WRITING POETRY MAKES ME HAPPY!
Have you ever tried writing a poem - other than an English assignment - just for your own pleasure?
Try it sometime! Just take a pencil and a blank piece of paper, and write very short lines (Twitter-type remarks) about a subject you love. Use some descriptive language. Compare a nose to a tree or a thought to a waterfall or an obsession to a heavy suitcase. Once you've begun the process, your mind goes into that orbit, and you begin to think poetic!
The younger you are, the better. But I believe that whether you are less than 8 or older than 98, you can still enjoy reading and writing and memorizing poetry!
Poetry inspires! Poetry refreshes! Poetry elevates!
The Lord is into poetry. The Book of Psalms, Song of Songs and others are books of poems.
When I was seven or eight years old, an aunt sent me the book, "A Child's Garden of Verses" by Robert Louis Stevenson, which I lovingly wore out through years of handling it. I memorized most of those poems, and dearly loved them all! When I was ill, that was the only book I wanted read to me. When I was well, it was the book I took to my treehouse to read. I fell in love with poetry that year - and I have never fallen back out!
One of my junior high teachers informed me that poetry lingers in your soul from childhood to old age!
Today, my focus is writing worship poems, because I love my Lord Jesus so much! My mind seems to run in that direction, but I also write about my observations of human behavior (specifically my own!)
One of my own favorites is one I have written about old dog, Tweed, a large blonde British Labrador Retriever with apalling manners but the sweetest disposition you ever saw! The poem isn't great form, but it says what was in my heart, and for that, I love it!
Though I have long been an afficionada of poetry - every form of poetry and verse - I find that most, or a large host, of today's poets are snobbish intellectual types who have traded free verse for morals! Consider this anomaly: These poets will write about anything and everything - trash, filth, evil, decadence, occult, violence, perversion, and other things I won't mention - and they will accept any free verse on any subject - as long as it is "written beautifully"! What they reject are poems that rhyme and Christian poetry in all forms! If it is "religious", they deem it even unworthy to be a viable opponent! They simply dismiss it as vile, lacking sophistication, spirit and style.
So, we find that today's poet writes mainly in free verse or a type of prose-in-verse. One man wrote about the "six styles of rhyme". In his essay, he efficiently, deftly and rather snobbishly, (as most free verse poets are prone to do), dismissed rhyming poetry as inept, awkward and unsophisticated.
Alas, rhyme seems to be passe' for most current poets....but not for me. I like both styles, and I will continue to write in both styles. There are times when a limmerick verse is cuter and says what you want - with a light-hearted, tongue-in-cheek freedom. And often, rhyme helps put words to song - without the need for a melody!
Then there is the matter of memorization. Almost all of us over the age of 30 have had to put several long poems to memory during our 12 years of school. I memorized "Gunga Din" in junior high, "Hiawatha" as a sophomore and sonnet 43 (and others) from Elizabeth Barret Browning's Sonnets from the Portugese as a senior.
I love words, therefore working with words comes easy for me. I'm an excellent speller, which is a very good thing for a writer. But I truly believe that all of us have poetry in our souls, so I would like to challenge you to begin to read AND write poetry! Begin on this page, with reading some of mine. Pour over some poetry books in the library, or in bookstores. Go on-line. There are dozens of poetry pages on the web. Read them to yourself, but also read them aloud. If you have children, so much the better! Be sure to read poems to them - and then together, memorize a few!
And don't forget to encourage yourself to write poems! In your newly found pursuit of poetry, read a lot, write a little, and let the happiness pour into your soul like sunshine after a week of rain! There are those who will choose to remain readers and some will become writers, but any relationship you can have with poetry will elevate your heart and lift your spirit!
(The poems on this page are mine, unless I give credit to someone else. Some of my paintings and photos are also on this page.)
Try it sometime! Just take a pencil and a blank piece of paper, and write very short lines (Twitter-type remarks) about a subject you love. Use some descriptive language. Compare a nose to a tree or a thought to a waterfall or an obsession to a heavy suitcase. Once you've begun the process, your mind goes into that orbit, and you begin to think poetic!
