Four-season spread; north-south, west-east
Earth’s table groans with beauty’s feast
Where poets gaze and pen their laud
In humble praises back to God
God’s grant of days is like a song
That never plays the same tune long
Where poets siphon from its rhythm
Their grateful tributes back to Him
The lilting layout of the sky
Evokes awe’s utter ‘my, oh my’
Where poets grapple with the ache
That pen and ink alone can break
The berth that cups the flower-tide
Beneath earth’s forlorn countryside
Is like a depth of whispers stirred
Waiting to shape breath into word
…where poets linger to employ
Life’s syllables of sorrow-joy
And cull from manuscripts of sod
Their thankful worship back to God
© Janet Martin
This is what the Lord says:
“Heaven is my throne,
and the earth is my footstool.
Where is the house you will build for me?
Where will my resting place be?
and the earth is my footstool.
Where is the house you will build for me?
Where will my resting place be?
Has not my hand made all these things,
and so they came into being?”
declares the Lord.
and so they came into being?”
declares the Lord.
“These are the ones I look on with favor:
those who are humble and contrite in spirit,
and who tremble at my word.
those who are humble and contrite in spirit,
and who tremble at my word.
Isa.66:1-2
