“ Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you, and persecute you, and shall say all manner of evil against you falsely, for my sake. Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you.”

Scorned, derided object of the culture’s rumor mill,
Laughed at, mocked,  and ridiculed and all because you still
Held to One Who holds to you with scarred and nail-pierced hand.
One Who prophesied this persecution for your stand.

Yes, you knew that, as His servant, such would be the case,
For your Master, long before you, suffered like disgrace,
And the prophets faced the same mistreatment in their day--
When the world shot messengers for what they came to say.

So it’s not surprising it should happen now to you,
That the world would find anathema what you hold true--
And that it would crucify all those who bear His name
Celebrate, rejoice, be glad! When it treats you the same.

Blessed are they which are persecuted for righteousness’ sake: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.

Beaten and abused, ill-treated,
Though you never gave them cause,
Pushed around, exploited, cheated,
--Not for breaking any laws--

Only for the path you followed,
Seeking Truth and giving Grace,
Trusting in that Name, so hallowed,
Glory shining in your face.

Righteousness that made them spiteful,
Goodness that brought out their worst,
Now you’ve suffered for what’s rightful,
Like the prophets from the first.

Lift your heads up, all afflicted,
Know there comes another day,
When the Kingdom, as predicted
Comes into your hands to stay.

“Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.”

Breaking down the walls that once divided
Us from them and each of us from God,
Not like those declaring peace, misguided,
When there is no concord, only fraud--

But with Heaven’s righteousness provided,
By the Son, Who spread that peace abroad.
Now no longer Jew or Greek, one-sided,
Locked behind society’s facade,

But those walls of difference subsided,
When with Gospel’s peace your feet were shod.
Others heard your message, I know I did--
And thereafter called you “child of God.”

“Blessed are the pure in heart: for they shall see God”

Unadulterated, undiluted, clean and clear--
Heart for God and God alone, no other loves come near,
Room for only one consuming passion, real, sincere,
Waiting for His coming, when your Bridegroom shall appear.

All this world’s distractions, the pursuits that once you knew
Pale beside the One who died and rose again for you.
Yes, your heart and mind are single, and your eye is too.
And one day you’ll see Him face to face, the purest View.

Sonnet:  “Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.”

That you had been served wrong, there was no doubt,
For all agreed injustice had been done.
You’d suffered that mistreatment one-on-one,
Offenses marring everything throughout
That time, with never sign of turnabout.
Until that day, observed by everyone,
When tables were reversed, positions spun,
When suddenly you had the greater clout.
But when that day arrived, we watched, confused
As you resolved to not retaliate.
Instead you gave forgiveness, mercy too:
A gift from you, absolving the accused.
This kindness shown, your clemency so great,
Invokes now, grace from Heaven, poured on you.

“Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness:  for they shall be filled.”

Parched you were and famished for what you could not provide.
All your hardest work still leaving soul unsatisfied.
Craving righteousness to fill the emptiness inside,
Yet your best was filthy rags, could not be purified.

So you came to One Who promised quenching for your thirst,
One Who said He was the Bread of Life, for you dispersed.
There you left the best of you and there you left your worst--
There belief in Jesus Christ your hungering reversed.

Appetite now filled with Righteousness that’s not your own,
You’ve been satiated by your faith in God alone.
Reckoned righteous, perfect, by the One upon the throne:
Satisfied beyond the best this world has ever known.

“ Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth. “

Though you might have been, like others,
Wildly letting passion loose,
Proud, contending with your brothers,
Status given to abuse,
Yet you chose to tame your spirit,
To ignore your pride of place,
Having might, to always gear it
Gentler, kinder, full of grace.

Strength controlled and power harnessed
Governed by your Father’s will,
Now you gain the earth: your harvest
Spilling out from Heaven’s till.

“Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted.”

Crying for wrongs that can never be right
      or for those who have left you alone,
Counting your trespasses, weeping, contrite,
      when the news of the day makes you groan.

Sorrow for evil, lamenting injustice,
     bemoaning the state of mankind,
Earnestly troubled, concerned and nonplussed
     at the mess we are leaving behind.

You are the fortunate, all you who mourn;
     oh, yes, you are the blesséd who grieve.
Though you are stricken, distressed and forlorn,
     Yet your Comforter’s here to relieve.

“Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.”

Because you understood your lack,
Your deficit of soul,
You held aloft your empty sack
To Heaven’s welfare dole.

Though others said, “I have no need,
I’m rich forevermore.”
--(Not knowing that their state, indeed
Was wretched, blind, and poor)--

You looked within your heart, perceived
Your insufficiency,
And Heaven’s Kingdom you received
To end your poverty.

“The sum is greater than its parts,” or so the saying goes.
And now the two of us see proof of that as each one grows,
Distinct but similar in code, the perfect mix and match
Of you and me but with a little extra in each batch.