The younger you are, the better. But I believe that whether you are less than 8 or older than 98, you can still enjoy reading and writing and memorizing poetry!
Poetry inspires! Poetry refreshes! Poetry elevates!
The Lord is into poetry. The Book of Psalms, Song of Songs and others are books of poems.
When I was seven or eight years old, an aunt sent me the book, "A Child's Garden of Verses" by Robert Louis Stevenson, which I lovingly wore out through years of handling it. I memorized most of those poems, and dearly loved them all! When I was ill, that was the only book I wanted read to me. When I was well, it was the book I took to my treehouse to read. I fell in love with poetry that year - and I have never fallen back out!
One of my junior high teachers informed me that poetry lingers in your soul from childhood to old age!
Today, my focus is writing worship poems, because I love my Lord Jesus so much! My mind seems to run in that direction, but I also write about my observations of human behavior (specifically my own!)
One of my own favorites is one I have written about old dog, Tweed, a large blonde British Labrador Retriever with apalling manners but the sweetest disposition you ever saw! The poem isn't great form, but it says what was in my heart, and for that, I love it!
Though I have long been an afficionada of poetry - every form of poetry and verse - I find that most, or a large host, of today's poets are snobbish intellectual types who have traded free verse for morals! Consider this anomaly: These poets will write about anything and everything - trash, filth, evil, decadence, occult, violence, perversion, and other things I won't mention - and they will accept any free verse on any subject - as long as it is "written beautifully"! What they reject are poems that rhyme and Christian poetry in all forms! If it is "religious", they deem it even unworthy to be a viable opponent! They simply dismiss it as vile, lacking sophistication, spirit and style.
So, we find that today's poet writes mainly in free verse or a type of prose-in-verse. One man wrote about the "six styles of rhyme". In his essay, he efficiently, deftly and rather snobbishly, (as most free verse poets are prone to do), dismissed rhyming poetry as inept, awkward and unsophisticated.
Alas, rhyme seems to be passe' for most current poets....but not for me. I like both styles, and I will continue to write in both styles. There are times when a limmerick verse is cuter and says what you want - with a light-hearted, tongue-in-cheek freedom. And often, rhyme helps put words to song - without the need for a melody!
Then there is the matter of memorization. Almost all of us over the age of 30 have had to put several long poems to memory during our 12 years of school. I memorized "Gunga Din" in junior high, "Hiawatha" as a sophomore and sonnet 43 (and others) from Elizabeth Barret Browning's Sonnets from the Portugese as a senior.
I love words, therefore working with words comes easy for me. I'm an excellent speller, which is a very good thing for a writer. But I truly believe that all of us have poetry in our souls, so I would like to challenge you to begin to read AND write poetry! Begin on this page, with reading some of mine. Pour over some poetry books in the library, or in bookstores. Go on-line. There are dozens of poetry pages on the web. Read them to yourself, but also read them aloud. If you have children, so much the better! Be sure to read poems to them - and then together, memorize a few!
And don't forget to encourage yourself to write poems! In your newly found pursuit of poetry, read a lot, write a little, and let the happiness pour into your soul like sunshine after a week of rain! There are those who will choose to remain readers and some will become writers, but any relationship you can have with poetry will elevate your heart and lift your spirit!
(The poems on this page are mine, unless I give credit to someone else. Some of my paintings and photos are also on this page.)
WHAT YOU'LL FIND ON THIS POETRY LENS
You'll Find Something You LIke from My Poems or from Famous Poems
- A FAVORITE CHILDHOOD POEM
- WHAT'S WRONG WITH BEAUTIFUL?
- ANOTHER STEVENSON FAVORITE
- FROM VERY SIMPLISTIC
- TIME IS BUT THE ESSENCE OF SPRING
- A PICTURE POEM WITH WORDS
- COLORED SUN OF SKY ABOVE
- WHAT WILL THE POTTER SAY?
- JESUS METAMORPHISIS
- THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY - From cocoon forth a butterfly
- MY OTHER LENSES
- ADD THESE TO YOUR POETRY LIBRARY
- FOLLOW MY TWEETS ON TWITTER
- MIND OF THE CREATOR
- JUST LIKE HIM
- AMAZON CLASSICAL CULTURE
- MARTHA! MARTHA!!
