden,

The blessed garden of God.

There is wealth and the glory and power

Reserved unto them that believe.

Rest, o sweet, wonderful rest,

In peace and holy comfort,

Earned, not earned, taken yet given

But appreciated nonetheless.

 

Fearful are the ways and judgments of God!

How high and mighty His ways!

Lift up your knees and your arms;

Lift up your head, sojourner;

Travel-weary and bruised you may be,

Robbed of your goods and your dreams,

Abandoned, alone with nobody

To care nor understand.

 

But He is there though He is hid,

Until the day of unveiling,

And when the veil is rent in two

From Heaven to Earth,

Then no more flesh stands in the way,

Of the Christ there is no more dearth.

There is rest in the room of the ark;

There is perfect sweetest rest.

Here in the bosom of Abraham,

Jesus is manifest.

 

Keep His commandments, never say die;

There is a time to come

Where cost transforms to benefit untold

And all is then worthwhile.

 

And carnal man, you must be told

That though I write from Heaven,

Yet I am in my flesh 'til now

And speak by such a mouth as yours.

The change has come this side of the grave

And needn't be hoped for only beyond.

Inherit the earth, my beloved friends,

And savour the sweet rest of God!

Lethbridge, Sept. 1984

17) We Are Branches, We Are One

All of creation points to and teaches us of God, His requirements of us, our relationships to Him.

Life in Christ must be as spontaneous and natural as the branches to their tree trunk. And am I presumptuous in pointing out that as branches cannot live without the trunk so the trunk has no life without branches? Can it be that Almighty God is so committed to us, His creation?

We are branches, we are one,

Not by ourselves, not of ourselves,

But we live by the Greater One

Which gives us life,

Which gives us purpose for being.

Though we go our own ways,

One this way and that,

Still we serve the One greater

From where we come,

In Whom we have our being and our life.

 

We serve the Greater One and give It life;

We live for It and It alone.

The Trunk is our source and our deposit,

The Beginning and the End.

How can we live except we give?

If we do not give, the Trunk does not live;

If the Trunk does not live, we die.

 

For the Trunk then we live

No other choice can there be,

Yet we give not so that we live,

We are what we are;

We do what we do,

And if we do well we live.

Lethbridge, 1984

18) The Wild

The terrible battle to be fought by the seeker of God is against unbelief. One moment, we can be so full of belief, of joy and excitement, assurance and boldness. Then, as little as it takes to slam a door, so quickly and surely have saints of God known the onslaught of unbelief in all its terrible power.

Our fight is the fight of faith. Our faith is the victory. Nor is it a faith concocted, a matter of will power. It is rather, a surrender to God, an acceptance of things as they are, an acknowledgment of things as they are and entrusting them entirely out of our control to His. Thus we come out of our valleys, our clouds of darkness and into the light.

Wave after wave,

Billow after billow,

No rest, no peace, except for a time,

A short time, a breather so to speak,

From the unrelenting pressures which increase.

Darkness all around us,

Blind alleys at every turn,

Clouds obscure the light of day

And leave us damp and cold.

When will we be free?

When will the storm cease?

Has it no end? Has it no bounds?

Can we go on with our hopes

Dashed to pieces at every turn,

Like cardboard huts in a hurricane?

Is it sin in our lives that causes this state?

Is the wrath of God kindled against us?

Have we no hope, no reason to expect

An end to intermittent turmoil?

"There is no peace to the wicked," the Scriptures say,

Yet we have searched and searched ourselves again.

And though we know that in our flesh dwells no good thing,

We still find ourselves without an answer.

The sky is as brass, His voice we don't hear,

Our steps we seek counsel for, to no avail.

When will He come and show Himself?

When will we be clean to receive our King?

When can we have our hopes fulfilled?

Why does He hide His face from us?

How is it that curses seem to haunt us still?

Is our faith so small

That we do not enter in

To that which He has in store for us?

Or is this nothing more and nothing less

Than a process of refinement,

A must like the seasonal pruning of trees

To bear more fruit?

But where is the fruit?

I have my seasons of sorrow and humiliation,

But where are my seasons of harvest?

I despair from knowing the answer.

I thought I had it;

I do not.

I hoped I would receive it;

I haven't.

Will I ever?

Have I confessed my unbelief

In asking if I'll have an answer

When I ought to ask for it

Believing I have received it?

Lord, help my unbelief!

I am like one up to my nose in quicksand;

My perishing seems so sure.

I surely cannot help myself,

Nor can any man

or number of men

In anything they can do.

My only hope is that my God

Will come and lift me from the quagmire

In which I have fallen and sunk so deep.

I thought I was out, never to return.

Many times I thought I was out,

Only to find myself enveloped again.

How can these things be?

Do the Scriptures not tell us

Of a life of victory and of power?

Are only a chosen few

Given to be as Stephen and Samuel?

Or have they too had such lives

Of trial and loss and failure

Before the dawning of their day

To shine as lights much brighter than the day?

Am I to believe

That this is a preparation,

That all goes according to plan?

Or must I fear

That all is almost lost,

That I have failed,

That there is no base for hope any more

That God will not deliver

A sinner such as I?

Yet a faint glimmer of hope lives on

Even as I enquire.

I know my God is able;

I know I want His will

At any cost there is.

And so I wait

And wait

And wait

And faint

And hope

That He will save

And manifest Himself

Once more forever more,

Never to leave again,

His presence ever there

For me to enjoy.

Hear me, Lord, and hear my cry,

I have no one but You.

If all this cloud and quiet

Is for our very best

Then can I accept it, assured

That You will come and be to us

What You have promised

In Your appointed time.

Must I also be in the dark

About this as well?

How much harder it is to live

With uncertainty upon uncertainty!

But if You are faithful

And if You choose,

You are able

To cleanse me and deliver me

To be with You

And You with Me.

Come Lord, please come.

Lethbridge, Sept. 1984

19) Have You Any Idea?

Things are seldom as they appear - if ever. This is because two factors obscure the reality. Firstly, the object of the observation seldom conducts itself outwardly as it really is within or behind the scenes. Secondly, the ability on the part of the observer is limited at most times so that he is not able to see as he ought to.

And woe to the one who tries to acquire that which he desires by trying to give the appearance of either getting it or already having it.

Truth in the inward parts is not only the desired end but the means to that end.

"I am the way, the truth, and the life..."

 

Child of fullness and plenty, have you any idea

How empty you may be?

Your stomach is filled

With emptiness.

You laugh

Your laugh is hollow.

Child of laughter and merriment have you any idea

How sad you are?

Your heart has a notion

Of sorrow on the way.

You scoff;

You scoff at you know not what.

Child of scorn and scoffing, have you any idea

How the arrows you shoot reverse?

Your own conscience tells you

Of condemnation imminent.

You despise

That which you do not understand.

Child of pride and knowledge, do you have any idea

Of your ignorance and foolishness?

You know it all

But not as well as you are known.

You pray

For mercy - you have none.

Child of prayer and fasting, have you any idea

How full you will yet be?

You are now empty

On the way to fullness.

You cry;

Your tears are not in vain.

Child of weeping and sorrow, have you any idea

How happy you will yet be?

Your heart is filled

With sadness.

You cry;

Your crying is soon to end...in laughter.

Lethbridge, Sept. 1984

Poems 1 - Poems 2 - Poems 3 - Poems 4 - Poems 5 - Poems 6