Faster, E'en Faster

“The Flying Scotsman” in ’24 did stun the world and serve his Lord;

He stood for what he felt was right, and suffered scorn amidst his fight,

And alone he stood on honour.

They asked him “why, what drives you son? On Sabbath-day to refuse to run?

Why would you give up medals gold to satisfy suspicions old,

and deprive your home of glory?”

“You’re a sprinter through and through, the 400 has no place for you,

You can’nae win, even if you try. You’ll kill yourself and we won’t cry,

You’ll go home without your honour.”

He didn’t shout, or raise his voice, for clearly he had made his choice,

To abandon hopes for what he thought was his best chance at glory,

All to keep the Sabbath holy.

The pistol barked, the tape was cleared, the Flying Scotsman did appear

At head of line—before the pack—a new world record, it set them back!

And the crowd did give a mighty roar.

“How,” they asked, “how did you run—so hard and fast a sprinter’s run—

and still have any strength at all to go the distance at the end?

We all know you’re done-in.”

“I ran as fast as e’er I could,” he answered in a soft Scot’s brogue,

“the half that’s mine to first unfold, and asked the Lord to run the rest,

E’en faster, faster yet.”

He gave up fame, not once but twice, and left His home for foreign lights,

To teach a school to little boys in Tientsin-town, down China-way,

He taught them about the Lord.

Lord I’ve run as fast as I, upon these feeble legs can fly,

I gave my all, and did again, and my half is fast approaching.

Let me run faster, e’en faster.

The Heavenly Mirror

When I lay upon my bed,

And close my eyes, and rest my head,

Reflecting now, I pause to think,

Of things I do and things I speak.

As plainly as a mirror I see,

All the things I hate in me,

Pride and anger, sin and doubt,

In my life, they are throughout.

I turn my eyes unto your face,

And back upon my earthly ways.

No more will my feet travel there,

In that valley of despair.

Instead I go the path of him,

Who cleansed my heart from every sin.

Unto his holy land I go,

Where milk and honey are sure to flow.

And now within my heart this tune;

“Come swiftly Lord, oh please come soon”.

On this trip, and on my journey,

I won’t succumb to fear or worry.

And suddenly, my mirror is gone.

The night is past, here comes the dawn!

Another day, another test.

Until again, my head I rest.

-April 2000

A Hymn of Redemption

Like Bard of old, a song I sing, as ancient as the earth,

For troubled times and worried minds, enduring lifeless dearth.

Man was made from dirt of earth, to dirt he will return;

No hope or light in Adam’s curse for souls destined to burn.

But Elohim conceived a plan, in Eden’s paradise lost

To turn again the hearts to him of those who count the cost

A Son, A Lamb, A Warrior Great came unto earth and suffered much

Though a King, a throne was not for what His search was wont

A soul! A soul! Was it for mine, that he did die and bleed?

My soul in chains and darkly stained, should never have been freed.

For souls he came—for souls he died, but that was not the end.

For though a grave did him contain he surely rose again.

We all partake of Adam’s curse, to toil and work the land,

And cannot share in God’s great love with pure and unscarred hands.

All men are lovers of themselves, and not lovers of God,

None exempted from the plight of those who walk this sod.

Temptations from the Liar’s throat, more fiery than a brand,

Suffer all of human birth to sift their souls to sand.

But Elohim provides a way for men to come to Him,

To leave a life of present strife and break the curse of sin.

Every man will have a choice, a decision to recall,

To give his all to God above, or slink to Satan’s call.

Will words of Faith bestir your heart, a light to guide your way?

Or will the tune of terror’s call melt your heart away?

 

-May 2009

The Descision

Art Thou a Minstrel, or a Bard? Dost thou know one from the other?

Of whimsy songs and lyrics play, or tear the soul asunder?

For one will lightly spread his noise, to all who will permit  him;

The other, quite unpopular, sings the songs that save him.

The first will harp quite merrily, and never ask the cost.

The last will sometimes mourn a dirge for those that he sees lost.

“Happiness and bliss” croons one, softly like a dove;

the other intones lasting peace, contentment from above

Will you tell tales of heart and valor? Let heav’nly mysteries trickle?

Or will you clatter inane matter and spew a flippant drivel?

As darkly through a glass we view and things are not that plain

They’ll be revealed to those He’s sealed, though patience may be strained

Prophetic words and Parables, riddles from the Lord

Come to those who serve the light, the sons unto him born.

Like salt upon the open wound, his words may sting to cleanse,

But they are balm unto the ones repentant of their sin.

Art thou a Squire or a Knave? Can you tell me proper?

Will suffering and trial yield a Knight, or just a pauper?

For nobility is bred in those redeemed by holy sword

And even those of lowly birth may call upon the Lord.

Behold the Bard! Behold the Knight! They love the Savior’s voice.

For when man heeds his maker’s plan the Angels do rejoice.

Man was made to walk with God by Faith and not by sight

For human strength is not enough for us for to win this fight.

Of heaven won, and heaven scorned, should our words impart.

For Sheol’s pit is not reserved for those of holy heart.

The ardent query—the decision grand—is as its always  been

Thou alone art giv’n cause to choose right or sin

Will you righteousness uphold, A warrior-poet be?

Or settle in a lowly state for all eternity?

Minstrel or Bard or Knight or Knave thy path thou must align.

But care to choose it wisely, or I fear thou waste thy time

 -May 2009

Hinc Mihi Salus!

A battle cry I now resound—as loudly as I can, it’s true—

As once my father’s did before, the only Latin they likely knew.

Better than they might have known, I know from where Salvation comes;

For I do know the heart of Him, who set the stars and rising sun.

“Nobile Servitum!” Others cried, the members of the Clan,

Pledging selves to God and Chief, their King and fellow man.

They beat their shields with vigor yet unrivaled by the mob,

And though I’m weak, I still do seek that rhythm forth to throb.

In times of trouble, I gladly seek to know His face and testify.

And when Satan grasps the upper hand, brashly will I amplify

The cry so earnest, from the Heart—and yet with Warrior’s steel resolv’d—

To serve the Lord with all my might, regardless of my problems solved.

But hush, I hear Him in the night, calling softly—speaking low;

“My son, hold on a little more; just stand, I’ve ever told you so.”

I’ll stand and fight, and hold my ground, though fiery arrows ‘bout me loom.

I’ll stand and shout that battle cry, for it will never be my doom.

Down, Down, Down

Like some cruel trick that nature plays,

My hopes and dreams, they are all raised,

Tantalizing, within reach,

As the carpet’s pulled beneath my feet,

And I do fall unto the breach--down, down, down.

At Edge of cliff I see them fall,

Higher still than Moher’s walls

I see them racing to their doom

Upon the rocks they’ll be consumed,

And they spiral ever further--down, down, down.

My hopes and dreams are sorely dashed

And, truly, I am quite abashed.

I dare not groan a single sound,

For fear you’ll hear the dreadful pound

My heart does make as it tumbles--down, down, down.

And yet, still again they rise,

The ever forward, onward prize.

Dreams and visions rare and true;

The things I’ll ever hold onto,

When once I grasp and carry with me—down, down, down.