Lines Based on Isaiah 25

I wrote a poem/lyrics based on the chapter we studied in church today (Isaiah 25). Thanks to Mr. Douglas Bond for inspiring me in his Mr. Pipes series, my pastor for bringing the message, and, as always, to my amazing God and His amazing Word!

I'll praise You, O my God,

For wonders You have done;

Your counsels and Your faithful truth

Shall last beyond the sun.

You tear down bricks and stone
Of enemies so strong;

The nations see and fear Your name;

Your people join in song.

You are a refuge sure,

A shade from blast and heat,

A strength to needy in distress--

Your vict'ry is complete.

The mountain of the LORD
Will bring good things to all.

His people will rejoice at last;

He'll drink up death and gall.

No more of death or tears--

We wait now for this day--

We wait for Him and He will save,

And we'll rejoice alway.

With His hand stretched out wide,

He knocks down all His foe;

He brings down pride and trickery,

And to the dust they go.

- M.A.M.

The Loss of a Special Pet

My mom took a liking to this little, friendly, black and white kitten on the steps of friends' house. She asked if she could have it, and the answer was yes.  We took him home, and he acted as if he belonged at our place. He loved exploring.  He was an easy-going, non-confrontational kitten, who hardly made a peep even if he was hit accidentally by a door.  He ran to keep up with us, he rubbed against our legs, especially when he was looking for food, and he curled up on our laps when he was content or tired.  He would also lift and hold one or the other front leg up while standing, as if treading slowly in the air.

What to name him?  We thought of nearly everything: Christo-Fur (Columbus was his original name), Raymond, Tuxedo, Oliver.  Nothing seemed quite right, though we finally settled on Oliver, after a stint with Christo-Fur.  Then, while listening to his high-pitched little meow, I called him Pipsqueak.  How about Pip?  (Another Dickens character.)  This name stuck, beating out Oliver.  Then came the nicknames such as Pipster, Pipper, Pippin, Speedbump--because he was always lying in our pathway, almost making us stumble--and occasionally I called him Lumbering Bear, because he was big and bear-like in his stride, except when he bounced along at a faster clip.

He grew and grew, until he was bigger than our other cat, Kezzie, who was not enamored with him at first.  But eventually, though they sparred and tussled like alley cats, they became friends.  Kezzie would lick his head or paws as if she were his mother, and occasionally Pip would lick her as they were curled up next to each other.  Pip also liked to stretch out long, sometimes on his back with his feet sticking up and out.

This past week, Pip was struggling with an illness after getting neutered.  The first sign he was sick was when he wouldn't eat.  Pip's appetite was gigantic.  So this--this was concerning.  We wondered if he was still recovering from his surgery, but he had eaten since the surgery, so perhaps this was something else.  We started giving him tuna fish instead of hard food (noting that his gums were inflamed), which he ate a little bit.  But it was still not the Pip of earlier days.

We took him to the vet, got some tests, and some antibiotics and saline solution to give to him.  He had a 105-degree fever and was dehydrated. The vet said it could be a tick-born disease, and . . . that this was usually fatal.  We were still clinging to hope, and coaxing Pip to drink and feeding him droppers of yogurt.  There was no imagining life without Pip.  But by the fourth or fifth day of him not eating anything, and having very little reaction from him when we pet him (normally he would be purring away, even when we weren't petting him), I started to face the hard truth.  He wasn't getting better. I could see it in his half-glazed eyes, feel it in his thin body which had been plump a while before.  We treated him gently, lifting him to the sink to drink, putting him on a towel on the couch to relax.  But he didn't stretch out like before, he just sat, with his head sinking lower and his eyes barely open.  I cried.  Yes, he was "just" a cat, but he was also a buddy. . . . He would follow us around everywhere, getting between our legs, playing with grass, and generally being a cute nuisance while we tried to garden.  He wanted all the attention and time from us he could get . . . and in retrospect, I would have given him more attention.  Shouldn't it be that way for all the special things and people in life?  We never know how short their lives may be, so don't waste time on things of lesser importance (and I'm still learning that lesson).  Is a cat important?  Not like a person, who has a soul that lives forever.  But a cat is a beautifully created thing, given for our pleasure and God's glory.

A day or two before he wandered off.  He looked remarkably healthy here,
but you can tell by his dirty paws that he wasn't up to his usual self.
He enjoyed the outdoors so much that it perked him up for a while.

I wrote this free-form poem when I was hurting, yet trying to comfort myself.  All this came on top of the death of a tiny kitten of Kezzie's.

