Be still and know that I am God.
Psalm 46:10
So much brokenness, so much to fill an ocean with prayer for the cares we suffer, but still...
There’s always still so much to thrill before our very eyes
So much that spills God’s majesty for us to recognize
The earth is like a gallery with masterpieces poured
To hills and fields, to sky and sea in favours from our Lord
There’s always still (in spite of gut-wrenching reasons to wail)
So much to author wonder from The One who does not fail
With so much to discover that we still have not perceived
Lent from the Soul's sweet Lover lest our logic is deceived
There’s always still so much that waits to teach us how to love
As we behold with awe, the earth and its fullness thereof
It sparks within the poet’s veins a sob, a throb, a flame
For all the hymns not written yet that ache to praise His name
There’s always still a better reason to keep on than quit
For what may seem like endings may be a poem half-writ
As soft as thistle seed that wafts across the dusky scrim
His still small voice is pleading for our confidence in Him
There’s always still so much to live for if we trust His care
Ah, we must all choose between living hope and dark despair
Where there is always still so much to take us by surprise
As we behold His majesty before our very eyes
So much that spills God’s majesty for us to recognize
The earth is like a gallery with masterpieces poured
To hills and fields, to sky and sea in favours from our Lord
There’s always still (in spite of gut-wrenching reasons to wail)
So much to author wonder from The One who does not fail
With so much to discover that we still have not perceived
Lent from the Soul's sweet Lover lest our logic is deceived
There’s always still so much that waits to teach us how to love
As we behold with awe, the earth and its fullness thereof
It sparks within the poet’s veins a sob, a throb, a flame
For all the hymns not written yet that ache to praise His name
There’s always still a better reason to keep on than quit
For what may seem like endings may be a poem half-writ
As soft as thistle seed that wafts across the dusky scrim
His still small voice is pleading for our confidence in Him
There’s always still so much to live for if we trust His care
Ah, we must all choose between living hope and dark despair
Where there is always still so much to take us by surprise
As we behold His majesty before our very eyes
...for there is always still so much to rebuff ready doubt
That still small voice within, a world of wonderment without
And there is always still so much to notice and applaud
Where we can never comprehend the majesty of God
The river, like a mirror reflects ribbons of yon sky
The mead, a sanctuary for wild bloom and butterfly
The distant hill, a ladder that we climb with longing eyes
For our help comes from above this footing of demise
…where there is always still so much to acknowledge with awe
In spite of all the brokenness that tests love’s vexing law
His whisper will unfold the bud He instills with a loom
That leaves us speechless as The Weaver unravels the Bloom
© Janet Martin
That leaves us speechless as The Weaver unravels the Bloom
© Janet Martin
Who is this Weaver?
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