Hint o' Something

 The last three days have been a sweet yellow hint of something in the air...

Hint o' something kinder, sweeter sparkles on the sun-kissed air

Where the crinoline of winter starts to show its wear and tear

Old man winter seems to chuckle, (out of character is he)

And the brook begins babble illegible poetry

Suddenly without fair warning summer scenes dance through our heads

Because days are more reluctant to be hurried into bed

Hello, garden books and journals, time to dream a green-thumb dream

Hope dons slopes of pink and purple beneath folds of fresh-whipped cream

Something kitten-soft is purring in the pussy-willow tree

Ah, methinks I sense a stirring other than crepe filigree

Where the remnant leaf is brittle yet still captures our gaze

As we marvel at the little wonders that nature displays

Hint o' something warm and charming tugs a grin from north to south

Happiness begins to melt the downcast structure of the mouth

And we join the curious chuckle Old Man Winter has let slip

Where it seems that he has trouble keeping his white-knuckle grip

© Janet Martin

As We Look Up...

Do you ever visualize, when you pray before you start your day; 

as from our feeble grasp to His all-encompassing arms 

we relinquish our cares, both of the known and the unknown,

do you ever visualize as we look up 

God, so rich in mercy reaches down?!

Oh, how I LOVE Him! 

From the barely breathed beginnings on the threshold of new day

How sweet to rest our head upon God’s shoulder as we pray

What tender comfort buoys us toward the great unknown

As we look up and sense love’s immense mercy reaching down

How sweet to picture Jesus, with hands disfigured with scars

Brushing away the tears that wash our cheeks like falling stars

And visualize, as we look up, God’s everlasting love

Is reaching down to remind us that His grace is enough

© Janet Martin

 For you did not receive a spirit of slavery that returns you to fear, 

but you received the Spirit of sonship, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!

Romans 8:15

Shophar of Light

 Sometimes daybreak feels like a trumpet-sound!

Praise the One whose eye designs

Day-breaks glorious hues

Frames the follies of mankind

With what grace renews

Binds and heals the broken heart

With love’s sympathy

Stuns nay-sayers with the art-

Work of His Majesty

Forgives sins if we confess

He who braved death’s sword

Cheers us with His promises

If we trust His word

Once for all, suffered the cost

Torn from limb to limb

Where faith must take up its cross

If we follow Him

Praise the One who knows the Whole

Where we see in part

Honour, revere and extol

He who knows the heart

He who knows what lies ahead

He whose will designs

Avenues where hope and dread

Unknown’s tread aligns

He who opens heaven’s bars

Not with sound, but sight

And obliterates the stars

With a shophar of light

© Janet Martin

 In the morning, O LORD, You will hear my voice; 

In the morning I will order my prayer to You and eagerly watch.

Psalm 5:3 NASB

Captivated By Freedom (in Christ)

This week I was challenged by a speaker who asked; 

Do we dwell on the love God has for us?

Do you we ponder his earthly mission

to try to grasp what He went through to prove it?! 

I’m captivated by the love that sets the prisoner free

By grace that sealed death’s pardon on the cross of Calvary

Ah, universal and eternal, glorious release

Where wonder becomes worship as we hail the Prince of peace

I’m captivated by the fount from whence all blessings swell

In mercies far too manifold for tongue or pen to tell

Ah, who can understand the love that naught can comprehend

No height or depth or breadth of thought is able to transcend

I’m captivated by the freedom utter faith receives

By power in surrender that only Belief achieves

Ah, who are we that that He who authored all with ‘let there be’

Foreknew in the beginning the climax of victory

I’m captivated by the Presence sight cannot behold

By He who is within us and has overcome the world

Ah, yes! Our Creator is greater than anything

The mighty Mediator twixt the serpent and its sting

I’m captivated by the Hope the Shepherd gives His sheep

By the assuring promises that we know He will keep

Ah, though we do not know the high and lows that we must face

I’m captivated by the love that grants sufficient grace

© Janet Martin

1 Corinthians 6:12 

 "Everything is permissible for me" - but not everything is beneficial.
 "Everything is permissile for me" -
 but I will not be mastered by anything.

John 8:36 

So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.

Galatians 5:1 

It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. 

Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again 

by a yoke of slavery.

Fist Full of Petals or A World of Ink

 What is your life? 

You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes.

James 4:14

Poised on the brink of Bygone beneath dawn’s pink canopy

We touch unbroken ground of endless possibility

The avenue that courses through a flue of stars and dust

Is like Past’s oeuvre laden with hope’s fresh matters of trust

Where settled on a canvas woven with nettles and gauze

The tug that tests the mettle of the man begins its cause

If we are wise we recognize the prize beneath the bow

How melodies we miss were played on strings of here and now

How even when the notes we thought would blend startle the heart

With dissonance, yet, looking back they played a vital part

Of teaching us to cherish what will perish with the night

Ah, Time is like a lad with a voracious appetite   

The poet pleads for patience where the skyline inkwells bleed

And Duty hoists its banner beneath orders to proceed

Where one or fifty poems less not many seem to mind

And never balk against a bridle woven with love’s grind

That steals away the hours like a grand hibiscus-bloom

No matter how delightful, dusk insists upon its plume

Where a fist full of petals none can affix to the stem

Today is like a flower that will never bloom again

The agony of letting go would not exist, my dear

Without the joy that always precedes farewell’s tender tear

Where on the eastward brink, pastel pink efflorescence slips

From a fresh bud; a world of ink teases our fingertips

© Janet Martin