- Items Wax Poetic at CafeExpress
- THE LITTLE BOY AND THE OLD MAN PLUS FORGOTTEN LANGUAGE
- HOW DO I LOVE THEE? LET ME COUNT THE WAYS
- I WOULD LOVE YOUR FEEDBACK
- YOUR MERCY ENDURETH FOREVER!
- PURE AND HOLY JESUS
A FAVORITE CHILDHOOD POEM
By Robert Louis Stevenson
From "A Child's Garden of Verses"Bed in Summer
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people's feet
Still going past me in the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
WHAT'S WRONG WITH BEAUTIFUL?
A Free Verse Poem I Wrote Twenty Years Ago
What's wrong with Beautiful?In the shifting, whirling, bustling
Pace of new Millennium,
Midst sophisticated, slick, sardonic,
Gabardine and wool of pin-stripes.
White cotton pleats, pearl-buttoned shirts,
Starched stiff and stuffy.
Black heels clattering on marble tile
Echoing in hollow, hallowed market halls.
Atmospheres of business, empty busyness
Upon the shale of scales. Profits, losses,
Filing figures. Void of feeling.
Without name, without shame. Ugly!
Affluence, indifference, the ambiance.
Perchance, the terror of this modern world
Is monetary gain gaining dominion,
Gaining momentum.
Cold, calculating, computer analysis
Is brainwashing, Brain drowning.
Causing death. Causing shame.
Who will see? Who will know?
Who will miss daytrader, clerk, financial whiz?
Who will mourn politician, secretary, janitor, CEO
From heart attacks? From money woes? Ugly!
Whatever happened to Beautiful?
Buck Rogers taught us not to totter
On the brink of speculation.
Are the prophecies of yesteryear now here?
And how did loveliness diverge?
When we need harmony to be revivified,
The softer side, the friend's concern.
The dreamy walks by water's edge
Silver-blue, still and smooth.
Quiet nights, silent strolls.
Mirrored moon moving slowly.
Hazy days. Lazy ways.
Where went sidewalks, porches, rocking chairs?
Roller skates and strollers, kitchen smells?
Who's our neighbor? What's his flavor?
Is he sweet or sour? Let me know!
Where is Beautiful? Oh, God, I miss her so!
ANOTHER STEVENSON FAVORITE
by Robert Louis Stevenson
The Swing, from "A Child's Garden of Verses"How do you like to go up in a swing,
Up in the air so blue?
Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
Ever a child can do!
Up in the air and over the wall,
Till I can see so wide,
River and trees and cattle and all
Over the countryside--
Till I look down on the garden green,
Down on the roof so brown--
Up in the air I go flying again,
Up in the air and down!
FROM VERY SIMPLISTIC
(One of My Poems for Our Children)
TWEEDThis snoring, sleeping, slobbering blob
Is our wonderful, elderly British Lab dog.
A giant who sleeps way too much for his size,
A white wad of fir 'round the saddest of eyes.
But his poor and bedraggled, wrinkled old face
Belies the fast tail-wagging, hop-scotching pace
When Master retrieves his chewed, ragged bowl
And fills it with food. Watch his eyes roll!
Tweed is his name and to stare is his game.
He will stare you down if you make him ashamed.
Chickens can come through the yard like a herd;
Tweed never knew he was bred to hunt birds!.
But he's really, he's simply a remarkable dog,
He doesn't like baths so he stinks like a slob.
And he's never mastered the fine art of drinking
(Slobbering, splashing, spills without thinking.)
Still, our special, favorite, beloved old mate
Is this walloping hound with affection so great
We've treasured these times - On this we've agreed:
The dog of the decade has got to be Tweed!
TIME IS BUT THE ESSENCE OF SPRING
I Composed This Poem - Because I Discovered that God is Not in a Hurry
Ah, see, Time is but the essence of Spring,And then, Life is the essence of our God.
Interims and interludes of time
Bobbing and ebbing through eons of sand,
Coursing through ravages of the ages,
Occupying those opportune moments,
Some radical, some impervious changes.
