Exquisite Things

Nobody else can offer my worship to the Giver of every good and perfect gift from above!

 

So, though often my poems are but bumbling responses 

to something written by master wordsmiths,

(The phrase 'exquisite things' snagged on my soul

 and stirred the first trembling of this poem!)

...my defense is simply that, at the end of the day, 

only I am responsible for my worship; 

only you can offer yours, by whatever gift or talent you have been given!

 Only I can offer my thanksgiving hymn. 

No one else can sing it for me, nor I for you!

But we can sing together!!

Let's take today and make it a joyful noise/shout to the Lord, shall we?!!

Psalm 100

1{A Psalm of praise.} 

Make a joyful noise unto the LORD, all ye lands.

2Serve the LORD with gladness:

 come before his presence with singing.

3Know ye that the LORD he is God:

 it is he that hath made us, and not we ourselves;

 we are his people, and the sheep of his pasture.

4Enter into his gates with thanksgiving,

 and into his courts with praise: 

be thankful unto him, and bless his name.

5For the LORD is good; his mercy is everlasting; 

and his truth endureth to all generations.

Though the noise of joy's employs/voices may vary, 

when offered in thankfulness it is always in perfect harmony

to God's ears!

(yes, even messes!😅💖😏)

Today, rife with exquisite things bids us delight; each morning brings

Fresh measures of pleasure’s surprise when we view life through thankful eyes

And recognize joy’s sterling thrills unfurling like treasure that spills

From mercy’s generosity to humble likes of you and me

…to cheer the years to growing old with so much beauty to behold

And so much wonder to arouse worship’s reply of breathless ‘wows’

Where nothing seems quite commonplace as we esteem the Giver’s grace

We often overlook and waste or trample beneath futile haste

I want that I should taste anew the darling dance of me-and-you

To gaze at God’s extravagance in ways that woo no thought but thanks

For heaven-glimpses here below, like feathers of fresh-fallen snow

For burgeoning where budded molds hold beginnings that spring unfolds

Today, rife with life’s high and low brims with hymns we would better know

If we would cease to hurry so like mad beasts charging to and fro

But pause to let awe’s ocean roll in holy thunder through the soul

Agog with wealth awareness wrings from vaults filled with exquisite things

© Janet Martin