You gave your chromosomes, all twenty-three, and I gave mine:
That nose like yours, those eyes like mine, his humor, her hairline.
The two became one, yes it’s true, that one plus one is one,
But each of us gave more than us to daughter and to son.

For isn’t that your Uncle Bob we hear in boyish joke,
My grandma’s fingers on the keys our daughter can evoke?
A cousin’s art, your father’s songs, Aunt Margaret’s detail--
We see and hear and sense them all; our children tell their tale.

But still there’s more; it’s not heredity alone they bear,
Not just genetic predetermination that they share.
For parts of them go further than we trace from you or me,
Those aspects that can’t find a match in recent history.

Original in talent, passion, attitude, and mien,
Each child is now a prototype the world has never seen,
Once Breath from Heaven animated life within each cell.
Their DNA and heritage were just an earthly shell.

Remember when we held them, small, in wonder and in awe
That mortal hands could hold eternal souls, so new, so raw?
We knew then as we know it now, the honor of our place
Our sum, as parents, greater than our parts, by far, by grace.

Leaven, Part One


Transfigured from within, though I don’t know
The moment when the sponge infused the dough.
It must have happened, though, because I see
The end result, as different as can be
From flattened lump I mixed not long ago.

Exposure to the yeast began, first slow
‘Til I divided and commenced to throw
And knead each piece, and then to watch all three
Transfigured from within.

Was it the pounding, shaping, every blow
I worked into each batch that made it grow?
Or was it just the presence or degree
Of leaven in my pastry that was key
To making lifeless mass now overflow--
Transfigured from within.


Leaven, Part Two


Transfigured from within, this lump of clay
But not because I made myself obey.
Instead, the difference that I see outside
Came when that kingdom started to reside
Inside my soul, as I believed the Way.

I cannot tell you minute, hour, or day
When leaven from Above suffused to stay.
I only know that I’ve been modified,
Transfigured from within.

Was it the pounding pain that made me pray?
The kneading, shaping, Holy interplay?
Or was it just the presence, amplified,
Of Word expanding where my old man died?
This loaf, when proofed, those workings will display:
Transfigured from within.

How silent that arena, unlit space,
The waters swirling, boundless, without form.
Each shapeless mass still waiting for its face,
Suspended life, the calm before the storm.
When suddenly a Voice above was heard--
To animate the void with just His Word.

That Word made Matter, Space, Duration, Light,
And yet we knew within that substance dwelt
Immortal Wisdom, barely veiled from sight
Right there, encountered, tasted, heard, and felt.
A Holy God made manifest to all
By shrouding Glory in an earthly shawl.

Eternity embodied, set in time,
Enclosed in carbon, dust, in flesh and blood,
Each consonant now striking measured chime
To halt the vowel, staunch its endless flood.
God’s amaranthine thought seized by the host
Of endings and beginnings, least and most.

Long after that first Word wound up the clock
Long after grand Infinity was bound
In casing corporeal, God took stock,
And once again, from Heaven came a Sound:
Another Word to demonstrate His love,
The Son: incarnate Wisdom from above.

Thus age-old Truth, once cloaked in mystery
--Creation’s fixed ontology, well-known--
Could teach the Father’s plan for history
Within a mortal frame just like our own.
A Translator to speak so we could hear--
The Word, told in our mother-tongue, now clear.

Today that story’s told in pages worn,
The message free for those with ears to hear,
Of both the times Infinitude was born,
Once in our cosmos, once our human peer.
And I have held that Word within my hand,
And read, and learned, and come to understand.

The pattern on the underside confused
By snarl and tangle, jumbled, twisting knot.
Its warp and woof constructed without thought
It seems: the flawless linen now infused
With spots of wreckage--perfect weave abused.
“A waste of thread,” I cry, upset, distraught,
And try to pluck the mess now sewn in taut,
Then see the Eye that watches me, amused--
Whose Hand now turns the underside to light.
Amazed, I view a matchless, pristine shawl,
Embroidered dosser, interlaced with shine
That stirs me as I contemplate the sight
Of faultless weft, undamaged after all.
Eternity alone discerns design.

Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” when Jesus stood on trial,
Bearing witness of the Truth to all who heard His voice.
Though philosophy rejected it, stood in denial,
Still, the Way, the Truth, the Life allowed mankind its choice.

“What is truth?” though, sounds urbane, superior to law.
Hermeneutics of humility smooths out the field.
I seem more sophisticated, cultured, not bourgeois,
If it’s all a mystery, still hidden, unrevealed.

So I claim, “There are no absolutes; it’s relative,”
Disregarding that my statement’s antithetical.
My assertion controverts itself (though tentative),
By proclaiming proclamations “theoretical.”

Next I try, “Who really knows what truth is, after all?”
All my friends agree with me; they wisely nod, concur.
Confident in doubt, with inconsistency banal,
Logic cast aside, to diametrics they demur.