Modifications of seasons, of many hues,
Transformations of water, of vegetations,
Alterations of ocean tides and of land swells,
Variations of persons living, of those now dead,
Of full, robust lives and long relationships
Or those who couldn't wait, who forged ahead.
Time spilling onto the pages of Life:
To the very Garden of Creation
Where then mankind was created,
The history of God and His Man-Child..
Him as Beginning and the Ending.
Death and resurrection on that Spring day
Forever birthed new Life upon this earth!
Infinitely instituted what calendars and time are worth!
Ah, Time is but the essence then of Spring.
And then We are but the essence of our Lord.
A PICTURE POEM WITH WORDS
Stevenson's Gift to Children of All Ages
To Any Reader, from "A Child's Garden of Verses"by Robert Louis Stevenson
As from the house your mother sees
You playing round the garden trees,
So you may see, if you will look
Through the windows of this book,
Another child, far, far away,
And in another garden, play.
But do not think you can at all,
By knocking on the window, call
That child to hear you. He intent
Is all on his play-business bent.
He does not hear, he will not look,
Nor yet be lured out of this book.
For, long ago, the truth to say,
He has grown up and gone away,
And it is but a child of air
That lingers in the garden there.
COLORED SUN OF SKY ABOVE
I Wrote This For Lovers of Sunrises
Oh, Sun-kissed sky of early dawn,Of lilac mist and perfect pink
I peek at you through curtains drawn
But fail to flatter you I think.
Bright, rapid colors take my breath.
I stare in awesome wonder
As rose and yellow-orange palettes
Throw color schemes asunder,
The lavenders have turned to gold.
Soft clouds now traced in red
With tints both pale and bravely bold
Spray brilliant sunbeams overhead.
The One Who builds kaleidoscopes
Must know I love this sky.
He lifts me up to morning hope,
I dare not question why.
So, colored Sun of sky above
Take heart when clouds are gray.
Your rising glows with awesome Love
To warm the darkest day!
WHAT WILL THE POTTER SAY?
Another Poem of Mine, To Be Read Aloud (Even to Yourself!)
The little clay pot that willingly got itself up on God's wheel was unwilling to give Him an inch.Yes, that clay tried to hide from the light that shined brightly over the Great Potter's bench!
Pot was going so knowingly opposite - totally going away from God's care!
It was grudgingly nudging Him, not really budging yet... head in the dirt and feet in the air!
A product of earth, the color of dirt, the clay was already marred.
Not willing to change and stubborn of heart, the clay had become cold and hard
That clay pot, so shy, would, cry, "Qh Master Potter, oh WHY did you make me this way?"
But, God said to the red pot, "Shall what I have formed question what I will do with your clay?"
(A mixture of mud, a pot that held sin, a mess that knew not how to pray
Would argue and gripe and say to its Maker, 'Oh WHY have You made me this way? '...) ??
"Does Potter, the Father, not have the sole right to make of your knotted old lump
A jar from the common used only for lowly use - now in My hands to become...
A jar more than ever before could have held the fine things that I see in yourself:
A blessed container that's grander and finer than all of the pots on My shelf!"
The stubborn red dirt, the unyielding old clay, the pot that had held only bad,
Became soft and warm and began to let go of the past that had made it so mad!
The Great Potter, the Father - now roughly, now gently, forming and shaping His way,
By His hand, oh so grandly -- now molding and kneading that brave little pot of red clay...
That product of earth, that color of dirt, that lump that had been very wrong,
Was now willing to change and was softer of heart, and was coming quite nicely along!
The Lord smiled a smile now, His mildest and tenderest grin as He shaped the soft clay.
God caressed it and dressed it in shimmering gold as He polished and shined it, He'd say:
"Little mixture of My love, small pot that holds Jesus, li'l jar that holds My great faith,
You have humbled yourself, you've allowed Me to form you; now you shall pray and obey.
"Then I, Potter, the Father, prepare you for glory, for noble potential - you'll see!
For behold the gold molding is now full of power to be used to bring honor to Me!
"For it took both of us, both the Potter and clay, to form this fine vessel I've got...
It's a beauty, a prize, a pleasure I treasure, formed from the lowly old pot!"