"A time to be born, and a time to die,"
Yet some die young.
It seems wrong somehow,
Like saplings blighted
Before the flowers appear,
Or robust redwoods
Chopped for no good reason.
Does not God want beauty
And friendship here?
Is not an animal innocent
Of sin and shame like ours?
Yet there they lie, still and cold,
The breath knocked from their lungs.
Is it all to teach a lesson,
To show our sin, to chasten us,
Or to make us long for kingdom days?
Perhaps, or further still
To long for Thee,
My Father, God.
Your arms are there
For us to cling to,
Your promises don't fail,
And nothing comes or goes
Without Your wise ordaining.

We couldn't find Pip when he wandered off when I left him for five minutes outside (where he loved to sit or romp).  We searched the bushes, combing back and forth, risking ticks, ourselves.  Pip now must be dead, and it still seems unreal, but not quite as nightmarish as it seemed when he first left.  God is good, no matter what.  Come rain, come fire, come sweet or sour, He knows our needs and loves us despite our every sin!  This is what we need to remember every hour.  This is why we can "Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, in everything give thanks; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you." (1 Thessalonians 5:16-18) 

And, sweetly, the message today at church was about trials, God's refining purpose in our lives.  Oh that I would readily rejoice even in the worst times!  Yes, there is a place for mourning, too, but there should be behind that a peace and joy, deeper than the pain.

Lovely New Years' Post

Check out this lovely post by a friend who takes great photos!  She also posted a beautiful poem from The Valley of Vision.

The Lazy Man's Rut - A Poem

by Melissa M.
11-12-12

Clinging to past success,
Like spider to web,
I dangle precariously,
Fear tickling my gut,
But outputting nothing--
The lazy man's rut.

Tomorrow will be enough,
My heart wants to say.
But will it be, indeed?
Or will I fall prey
To hopes dashed
And a wasted day?

Tackle the goal head on,
Even if hard the load.
Easier now, I'm sure,
Than tomorrow's hour,
When panic and shame
Defeat and devour.