How about “There is no right or wrong; it’s in your head!”
Satisfying concept until I’m the one abused.
Then my default is to judge the wrongdoer instead,
Never asking, “Why impose my ‘truth’ on the accused?”

“Well,” I claim, “I make my own reality; it’s true.”
If you counter me on that, I’ll argue all the way.
Think about it, though, because just how can I undo
True belief with skepticism; how will doubt have sway ?

Really, if I don’t have Truth, I don’t have anything.
Two plus two must equal four, or all the rest is void.
If we have no premise to employ linguistic string,
Then our discourse has no point; we’re barely humanoid.

Truth’s the binding to our book, the glue that holds secure
Logic, Reason, plain Consistency, our common ground,
Making possible each conversation to be sure,
Infrastructure of our culture, verity profound.

Then . . .
Let the relativist hush, he has no argument.
Making absolutist claims without the Truth is mad.
Only schizophrenics would attempt to circumvent
Rationale with their subjective unbelieving fad.

Maybe Truth’s “behind the times,” unstylish, square, uncool,
Maybe if I cling to it they’ll call me “Simpleton.”
All I know is Truth, derided, under ridicule
Still is True, and I’ll be its “minority of one.”

Yes, I’ll make that choice to speak the Truth against the tide.
Orwell’s “revolutionary act,” though I’m alone,
Pilate asked Him, “What is truth?” and history replied, . . . that
Truth, though spurned, remains civilization’s Cornerstone.

When we set forth, the breeze blew fair,
The sun shone balmy, warm.
Our sheets were fixed; sail filled with air,
No warning of the storm.

Our crew of two, so cheerfully,
With confidence untried,
Thought we could lick the strongest sea
And still enjoy the ride.

In dinghy small: in ocean great
Our tiny course still true.
We charted stars to navigate;
From Heaven took our cue.

And so we cruised for many years,
Successful in our tour.
With frequent laughter, scarcer tears,
The partnership secure.

But one night when the stars were gone
And clouds obscured our view,
A gust surprised us, struck head-on
And blew the mast askew.

In darkness thick, with rising surge,
We struggled with the sail.
The waves now threatened to submerge
Our vessel in the gale.

We could not see to douse or reef
And so we grappled, blind;
Our crew of two, in disbelief
Left buoyancy behind.

The dinghy tossed like wreckage now
And, hope so far from sight,
We tried once more and then, somehow,
Our crew began to fight.

Through foam and froth and swelling wave
Our agitation grew.
Each violent blast a cause to rave,
To quarrel, stage a coup.

Our crew of two, now one-on-one,
Not just against the squall
Attacked each other ‘til undone,
A rebel’s free-for-all.

So will we drown in waters vast
This tempest take our souls?
And, sinking, will we still lambaste
Each other’s weak controls?

Or could we, if we changed our tack
And pulled together, firm,
Outlast this storm, this inky black,
Our partnership affirm?

Oh, please, let’s try, although the sky
Above is dire and grim.
You take an oar and so will I,
Together scull and skim.

I’ll call you “Captain;”  call me “Mate.”
We’ll rally, make amends.
And, crew of two, we’ll navigate
This stormy night as friends.

[The words of Jesus to His followers in His sermon on the Mount of Olives:]  “Ye are the light of the world.” (Matthew 5:14)

Illuminate this night, You say we will,
But only if our chambers get a fill
Of Spirit-oil, our eyes be single, true,
And holy light of God infuse us through,
Despite our darkness, doubt, our lack of skill.

We cannot force this sunshine to distil,
To brighten gloaming, take away the chill.
So Heaven orders Light to dark imbue.
Illuminate this night.

Now Treasure stocking up this earthen till,
You gut our *******, old-man mercy-****.
Our new-man vital, Holy revenue
Eternal, shining, paying out our due
And then some; overflow of Life now spill:
*Illuminate this night.

"Then spake Jesus again unto them, saying, I am the light of the world: " (John 8:12)

Illuminate this night, Oh, Lord, we pray,
To stop us stumbling on our narrow way.
Well-lit, all murky shadows apprehend,
Each marker seen by us before the bend
A path made manifest by light of day.

Expose our wrongs, our defects with Your ray
Of clarity and Truth that gleams today.
Permit the darkness here to comprehend.
Illuminate this night.

And if we, lovers of the gloom would stray
To dismal passage, cheerless alleyway,
Then touch our eyes with brilliance, now transcend
Our inner twilight; Holy God descend
And bring Your radiance to our hearts to stay.
*Illuminate this night.

Strike a nail, hold a staple, stretch a fence, and milk a cow,
Grease a zirc, then rock the baby, buck a bale, or show me how
To ease my labor, calm my fear, to train a child, to plant or plow--
Scratch a life from thorns and thistles—past and future, here and now.