So, if you're in the pure fire, refining and smelting and hurting - it's but a short while
'Til Potter, the Father, says. "Well done, My daughter... My son. .. My sweet golden child!"
JESUS METAMORPHISIS
From Lowly Coccoon to Beautiful Butterfly (One of the First Poems I Wrote)
Once you were a lowly worm just crawling in the dirt.Even in the soft cocoon you clung to this old earth.
Then one day God gave you wings and lifted you up high -
From the day you believed in Jesus, He gave you
Freedom to soar, to explore His deep blue sky!
He knew just what you'd be and do.
He made you glorious to glide, to climb, to fly!
Dear chrysalis, break free!
Now you are lovely in the image of the Lord..
A creature born of God, like His Son, you are adored
He made you cleansed by His blood and free from sin!
Loosed from all restraints, you are unique. Fashioned
To savor the flavor that pours forth from within.
You touch the Rose of Sharon impassioned,
For His cross is the waiver that brought you to Him.
Dear butterfly, you're free!
THE BUTTERFLY'S DAY - From cocoon forth a butterfly
A Favorite of Mine By Emily Dickinson
From cocoon forth a butterfly
As lady from her door
Emerged -- a summer afternoon --
Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,
To Nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As 't were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea.
As lady from her door
Emerged -- a summer afternoon --
Repairing everywhere,
Without design, that I could trace,
Except to stray abroad
On miscellaneous enterprise
The clovers understood.
Her pretty parasol was seen
Contracting in a field
Where men made hay, then struggling hard
With an opposing cloud,
Where parties, phantom as herself,
To Nowhere seemed to go
In purposeless circumference,
As 't were a tropic show.
And notwithstanding bee that worked,
And flower that zealous blew,
This audience of idleness
Disdained them, from the sky,
Till sundown crept, a steady tide,
And men that made the hay,
And afternoon, and butterfly,
Extinguished in its sea.
MY OTHER LENSES
Take a Look - You'll Love 'Em!
ADD THESE TO YOUR POETRY LIBRARY
FOLLOW MY TWEETS ON TWITTER
MIND OF THE CREATOR
My Mind Believes in the Creator in You, So I Wrote This Poem
This Creator mind imagines images.But we create clarion-colored canvases,
Of muted murals or proud portraits.
Soothing, shocking, satisfying,
Stained slates of illustration. Fresh images.
Yes, we've collaborated; we ourselves created
Images.
Carefully carved; meticulously molded, perfectly painted
Welded wonders. Textured textiles.
Striking statues. Bold bastions of bas-relief.
Creator is Master of the written word,
so we elaborate in ear-tickling tales
Filled with astounding adjectives and violent verbs.
Our hands produce and machines construct
Scintillating sensations, titillating tome. True images.
For we have fashioned finely fabled
Images.
Of ringing rhymes and pleasant prose,
Accurate, admirable accounts, or
Fabrications of far-fetched fiction.
The image of the Creator.
That sixth sense ability
Of talent deep inside yearning to be loosed
Hoping to be unleashed to form original works;
To frame and cast, compose and shape. Real images.
Red-hot, radical and revolutionary
Imprints on humanity.
These images.
From author, inventor, sculptor, engineer
From weaver, painter, poet, pioneer.
Duplicating our Creator's creation.
Contriving composites and divine designs
To formulate, manipulate and stimulate
Our images.
God, help us contrive compositions and divine designs
From author, inventor, sculptor, engineer
From weaver, painter, poet, pioneer.
Red-hot, radical and revolutionary. To view images.
As New images. True images.
The "You" images!
JUST LIKE HIM
One of My Poetic Reflections on God's Purposes
I am destined for dominion on this earth.I'm created for His glory. I am destined for His love.
He made a king and priest of me and said I am His 'son'.
He fashioned me to be like Him, counting value, knowing worth
There's power when he starts on me, and power when He's done.
He never looks at what I've earned or what I may deserve.
But He teaches me to minister and He shows me how to serve.
I know no other little god could ever hope to be
The beauty of this Mighty God
In everything we see.
He's in everything in earth and heav'n, in every little cell.
He filled up every tiny niche
And conquered earth and hell.
He has made His very presence known
Where the lowest demons dwell.
