Finding The Secret

More Than Conquerors
July 2004 Part II

“We know that the law is spiritual; but I am unspiritual, sold as a slave to sin. I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good. As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. I know that nothing good lives in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have a desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it.
“So I find this law at work: When I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in the members of my body, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within my members. What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death? Thanks be to God—through Jesus Christ our Lord!” —Romans 7:14-25

“But I withhold my pen; for vain were the fancy, by treatise, sermon, poem, or tale, to persuade a man to forget himself. He cannot, if he would. Sooner will he forget the presence of a raging toothache. There is no forgetting of ourselves but in the finding of our deeper, our true self—God’s idea of us when he devised us—the Christ in us. Nothing but that self can displace the false, greedy, whining self, of which most of us are so fond and proud. And that true self no man can find for himself: seeing of himself he does not even know what to search for. ‘But as many received him, to them gave he power to become the sons of God.’” —George MacDonald

Controversy of the real ’gainst the wrought:
How can we say that we shall and then not?
Why should we strive to stay put on the ground?
Why would we hold our breath, knowing we’ll drown?
How can being buried alive keep us safe?
Why should God move when we stay in one place?

Too, note the irony of this, our pain:
How that our brawling became our dread bane,
Running headlong found us flung off a cliff,
Poured out our sweat just to dig our own pit.
Come view our houses lined up on the sand.
Why should God bless works like these of our hands?

—Samuel Popiel

“An exceeding bitter cry”

Contempt and pangs and haunting fears—
Too late for hope, too late for ease,
Too late for rising from the dead;
Too late, too late to bend me knees,
Or bow my head,
Or weep, or ask for tears.

Hark!...One I hear Who calls to me:
“Give Me thy thorn and grief and scorn,
Give Me thy ruin and regret.
Press on through darkness toward the morn:
One loves thee yet:
Have I forgotten thee?”

Lord, Who art Thou? Lord, is it Thou
My Lord and God Lord Jesus Christ?
How said I that I sat alone
And desolate and unsufficed?
Surely a stone
Would raise Thy praises now!

—Christina Rossetti

Mine Own Eyelids

I’m sick of seeing mine own eyelids
Every time I close my eyes—
I groan to hear my twisted thoughts
In my own voice, in my own sides—
To separate myself from me—
Oh, what freedom that would be—
Not to have to be with me—
How impossible and Heavenly—
Father, are you sick of me?
To hear everything inside of me?

—Joanna Spencer
© Joanna Spencer. Used with permission.

Snagged

The times my line was free
I had to learn to wait;
I looked for fortune’s strike
While taunting it with bait—

A tug, and life was caught!
And what a fight it gave!
But with no headway made,
I saw I caught the grave…

Oh, Holy Spirit come,
I’m snagged again on weeds—
As pride is foiling me
Your guidance here I need!

—Benjamin Graber

Written For One In Sore Pain

Shepherd, on before thy sheep,
Hear thy lamb that bleats behind!
Scarce the track I stumbling keep!
Through my thin fleece blows the wind!

Turn and see me, Son of Man!
Turn and lift thy Father’s child;
Scarce I walk where once I ran:
Carry me—the wind is wild!

Thou art strong—thy strength wilt share;
My poor weight thou wilt not feel;
Weakness made thee strong to bear,
Suffering made thee strong to heal!

I were still a wandering sheep
But for thee, O Shepherd-man!
Following now, I faint, I weep,
Yet I follow as I can!

Shepherd, if I fall and lie
Moaning in the frosty wind,
Yet, I know, I shall not die—
Thou wilt miss me—and will find!

—George MacDonald

Springtime For Me

Deep within the ground,
The seeds of spring now slumber.
Trees, bushes, grass and flower
They are; Only God can number.

Awaiting the call of heaven,
Springtime come forth and bloom, again.
Awake to the warming sun and
Drink, to your fill, the soft rain.

Stretch forth your greenery.
Carpet the earth anew.
Arise your flowering buds
Of every color, tint, and hue.

Thus, you fulfill the Father’s plan.
’Til time has end, this will you do.
Springtime and Harvest will be;
My promise I send, now, unto you ...

Just as the crucified Jesus, crushed with sin,
Was laid with in the earth; His grave.
But, the dark, earthly, prison could not hold Him.
Springtime brought Him forth ~ for us to save ...

As the thunder and lightening, on Friday,
Was the winter of His Spirit.
’Twas the signal from heaven, that God’s Son
Had taken our sin and willingly bore it.

He took the seed of all our sin and
With Him, into the grave, was buried.
He took the cover of sin from us,
Renewing our souls, into the earth He carried.

His death was the sowing of precious seed
To await, in the earth, a refreshing rain;
Then, the warming of His resurrection that
I might bloom, with out blemish of sin or stain.

He is the promise of all springtime,
To wipe away the winter of our sin.
He came forth, out of the grave,
That we might be whole in Him.

We must become dead to self and sin,
And bury it beneath the cross, each day,
That we might harvest, in all Godliness,
As we walk with Him along the way.

To bloom where we are planted,
Let our roots find the richness of Christ Jesus
That we might blossom in His love and
That all will know that He lives within us.
Prayer

Call my life unto yourself, Lord.
Plant, with in my heart, the seeds of love
That I might reap and harvest some souls
’Til time calls me home above.

© 2004 by Sandra Griffin
Used with permission
http://www.our.homewithgod.com/sandra
http://poetrypoem.com/inhimthroughhimforhimsandy

Fine for Pacing

Nights are fine for pacing—
The moon is my companion—
Fighting myself my nightly game—

The carpet is coarse with footsteps—
Morning will come too soon—
And what good will have come of this?

I know that You are listening—
I feel You watching me—
I cannot do this by myself!

Silhouette

A hint of something better,
A shape without its core,
A form without its color
Which speaks of something more!

The darkness points to light,
The phantom to its frame,
The imperfections daze us,
But guide us all the same—

I’m faulty and I’m frail,
I’m flawed and warped, and yet
God chooses still to use me,
His lifeless silhouette…

—Benjamin Graber

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?
Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or
nakedness or danger or sword?… No, in all these things
we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.”
—Romans 8:35, 37

If you have any comments or questions, or if you have a poem to share, please send an e-mail to bgraber@neo.rr.com

Back