Rough and calloused, bruised and rugged, sure to make this family’s way,
Open to receive or furnish bread, truth, wisdom for each day.
Fix a motor, start a tractor, change a tire, change my way—
Holding, lifting, strong, supporting, showing more than words can say.

Leather-hard in storm and blizzard, warm and gentle on my face,
Teaching, guiding, firm providing, rooted motion, steady pace.
Scarred and chapped and stained from farming, years of struggle won’t erase,
But my hands, when held within them, know they’ve found their resting place.

I inter this one along with his brothers and sisters,
All of them dead, wrinkled, dry, and spent--
Then cover their husks with earth
And wait.

Next Wednesday, here they resurrect in bodies
Nothing like the ones I laid to rest.
But greening life unfurling over that same ground that smothered them
Last week.

Where is the seed? I wonder, and digging shows that
It has been consumed by what it started.
Now verdant growth delineates its forgotten
Shallow grave.

And for some time I don’t recall the humble start
To which my viridescent vine’s indebted.
‘Til autumn, when the flower’s passed and pods can shell out in
My hand.

There, held in dusty palm I meet the progeny of
Last spring’s burial--
How like their father, and how many!  Separated by that living vegetable
And time.

“The Seed is the Word” I know. I see it happen
As it plants itself in my soul’s garden patch.
Just words on wrinkled paper, ancient script seems long
Since dead.

But something new grows up in that same spot,
Some living thing that I had not expected
That seems not myself or what had grown there
Before.

It’s not the seed, but somehow hearkens back to my ingestion of
The pages in that dusty tome.
And I forget the exact words that sank into my being until
One day,

When an accusation flies my way--though wrongly hurled
By one who should have loved me.
And my response, unexpected, is not my practiced
Comeback.

What is my deal? I wonder.  Where’s the anger and vexation
I should feel right now?  Why the
Peace I can’t quite understand, and the total lack
Of pique?

Then I see them in my soul, breaking from the pods, thirty, sixty, and
A hundred:  “Great peace have they which love Thy law, and nothing
Shall offend them.”  “ Blessed are ye, when men . . .
Revile you.”

The seed I found in age-old text--now separated by the verdure growing
In my spirit, lush and full--is now
Mature and bearing fruit that looks just like
Its Father.

"But he that received seed into the good ground is he that heareth the word, and understandeth it; which also beareth fruit, and bringeth forth, some an hundredfold, some sixty, some thirty."  Matthew 13:23

Socialism needs an opt-out for the folks like me.
Doesn’t mean I want to shut out souls in poverty.

Just that sharing’s much more fun when I decide to give.
Ev’n the crankiest curmudgeon wants poor folks to live.

But it grates that regulation twists my liberal arm.
Presses me for my donation, “lets” me sell the farm.

True compassion I would render to the brotherhood,
Never shirking role of spender for the common good.

Yet I’m stymied in my caring, curiously enough,
When the government starts tearing  through my private stuff.

It’s like saying whom I must love, never letting me
Freely choose to be a part of warm felicity.

And . . .
What of charity’s receiver, plebian, once proud?
Now required under-achiever in the welfare crowd.

If she rises from her ashes, if she shirks her place.
Suddenly, the system slashes “benefits” apace.

Now, by council isolated from her former peers.
Up the ladder climbs unaided by the rich “top-tiers.”

While support they once would offer, now their fists are shut--
Uncle Sam has taxed their coffer, swiped the needy’s cut.

What if government gave freedom for us all to choose?
If the statutes guaranteed ‘em untouched revenues?

Might that self-rule foster good-will for our fellow-man?
Couldn’t independence instill kindness in our land?

Maybe it’s just me that could’ve soared above the rule,
Let the generosity of God become the fuel. . . that

Powered me to love my neighbor, opened wide my hand,
Shared the fruit of friendship’s labor with each one, first hand.

Either way, I need that opt-out:  Liberty’s control,
Giving me the chance to hand out, freely, from my soul.

Ye are the salt of the earth; . . . (Matthew 5:13)


Preservative or pickler in the brine,
To render flora, fauna for our good,
Or season, that the flavor ever should
Appeal to palate, coarsest fare refine.
That drawing, drying halite from the mine,
Which whitens pasture, threatens livelihood,
Keeps calling out for only That which could
Begin to slake, assuage its arid shine.
And what but Water satiates our thirst?
The salty food that makes us crave the cup,
That bone-dry want for quenching from Above
Just proves the pow’r that salt had from the first
To drive us toward the Life that fills us up--
And plunge our thirsty souls into His Love.



. . . but whosoever drinketh of the water that I shall give him
shall never thirst;
but the water that I shall give him
shall be in him a well of water
springing up into
everlasting life.  (John 4:14)