A Hymn

Two lines of this were quoted in Spurgeon's Treasury of David, and I searched online to find the author. I didn't find the author, but I found the whole poem it went with.  Then, I looked in C.H. Spurgeon's Our Own Hymnbook, and found it, under the title of "Jesus, my great High Priest," and with a few other verses.  Apparently it is by Isaac Watts.  Enjoy!

~~~

Join all the glorious names
Of wisdom, love, and power,
That mortals ever knew,
That angels ever bore:
All are too mean to speak His worth,
Too mean to set my Saviour forth.

Great Prophet of my God,
My tongue would bless Thy name;
By Thee the joyful news
Of our salvation came:
The joyful news of sins forgiven,
Of hell subdued, and peace with heaven.

Jesus, my great High Priest,
Offered His blood, and died:
My guilty conscience seeks
No sacrifice beside:
His powerful blood did once atone
And now it pleads before the throne.

My dear Almighty Lord,
My Conqueror and my King!
Thy matchless power and love,
Thy saving grace, I sing:
Thine is the power   oh, may I sit
In willing bonds beneath Thy feet.

Then let my soul arise,
And tread the tempter down;
My Captain leads me forth
To conquest and a crown.
The feeblest saint shall win the day,
Though death and hell obstruct the way.

Should all the hosts of death,
And powers of hell unknown,
Put their most dreadful forms
Of rage and mischief on,
I shall be safe; for Christ displays
Superior power and guardian grace.

~

(Additional verses, which may have been first.)

To this dear Surety's hand
Will I commit my cause;
He answers and fulfills
His Father's broken laws;
Behold my soul at freedom set!
My Surety paid the dreadful debt.

My Advocate appears
For my defense on high;
The Father bows His ears,
And lays His thunder by;
Not all that hell or sin can say
Shall turn His heart, His love away.

Immense compassion reigns
In my Immanuel's heart,
He condescends to act
A Mediator's part:
He is my friend and brother too,
Divinely kind, divinely true.

Isaac Watts, 1709.

The Last Day of Your Life

What would you do differently if you knew today was "The Last Day of Your Life"?
What if you knew this morning, when you opened your eyes in bed,
That today would be the last one for you, with eternity stretching ahead?
How would you change your schedule today if you knew it would be your last?
Who would you thank for investing in you, in the present and the past?
How would your life’s perspective

s shift from long-term goals to ‘today’
If you knew that in twenty-four hours or less it would all be swept away?
Would your bank account or investment plans matter so much to you
As the legacy you’ve left for your heirs of a faith that’s tried and true?
If you had but one more day to live, to cut through all your losses,
To cast aside the burden of unnecessary crosses,
There waits someone to hear words of forgiveness from your lips;
Perhaps some sinful habit holds you in its steely grip?
Your treasures seem but baubles as you view eternity
And cast aside those lesser things with faith in God’s decrees.
Which souls need Gospel tidings from your mouth to turn their hearts?
When did you leave your “first love” and make other things your art?
If this day were your last on earth, how would your mindset shift
From getting more possessions to giving yourself as a gift;
From making more excuses for laziness and pride
To industry and selflessness, taking the pain in stride.
I beg of you as I ask myself, dear friend, as the moments pass
To remember that life is oh so short: what’s done for Christ will last.
-Becky B. Morecraft

Thanks to Mrs. Morecraft for letting me post her poem!

A friend of ours recently died in a car crash--so unexpected and sad.  We knew him for many years--we met through homeschooling, and he grew up playing with us. He was a talented pianist, too.  Please pray for his family!  His name was Matthew Dunlop, and he is survived by parents, a sister, brother-in-law, nieces, and a nephew.  He was only twenty-nine years old.  We have hopes that he is in heaven, now, praise the Lord.

We never know when our time will come.

 

Train of Thought

I hope you enjoy these poems I wrote while I was on a train!

4-2-12
A flock of birds pass
Below, not above,
Their wings silver flashes
Equal, en mass.

A farmhouse, robed white,
Flies by, then a field.
Rows upon rows of
A viridian sight.

A church steeple peeps
Above the wild trees,
And the cattle are grazing in
Fenced-about keeps.

Yellow weeds jumble
In sweet disarray;
I wonder if the birds feel
Their home is quite humble!

4-2-12
Old shacks and cars and rusted roofs,
A cemetery so aloof.
We pass them by and hear the sound
Of whistle warning those on ground.
Rows of green, or tumbled bunches
Remind us soon it's time for lunches.
Death and life in close proximity--
They echo of eternity.

4-2-12
Owl-like I am,
To soak up all the sights,
A swivel-head
You could call me by rights....
Tunnels of green bowers,
A field full of flowers,
A junkyard with wire hills,
A river the sky fills.
Rippling, soft grass I see,
Cows lumbering by me.
People walk by inside,
Fixing their swaying stride.
A longhorn leads a pack
'Cross a glassy blue track.
A red truck keeps abreast
With the train, 'til we crest.
A butterfly says hello
As we enter town real slow.

4-2-12
The charm of a train is lost
When we lose an hour
Stopped on the tracks.
It picks up again
The minute we set off.

Homemaking Poems

A Homemaker's Prayer
by Melissa M.
1-6-12

Let me be a homemaker,
Not a homebreaker....
Let me never dread
Sweeping cobwebs overhead
Or polishing panes distressed
'Til they look their shiny best.
Let me delight to see
The counters clean and free
As often as the sun
Makes its glad upward run.
Let me cook with flair
And, yes, bathe all in prayer.