He is all and all and more to come with eternity to tell
What words will always fail to say:
That He is far beyond description in every single way.
Yet, when I talk to Him and pray
I know He listens just to me
This splendid, glorious, wondrous God
With angels at His beck and call...
With His astounding majesty
Can tune His awesome concentration
To my static frequency -
Because He's made Himself at home
Inside the likes of you and me.
I am destined to conform to what He's like.
I'm created in His image. I am born to be like God.
My capacity is God-like, from beginning to my end.
He is teaching me infinity. He is lifting up my sight.
I am fashioned in His likeness. I am born to be like Him.
I'm a prism from His glory. I'm a candle from His light.
I live just for His glory. His own purpose is my life.
AMAZON CLASSICAL CULTURE
MARTHA! MARTHA!!
Are You A Mary or a Martha? One of My Poems
MARTHA, MARTHA!My name's not Martha, but I can hear
The Lord's correction in my ear...
"Martha, Martha..."
My name's not Martha, and yet I know
He wants to curb my ebb and flow...
"Martha, Martha...."
If your soul name is Martha, agree with me
We'll learn to sit at Jesus' feet
With Mary who has chosen best
And hear our Lord sweetly confess,
"Martha, you deserve a rest!
Items Wax Poetic at CafeExpress
THE LITTLE BOY AND THE OLD MAN PLUS FORGOTTEN LANGUAGE
Two of My Many Shel Silverstein Favorites
THE LITTLE BOY AND THE OLD MAN
Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
FORGOTTEN LANGUAGE
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?
Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.
FORGOTTEN LANGUAGE
Once I spoke the language of the flowers,
Once I understood each word the caterpillar said,
Once I smiled in secret at the gossip of the starlings,
And shared a conversation with the housefly
in my bed.
Once I heard and answered all the questions
of the crickets,
And joined the crying of each falling dying
flake of snow,
Once I spoke the language of the flowers. . . .
How did it go?
How did it go?
HOW DO I LOVE THEE? LET ME COUNT THE WAYS
This was my Mom's favorite by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,--I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!--and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
YOUR MERCY ENDURETH FOREVER!
One of My Songs of Praise
Lord,Your tenderness, love and Your grace last forever!
Your mercy endureth throughout all of time!
Your love is a gift that surpasses all others!
Your blessing increases the higher I climb!
Your righteousness endures for ever.
Your truth exceeds eternity!
Your mercy endureth for ever!
And Your blessings meet all of my needs!
The more that I know of Your love takes me deeper
Until I'm immersed in the Spirit of power.
My faith is submitted -- committed to Your ways;
Becoming like You day by day, hour by hour.
Your mercy endureth for ever.
Your love exceeds infinity!
Your mercy endureth for ever!
And Your grace is sufficient for me!
Yes, Your love is sufficient for me!!
PURE AND HOLY JESUS
It Makes Me Happy to Write Poems About Jesus!
Pure and holy JesusThe Son of God is He.
Though gentle as the softest breeze,
He went to hell for me.
Pure and holy Jesus
This Son of Man we know
Is lovely as a mountain view
And clean as whitest snow.
Pure and holy Jesus
The Purest Lamb is He.
Who shed His own innocent blood
As He gave His life for me.
Pure and holy Jesus,
Crucified and scarred,
But now alive and strong and powerful!
The Risen Lamb of God!!
by GVGems
We are G&V. She's G. He's V. We've been married a long time, have a large family and have many interests, such as our grandkids, outdoors, fishing & h... more »
- 3 featured lenses
- Winner of 3 trophies!
- Top lens » TEXAS SAYINGS AND OTHER PITHY PROVERBS
Feeling creative?
Create a Lens!
Explore related pages
- Poems About Birds Poems About Birds
- Footprints Posters, Wall Hangings and Jewelry Footprints Posters, Wall Hangings and Jewelry
- Surprising Ways God Answers Prayer Surprising Ways God Answers Prayer
- The Gospel Reggae Phenomenon The Gospel Reggae Phenomenon
- Christian poetry and Song Lyrics Christian poetry and Song Lyrics
- The Spiritual Discipline Of Worship The Spiritual Discipline Of Worship
