Poetry

Prayers whisper in the aroma of one tongue: "Dear Heavenly Father." That lovely word "Dear": He to Whom we address with reverence and awe. Is not He beyond the marvelous? Yet every prayer begins the same: "Lord, please..." -- amongst these: "Forgive me," "Bless me," "Cleanse me." There is no joy in sin. Herein lies the record of the sinner's plea: "Forgive me," "I'm sorry," "Thank You." Every day. The sinner's prayer is, "Lord, give me temperance," and so henceforth

The Lord is my joy, why doth my heart cry out? The Lord is my contentment when my heart is sad. The Lord is my satisfaction when my lungs sigh. I hope for Him in the morning, when the grass is withered, and the cold of night compasseth me round about. He heareth my groanings, when my spirit cries Alas! He heareth my moanings, when my spirit weeps aloud. Selah. Turn ye unto the Lord, O Israel, and let your voice be lift up, ye children of Joseph and Judah. He will carry me upo

—————————-——————————————-——-— ——————--——————————————-—————— ————-——-———————————————-————— Snapped upon a stringless air, 𝄞 clef’t of heart; —————————-———————-————-—————— —————--————————————————-————— ————-——————-————————————-———— ————-—————-——————————————-——— Upon an Aged Rock, mournful morning woes. ————-——————-————————————-———— ———-—-————————————————-—————— ———-——-————————————————-————— —————-———-———————————————-——— ½ sung a dovely song, pluck’t tune in G spot; ———-———-———

Acknowledge Thou my insufficiency, O Lord, and make of me a full sacrifice. Bring me to my knees, and forget Thou the sins that have caused me to depart. Cause me to hear Thy gentle, loving voice. Deepen my understanding in spiritual things, that I may discern the voice of truth. Enlighten mine eyes, that I may behold Thy mercies in Thy glorious tabernacle. Forget not my tears upon the morning bed. Grant that I may be baptized with holiness, reaching forward unto perfection.

Within this page are planted the seeds borne of good ground, where the sower has received plenteous vantage. Here the harvest is tended to and kept gently, aroused with dew and beautified by spring airs. The seasons are tempered here and the wine is new. [Arranged by: Newest to Oldest] The Bereavement of the Alive We weep with the cracks of our lips pressed down in mournful morning woes. We are blue when the rays of faith have faded into a gentle yellow tone. I miss the soul