A glimpse into my faith, my dream of writing, and reaching people for Christ through my words.
A rough wooden cradle,
Hay pokes through the swaddle,
Splinters of grace.
Learning a craft, carpentry,
Turning wood into beauty,
Splinters of grace.
Carrying a cross, to His death
Hanging from nails, fighting for breath,
Splinters of grace.
The weight of everyone’s sin,
There on the cross died with Him,
Splinters of grace.
But death had no victory,
He rose and conquered on day three,
Unending grace.
Hope and a future, love unearned,
Sinners shown mercy undeserved,
Unending grace.
The sheep are bleating, crying
For help, longing for a place,
Where they can feel safe, where they
Know they are loved and belong.
They’ve wandered in darkness,
Misguided by the world,
Trying to fight off the predators,
But they can’t win the battle alone.
The Shepherd comes down,
To protect and to guide them,
Fighting off their enemies,
And shouldering their burdens.
He cares for every need,
Carrying the weak and wounded,
Leading them to quiet pastures,
Guarding their hearts from hurt.
He’s attentive, checking each one,
Showing them love and kindness,
Making sure no bone is broken,
Making sure no fear remains.
He knows what has to be done,
To bring the scattered sheep home,
He loves them enough to save their lives,
Even if it means giving up His own.
The Shepherd became the Lamb,
The Perfect One for sacrifice,
Silently, He suffered. Nails and thorns,
And sin, piercing, and weighing Him down.
But death on the cross could not hold Him,
The Lamb rose from the grave,
Defeating the darkness and the enemy,
Paying our debt, setting us free.
The Lamb now sits on the throne,
Shepherding the sheep, binging them in,
Until the day He comes back,
And wipes every tear from our eyes.
I loosen my grip,
Lift up my hands,
Let everything slide
Away.
I move each finger,
Maintain my composure,
Make myself take a
Breath.
I stare at my reflection,
Sigh so I can think,
See the pain mixed with
Hope.
I blink back the tears,
Break away from the mirror,
Bring myself to face the
Truth.
My grip will never be,
Tight enough, to hold on,
To anything that isn’t
Your plan.
And even in the moment,
When it hurts, as I question,
I know it’s for the best,
Because
You don’t make mistakes.
You saw who I was
And died for me anyways
Love was not blind.
But all knowing.
Which makes the gift,
Even harder to understand.
You knew my flaws,
My inner heart, my thoughts,
And still, gave Your life
For mine.
You Who were perfect,
Who never made a mistake,
Silently let them nail You
to a cross, a crown of thorns,
pressed into your brow,
with blood dripping down,
The white and blameless lamb,
Stained crimson red, tarnished,
instead of
me.
You paint seas of purple skies,
designing every sunrise, sunset.
You place every sparkle in the starlit night,
yet, You made one of me.
You take each snow flake and crystal,
Structuring each one just so.
No two are alike, each are crafted,
Unique, yet, You made one of me.
You imagined the horse,
giving it strength, power, and beauty,
Fragility and grace in one being,
yet, You made one of me.
You filled the depths of the ocean,
With colors and creatures beyond
What can be seen, or believed,
yet, You made one of me.
You decorated the forests and plains,
With birds and their songs,
With beasts and their roars,
yet, You made one of me.
It’s so humbling, looking at creation,
looking at Your creativity at work,
to know the same God made me,
to know that You included me in Your plan.
You wrote my story, my purpose,
You crafted me, and shaped me.
And when I don’t feel good enough,
I look around, and remember,
You made one of me.
Let me see the sun
Through your eyes.
It might help me
Understand
The reflections in mine.
Humble wood,
from the bark of a simple tree.
Seemingly innocent, but this
is where You died for me.
The bark nailed together,
You nailed to it.
You did nothing wrong,
but here, You paid my debt.
You were mocked and laughed at,
cursed at and jeered.
You could have saved Yourself, but You stayed.
So my name could be cleared.
To the tomb You went,
locked behind a stone.
But here, You wouldn’t stay.
Your place is on the throne.
Three days later, You conquered
death and the grave.
All that suffering and torture,
so that me, You could save.
No greater love exists,
than what You showed me here.
You tore down every wall.
You took care of every fear.
Sin has no hold anymore,
death has no power.
All my thanks goes to You,
my Lord, my Strong Tower.
And we’ll find a way to keep going,
Even if stop signs are in our way.
And we’ll find a way to keep loving,
Even if hate holds us at bay.
And we’ll find a way to keep believing,
Even if darkness is all we see.
And we’ll find a way to keep progressing,
Even if setbacks won’t set us free.
And we’ll find a way to keep on dreaming,
Even if it’s just one day at a time.
And we’ll find a way to keep achieving,
Even if we can’t find the perfect rhyme.
The wind blows, rustling the leaves,
A reminder that life is still held within,
Even if the weight is suffocating.
The branch groans, trying to stretch,
Feeling the pain of the pruning,
From days now placed in the past.
The end bows back towards the soil,
Heavy beneath the produce it carries,
Sitting patiently, but questioning, its worth.
Then, the darkness shifts, as the outline
of the mountain is revealed. A silhouette
glowing under the first idea of a new day.
The clouds drift from black and grey
to soft pink, and rich purple, showing
the change only the Son can give.
Under the light, the Gardener pads
across the grass, dew squishing beneath
Each step, approaching the branch.
A light touch fingers the leaves,
Kind eyes admire the fruits, gently
Removing each one, adding them to
His basket, subtracting the weight,
Relieving the grief. A reward for staying
Faithful. A reminder that empty branches
Are thrown to the fire, but fruit bearers
are pruned, tested, so they can carry more.
So they can work for, and in tune, with the Gardener.
Our footsteps squish the damp grass,
The morning dew still in place.
The purple hue of early twilight
Clings to the barns, the mountains.
Her shoes click the concrete,
The noise echoes against the silence.
The rope slides over the rail,
A knot’s, gentle, but firm, hold.
The brush bristles her coat,
Dust and hay flicker down.
The pick scrapes at the mud,
Freeing her hoof from the damp.
The saddle pad settles on her back,
The buckles of the girth snap, secured.
The bit glides into her mouth, she chews,
As first light breaks over the horizon.
A foot in the stirrup, swing over and down.
Her head lifts, her ears flick forward.
The beams reach us, glittering,
As we both look into the future.
One Word at a Time 