Let not a shrill, rash word
From my mouth ever be heard,
But may words of wisdom and grace
Always take their place.
A million little tasks,
Whatever my mother asks,
Are not so small after all
When done to honor the Creator of all.

~

And this one is a little rougher, but still has some good points. Maybe I need to work on it some more.
It could easily be misunderstood; I know there is much more a homemaker can do than just cleaning and cooking. I meant that the home should be our main focus and sphere, and fame is not what we should be seeking for. (To be discreet, chaste, keepers at home, good, obedient to their own husbands, that the word of God be not blasphemed. - Titus 2:5)

Keeper at Home
1-4-12

My hands are soapy,
Spattered with crumbs.
A thousand stains
Return each night and day.
I sigh and think
Of building bridges,
Of speeches grand
And polished words
Written 'neath covers gold.
Of mission huts
In tribal lands,
And sculptures of heroic bands.
Yet where would all that
Leave the home? I ask.
Wounded knees would
Remain unpatched.
Kitchen and tub
And floors unmatched
In dirt anywhere world-wide.
I'd bounce from place to place,
Yet have no coming home,
No lived-in nooks,
No loving looks,
No neatness or flourish.
Do these matter in spite of it all?
Does the daily grind at home
Make up a job as important
As others?
Just ask the ones
Whose mothers prayed
And wept and played
And sang and stayed
And bought and made
And never complained,
Always sought good and right.
Was it worth the fight?
My mother is such,
And where would I be
Without her sweet touch
Of diligence and love?
She bravely went on,
Followed husband's lead
As if solemnly decreed...
Perhaps it was, indeed.
My hands are slimy,
Covered in grime.
Is it worth my time?
I'll let you answer this time.

Another Little Poem

When our hearts condemn us,
Is it truly condemning,
When we refute
The condemnation of others?

Pride lingers still.
 
Let rebuke come!
If we love the Lord
We should patiently take it.

Stubborn is my will.

A Little Poem

Glimpses of truth
In stages
Some through living,
And some through pages.

Stumbling is what
Babies do,
And yet each step
Is awesome and new.

God is the giver
Of strength.
We will see Him
As He is, at length!

-M.A.M. 11/1/11

For His Glory

For His glory, His alone,
May my light shine day by day.
We are called to work and pray,
For His glory, His alone.

No good works for sin atone,
Jesus' work our sin effaced!
So we thank Him for His grace,
For His glory, His alone.

Leaning on God's strength alone,
Humbly let us own Him King.
He's the One who bids us sing
For His glory, His alone.

Joy to serve, with not a moan--
When on His love we rely,
Our hearts with sweet cheer reply,
For His glory, His alone.

-M.A.M. (7-20-11)
John Piper said it better in this sermon. I'd encourage a listen.

Patience

Not the most unique/original metaphors here, I suppose, but I hope you enjoy and are encouraged by this little poem, which was written for myself, mainly.


"Patience," said the old oak tree.
"Soon, little acorn, you'll be big like me."
"You'll have to dig up through the dirt.
It'll take some work, but then up you'll spurt.
Look up to the sun and drink it in,
And take some showers till you're quenched within."

"But, oh! It will be so hard to wait!
The trees tower o'er me and I feel so late."

"Do all that you can not to stay in the shade.
Stretch out your leaves and don't be afraid.
The more you take in the faster you'll grow.
Thank God for each inch; shake the bugs off below.
God knows every season, they're in His command,
So trust in His wise, omnipotent hand!"

-M.A.M. (7-16-11)

A Mother's Place

A mother's place
Is in the home,
Watching o'er the
Ways of her own;
To work and care,
Provide and teach,
Extend her hand
Far as can reach.

A mother's words
Are wise and kind,
Her children all
Are on her mind.
She fears the LORD
More than can say,
And we all praise
Her on this day!

-Melissa M., with love to her mom
(Based on Proverbs 31)

Hope in God

by Melissa M.
4-13-11

Balanced honesty and humility,
And encouragement every day--
That is what I want to give
In everything I say.

I may be weak and sinful--
Oh, I know it's true, indeed!--
But the Lord is strong to save,
And give victory the lead.

So don't be downcast, O my soul,
Hope in God, your only hope!
His glory is the object,
His strength your saving rope.

Old (Classic) Poems

In this poem, found in The Treasury of David, v's are written as u's and e's were extremely popular, which makes for an interesting read. :) But it is a great poem, based partially on psalm 36.

Thy mercie Lord doth to the HEAUENS extend,
Thy faithfullnes doth to the CLOUDES assend;
Thy justice stedfast as a MOUNTAINE is,
Thy JUDGMENTS deepe as is the great Abisse;
Thy noble mercies saue all liueinge thinges,
The sonnes of men creepe underneath thy winges:
With thy great plenty they are fedd at will,
And of thy pleasure's streame they drinke their fill;
For euen the well of life remaines with thee,
And in thy glorious light wee light shall see.

-Sir John Davies.

And I love this one, written by Jeroninus Segerson, while he was in prison at Antwerp (he was a Baptist martyr). He wrote it to his wife, Lysken, who also was a prisoner there, 1551. (From The Treasury of David.)

In lonesome cell, guarded and strong I lie,
Bound by Christ's love, his truth to testify,
Though walls be thick, the door no hand unclose,
God is my strength, my solace, and repose.

The Two Margarets

Some of the details in this poem were imagined by me, such as the bread and water verse, but most of it is factual.

The Two Margarets
by Melissa Merritt
October, 2010

Eighteen summers had Margaret Wilson passed,
Now trusting firmly in Jehovah.
