At the Door

If you leave me like I am, I’ll be filthy, naked and poor.

The fear of that assails me, so I lay me at your door.

Oh wretched me! Oh Glorious you! The rumors MUST be true!

Or I will die a dreadful death; forsaken by even you.

Now I will to cause my hands to bleed by knocking on your door.

What great surprise comes to my eyes you demand not such a war.

“Stand tall my child, and enter in. My body was torn for you.

Come taste and see that I AM good; my promises are true.”

Oh sweet One! Now I find that rest my soul has so long for.

For all you ask is a broken heart, as we lay at your door.

By His Grace

Hide These Here

Like all men did I wander, through a dusty blowing land.

Unable to know just where I go, my sight reduced to my trembling hand.

But one Great moment appeared to me, the Holy One came near.

He gave me precious things to own, and bid me “Hide these here”.

So all the days I’ve left to own, are filled with placing dearly:

The proclamation that He Is, and guides so very nearly.

By His Grace

For now you dress in poverty;

The freedom to do as you please.

Be rich, be poor, be rebellious.

Live your choice with ease.

Constraint will show its lovely face,

And all the world will mourn.

Provoking God, they’d dressed themselves,

With mocking crowns, their heads adorned.

What choice is then, given to men?

Neither rich or poor will be.

But all will bow with stench of fear,

Giving Glory, for Glory is he.

By His Grace