If It Were Simply Poetry

If it were simply poetry

The thought of God with you and me

How empty our hope would be

How futile our prayer

But ours is a God who keeps

His promises, and never sleeps

As faithful to our need, he heaps

His kind and loving care

If it were simply a cliché

That God is with us all the way

How vain would be the words we say

To comfort our fear

How shackled our wings would be

How black the way we cannot see

If it were simply poetry

And nothing more, my dear

© Janet Martin

 We all lived among them at one time in the cravings of our flesh, 

indulging its desires and thoughts. 

Like the rest, we were by nature children of wrath.

 But because of His great love for us, God, who is rich in mercy,  

made us alive with Christ, even when we were dead in our trespasses. 

It is by grace you have been saved!…

Eph.2:3-5

One of my favoutire phrases in the bible is; 'God, who is rich in mercy' 

What a picture of love! 

I shall make mention of the lovingkindnesses of the LORD, the praises of the LORD, According to all that the LORD has granted us, And the great goodness toward the house of Israel, Which He has granted them according to His compassion And according to the abundance of His lovingkindnesses.

Isa.63:7

Below are the words to one of my all-time favourite hymns!
 written by William Cowper
 

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sov’reign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow’r.

Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

Like a Stranger...

Sometimes I feel a little like a stranger looking in

To where the world that once unfurled is lost beneath my skin

Time feels like a roulette wheel; easy come and easy go

Until sometimes I feel more like someone I used to know

Sometimes I think time’s wink they warned me of when I was young

Is even quicker now than when I scorned with fearless tongue

Aha, aha, I laughed, quite glad of all the days between

...then, when I wasn’t looking they slipped into ‘what has been’

Sometimes love’s ragged heartstrings, interwoven through and through

Engage in a strange tug of war with what I thought I knew

Before the roar of moments blew the door shut soundlessly

And left me looking, like a stranger at what used to be

© Janet Martin

From Is To Was

Dayle @A Collection of Days writes in her latest post, “life is a journey of hills and valleys and we would do well to remember that neither hill nor valley lasts forever.”

What is will pour

Into what was

What waits to be

Is but a guess

Save this; the Lord

Abides with us

A Surety

To cheer and bless

Thus, we do well

To not forget

Whose hand bestows

The mystic gauze

That shapes the swell

Not unveiled yet

Of sand that flows

From Is to Was

We would do well

To remember

The tender tamp

Of numbered day

…dusk tolls a bell

Soon November

Will snuff the lamp

Of beaming May

© Janet Martin

Spill-stream-run Song

 Forecasters predicted two weeks of this 'trickle-music'

The tree is gold with first-leaf flow’r

The lea is green with spring’s first frills

And overhead the sky is wed

With silver sea that spills and spills

The earth is like a luscious lake

It births the ache of garden-dreams

While all the while from yonder isle

The mirth of rain-song streams and streams

The hill is dotted with first blooms

Where daffodils like sodden suns

Bow ‘neath a sweep of leaden deep    

That fills a fount that runs and runs

© Janet Martin

Inept

Embrace today, it slips away

Into the hold of tender thought

Forbid we miss its feather kiss

Because we wished for what was not

Inept at keeping season’s sweep

The leaping child, like budded leaf

Unfolds the vim of heaven’s hymn

And then succumbs to earthy Chief

Inept at stilling hour’s will

Where thrilling firsts are hugged and kissed

And then set free, a memory

To flower in the dreamer’s fist

Inept at swaying age-old ways

Of day to day, or thwart the foot

That trips to time that strips the vine

That treads to wine its grinning fruit

Inept to drink, save wink by wink

The gold-blue-pink of dawn-noon-dusk

To climb with care the spiraled stair

That never returns days to us

© Janet Martin