The morning spills in trembling thrills
From cradles on the east
Its mystery of what will be
Draws us from slumber’s peace
A gilded choir ignites the spire
Of midnight’s muted hem
In kind embrace of love and grace
A spotless diadem
Dawn’s unmarred scope of virgin hope
Expands its lilting lay
Where avenues of hallowed hues
Herald another day
Past’s ether crypt claims yester’s script
A jot within its sheaf
And soon this day will fall away
Like’s autumn’s drifting leaf
In newborn notes a nocturne floats
From corridors on high
And we are blessed; the gift of rest
Spurs us toward its sky
For we are not some hapless clot
Of dust and dreams and strife
We each are one for which the Son
Of God offered His life
The barrier twixt heav’n and earth
Is farewell’s faint half-breath
Eternity, a mystic sea
Beyond this little death
Now Living Hope unveils the slope
We receive mercy’s gift
From Heaven’s One who gave His Son
To die so we may live
Lift up your hands, His grace expands
To fill another dawn
The glory of His patient love
Splays shadows on the lawn
We touch the sod forefather’s trod
Beneath the self-same trust
In He who holds our stricken molds
Of mortal dust-to-dust
What doom and gloom would fill the tomb
Without the solace of
That sacred Name where guilt and shame
Are washed in perfect love
The darkened grief of unbelief
Would crush in dull despair
The ageless Hope that gilds the slope
And murmured Morning Prayer
This vapor glove of lust and love
Glints briefly on earth’s shoal
Soon we will go where eons flow
In portals of the soul
The vile discord as demons lord
Can never enter where
The Blood of Christ has paid the price
And purchased our fare
The morning spills its newborn thrills
Against the echoed fray
Of failure’s tear and triumph’s cheer
…but that was yesterday
A new day waits; celestial gates
Draw graciously ajar
To fill the cup that we lift up
With mercy’s sweet nectar
Redemption gleams in silver streams
From veins we cannot see
And yet the flood of sacred blood
Still flows for you and me
Grace like a buoy unfurls hope’s joy
But oh, its offering
Cannot extend beyond the bend
Of Time’s short suffering
Dare we ignore that certain shore
For lust’s ephemeral sparks?
And will we scorn Hands that were torn
From which the morn embarks?
Will we decline for tainted wine
The blood that washes clean,
Forgiving us as sin’s dark curse
Dissolves in mercy’s sheen?
This is the day the Lord has made
This is the day of grace
This is the road to the abode
Of our resting place
This is the hour of saving power
This is the dawn of Hope
This is the day the Lord has made
Tinting night’s charcoal slope
How soon the spoil that shapes our toil
Will tumble to the grave
And we will rise to claim the Prize
Of servant or of slave
How long the wail if we should fail
His Life-gift to receive
And cry too late at that Last Gate
Oh my God, I believe
The dawning spills from heaven’s hills
How sweet it is to know
That grace and love pour from the trove
Of morning’s mercy-glow
Eternal life sweetens the strife
Of Time’s temporal test
Where moments prove our dearest love
As we employ their quest
We all are cursed with longing’s thirst
With living’s grief and pain
But by the grace of Love’s embrace
We do not long in vain
And soon the Voice that weighs our Choice
Will draw us from this sod
As face to face we behold Grace
Before the throne of God
The by-and-by beyond the sky
Is not a phantom pith
The ageless goal where eons roll
Is not a fickle myth
This day of grace that we embrace
Holds but one guarantee
That each who tread its gifted thread
Will meet eternity
The morning spills as Time fulfills
Its purpose in the sun
A vapor jot on earth’s blue dot
And life’s brief course is done
But then, oh then the son’s of men
Will see what faith withheld
As Grace reveals what earth conceals
And Heaven is unveiled
© Janet Martin
A dear reader,
Grace, invited me to attempt a l-o-o-ng poem; I had no idea that this was going to be a long poem when it began but it is and the title came from the 'invitation'. thank-you Grace. I hope to attempt the 'long poem' still mulling in my mind but it seems I am not in charge of what the pen allows. Sometimes I want to write so badly about a certain thing and it will not come together; and sometimes ink flows beneath a Higher Touch.
Grace, thank-you again, because as the poem began to take shape I was overcome with awe at the patience and provision of grace. this grace is free to all! and each new day is a gift of grace and grace's invitation. Have you received
the gift of grace?
