And my steps
Rumble down the dock.
Hardly a wind
Soaking back into bush
And birches shiver
Up from the cribs
As sunfish battle
Over egg territories.
One raucous crow
High up in the pines
Declares his mastery
As two gulls careening
Near still waters
Their yodels and chuckles
Inviting fast finned breakfast.
I have a novel
A Muskoka chair
And delicious spare time.
The long breathless listen
As Bay awakens.
One neighbour’s dog
Echoes a mile
Around the shore.
Note: Beautiful painting of the dock was displayed in the hallway of our vacation Barrie hotel.
Also visited the McMichael Gallery at Kleinberg. Many samplings of Tom Thomson and beloved Group of Seven Artists.
I hear the written Word
And see the Source on high
No other tome so rich
For such a gnat as I
The Father states His will
And charts a course so true
And I have just to trust
A purged heart and brand new.
It baffles one to see
That all was long ordained
With Christ the Rescuer
And by the Spirit trained
Oh how that Book brings life
Will be forever praised
The Plan has all been mapped
His Child by faith upraised.
Dropping in on Jesus
Through the roof! We scarce believed it
In our curiosity,
As those four men tore off clay tiles
With such bold expectancy.
And the fifth, pathetic cripple,
Wrapped so tight in his bed-roll,
Lowered gently down to Jesus,
Through the newly-made roof hole.
Such a sight no one expected;
And to me a gaudy show.
Where he found them, what he paid them
To perform, I did not know.
But the crowd moved back allowing
Ample room for this strange scene
Of a lifeless palsied creature
Wishing only to be made clean.
Not a word was said by any,
Focused on that sunlit spot.
Could he do it? Would he do it?
What a fine showman, I thought.
But in Jesus’ face was glowing
Such delight and sympathy,
That his next words caught me off-guard:
“Son, thy sin is forgiven thee.”
Had he said what no man dare say?
To this poor wretch on the floor?
And the scribes no doubt were thinking
Not a one forgives the sinner
But our great Jehovah-God.
In his zeal this man had blasphemed;
So the scribes, no doubt, had thought.
But he spoke with calm assurance:
“Is it not with equal power
That the Son of Man brings healing
And forgiveness in this hour?”
Puzzling preaching? I dismissed it,
Just some more dramatic talk.
But behold, the wasted bag
Of bones took up his bed to walk!
This was rich, the crowning glory
Of an artful one-act play.
First the roof-top interruption,
Now the man’s hurts swept away.
But some folks said that they knew him,
Begging years down by the gate.
And their tears of joy were truthful,
And their faces changed my fate.
Others in our little party
Left the meeting still in jest;
But I figured only Heaven
Could have met that man’s request.
It was with no little effort
That I went to resume shop.
For my thoughts were not on business,
This amazement would not stop.
Could he be the real Messiah?
I would have to hear him more,
For such mercy and such power
I had never seen before.
Note: Concerning this incident, Smith Wigglesworth, the healing evangelist (1859-1947), has said the following:
“Let us drop right into the arms of Jesus. It is a lovely place to drop into, out of your self-righteousness, out of your self-consciousness, out of your unbelief.” (Smith Wigglesworth Devotional, Whitaker House Publishers)
I’ve watched those men of guile
Pretending care, the very best,
But fleecing all the while.
And who’s to chase
The one who runs
Or hurting, leaves the flock?
Or craves for hugs or healthy fare
Not simply pious talk.
Yes I will be the Shepherd
As order is restored
The sheep who push and crowd and kick
No longer just ignored.
And Living Water
From my hills
Will change this land once dry
As sheep ascend and fully mend
Beneath this Shepherd’s eye.