Photo by eberhard grossgasteiger
A pure (unmixed, unadulterated, not touched by any other substance) knowing lay within me because you are Holy…
A finished and utter humility drives me face down to the secret place…
I am undone without the High Priest of whom my lips are unworthy to utter his name…
I enter in because of Jesus and call out to The Holy One…
for I am hidden by the shadow of His wings and allowed to soar into the Presence of my God and King…
I am the girl in the dream, the girl in the hour glass.
I am every blue on the color wheel.
I rise on a great floating bubble that a child just blew out of a plastic jar of soap.
The bubble is Robin-egg blue and I am continually moving toward you.
I am the girl in the dream, the girl clasping turquoise ribbons attached to the moon.
My skin looks quicksilver blue like the Moon.
My heart is an open door that is deep blue like a navy school uniform blazer.
I turn the glacier blue door knob and I am permanently moving toward you.
I am the girl in the dream, the girl who is every blue on the color wheel.
I am soaring up toward the baby powder-blue stars, the blue-gray fog is lifted.
My blue-gray eyes finally see you and my Faith has been made sight.
Photo by Aleksandar Pasaric
He wanted to run but also to stay there forever
Her half smile incongruous in this sad place
Yet still she was so strong and resilient in the face of pain…
He knew he could never forget gray blue deep set eyes like hers
She belonged in a world with no war
to explore her poetry and the violin music She played…
She looked straight into his eyes and said, “don’t I know you?
It stung him like a wasp that perhaps she did not remember
but then her eyes fluttered like a butterfly wing…
He smiled back at her as she picked up her violin and he knew he would not run away…
Photo by Pixabay
The winters are not frozen here but still the birds don’t sing
I desire the scent of daffodils the sweet genesis of spring
The fire’s ember still alight I doze into late winter’s dream
imagine the colors of spring just dancing on a white moon beam
Photo by Samantha Garrote
Empathy without a clear identity in Christ puts one in a position to stand for everything or for nothing. To understand empathy and to nurture that gift the Empath must always be aware of matching their empathy side by side with who we who are “in” Christ Jesus. (As one who believes and follows Jesus as Lord or as one who is not a Believer.) It is paramount that we build our Christian lives upon our Identity in Christ Jesus, Truth of who we are in Him.
Empathy as well as all spiritual gifts must be held close to and in direct correlation to God’s Word or we will get it wrong. Empathy is a wonderful gift as long as we check and balance it or any gift with Truth.
Photo by Alex Fu
Even in the darkness I cannot hide from you…
When my fear whispers that I will not be able to cope
that I will never make it out of this hole…
Faith tells me my Father knows what I need
The Father who keeps filling me with his strength
and just in time He supplies all the Holy Light
that I need to battle through this dark night…
I raise my head from my prayer and I see Jesus kneeling there with me
The Light of the world has prevailed and no earthly power can keep me from His care…
Photo by Caio Resende
He Trains my hands for war so that my arms can bend the bow
He gives me strong feet to trod swiftly here below
My God who makes me blameless with His gentleness so great
His own arms will uphold me until I dance before His gates!
Photo by Rakicevic Nenad
The Angels have not grown older.
I always see them over my shoulder;
gentle, yet piercing mighty eyes.
Always checking the road maps and signs.
I have grown much older;
my dreams like nets all thrown.
Some I’ve known have wished me well;
a couple of them said “go to hell.”
Words, just words without caring.
Words, just words both wrong and right.
Still, I journey on toward His Holy Light.
Still, the Angels lie down beside me each night…
I journey on.
Photo by Ammar Ahmed
With Christ holding me in spine and spar;
Grace, as a steady breeze, sails me far.
My tail, the Holy Spirit, cuts the air.
Grief reels me in from slice and tear.
My Perfect Maker holds the line.
Bridled by His voice calling me “Mine.”
I am His Joy and His Delight.
In loyalty, my soul takes flight.
Photo by Leo Cardelli
I heard a story ’bout a poet who gave himself away
The inner city was his canvas with no color in his dreams
He was a wanderin’ grifter but no one knows for sure
It is said he still wanders ’round downtown at local bars
This City is a hard place and it stings when North winds blow
It shows no mercy to the poor child with no where else to go
I heard a story ’bout a poet who sang his songs for all the lost
Then he set himself on fire to warm them from the chillin’ frost
The children who roam the Night Streets tell the story of a man
called the Inner City Poet who comes each night to tuck them in
Inside their cardboard boxes they lay there heads upon the ground
and the wanderer sings them lullabies ’til morning comes around