Neither parent believing, alas--
They saw her faith as an enigma.

Then the king's men spread throughout the land
Arresting opposers of prelacy.
The Wilson siblings had joined such a band,
Retreating from cave to marsh, the back-country.

It seemed the danger had abated,
So the sisters dined with a friend in town.
This widow's other guests were elated
While they brought the girls--their enemies--down.

As the girls were dragged to prison,
Their hearts drummed fast and loud;
Yet even in the roofless dungeon,
They remembered God rebukes the proud.

The stone door clanked open wide,
But only for a moment, in the gloom.
The girls were pushed and squeezed inside,
'Mid the bodies in that crowded tomb.

One day a lined face appeared before them,
Widow Margaret MacLauchlan, their own.
They gasped and reached each other, then.
"Oh, my friend!" they each did bemoan.

"We must not waver; we must be strong!
The LORD will be our help, I ken."
Thus they waited, bursting out in song,
Fin'lly huddling to sleep after the last amen.

They were brought before the court's bench,
Margaret Wilson and her sister.
"Does the king control the church?
Or does God?" the voices blistered.

"God," they cried in unison,
Young Agnes along with Margaret.
Their sad fate they could envision,
But they turned not to vile regret.

Their father fought to free them,
Paying ransom for the younger;
But Margaret still they would condemn,
Though Mr. Wilson contended longer.

Morning eclipsed morning, nothing changed;
Bread and water were all their meat.
Some pris'ners fell, some grew deranged.
Some shared a cloak for added heat.

'Twas dark each night, no sign of a lantern,
And oft the rain pummeled their heads;
But the true and righteous could not turn,
Not bend, though they ached for soft beds.

They were prepared, these Margarets twain,
Reciting many a verse of God's Holy Writ.
They fainted not in adversity nor died in vain,
No drowning could put out their glow, once lit.

So when the guards came, mocking,
On that pale gray Wigtown dawn,
The torch-lights of the prison wing
Were steadily burning on.

'Twas May of sixteen hundred eighty five
When they were hauled into the tide,
The younger watched the older strive,
And called it the wrestling of Christ inside.

Margaret sang and prayed, unafraid.
They dragged her out, panting, for one more proffer,
But her resolve was not allayed;
Eternity with Christ had more to offer.

The Old Living-room

Painting by Hugo Engl

I wrote this using a word association exercise given in Mrs. Morecraft's online writing class. Based on my early days in NY.

The Old Living-room
by Melissa M.
9-30-10

Our living-room was large but old,
A hundred years or more, I'm told;
Across the carpet in the dark,
We'd rub fast to cause a spark.

On that same floor 'most every day
We'd kneel beside the couch to pray.
My father's deep, resounding words
Shed light on the verses we'd heard.

Dad taught there on the first of each week
As we gathered to hear him speak.
His voice was warm, impassioned, strong,
And our voices blended, too, in song.

They would set up a table on heavy wheels
And there we ate many agape meals.
Grandma brought pie or salad without fail,
We laughed and shared, discussed each detail.

My mom taught me phonics, the basics to read--
I sounded them out and followed her lead--
Read of spotted dogs and puffy cats;
Of little red hens wearing floppy straw hats!

My brothers chased, my sisters played,
My dad and mom and everyone prayed.
This was how our family began to bloom,
And it all happened in the old living-room.

Outside This Invention

Why is it we so often think
There's fulfillment on this screen?
Friends, indeed, are fun to follow,
Blogs and photos to be seen.

But there's a world of difference
When we take a step back and forget
To remember checking facebook walls,
And simply stop and learn not to fret.

Useful tools can also be instruments of pain...
Though we think we know which is which,
We can blur the lines and think our loss is gain,
And sometimes our minds turn off the switch.

So much lies outside this invention...
Trees and birds and piano beaming,
Laughter, hugs, and intervention,
Passages sweet and full of meaning.

Even the mundane tasks once dreaded
Can become sweet and refreshing,
Bring us closer to where we're headed,
And to others be a blessing.

Let us not forget Who gives each hour,
Each hope and strength and love,
Each counter-top to scour--
Each gift is from above.

-Melissa M.
8-12-10

I Asked the Lord That I Might Grow

I asked the Lord that I might grow
In faith, and love, and every grace;
Might more of His salvation know,
And seek, more earnestly, His face.

’Twas He who taught me thus to pray,
And He, I trust, has answered prayer!
But it has been in such a way,
As almost drove me to despair.

I hoped that in some favored hour,
At once He’d answer my request;
And by His love’s constraining pow’r,
Subdue my sins, and give me rest.

Instead of this, He made me feel
The hidden evils of my heart;
And let the angry pow’rs of ***
Assault my soul in every part.

Yea more, with His own hand He seemed
Intent to aggravate my woe;
Crossed all the fair designs I schemed,
Blasted my gourds, and laid me low.

Lord, why is this, I trembling cried,
Wilt thou pursue thy worm to death?
“’Tis in this way, the Lord replied,
I answer prayer for grace and faith.

These inward trials I employ,
From self, and pride, to set thee free;
And break thy schemes of earthly joy,
That thou may’st find thy all in Me.”

-John Newton

Short Poem

by Melissa M.
Jan. 30, 2010
The first two lines basically came to me, but the last two I had to think about for quite a while.

Stop making excuses--
They reek of abuses--
Seek God's face in each plight,
And press forth in His might.