BODY OF CHRIST

Entering Jerusalem…….Loudly the children Sang praises at his coming,Lading the cobbles With branches of the palm.

Paying him homage With blended hearts and voices,Gracing his entrance With echoes of the psalm:

“Bless’ed is he that Cometh in the Lord’s name,Jesus, HosannaTo David’s greater son!”

“Daughter of Zion,

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Your King is at the threshold, Bringing salvation,This meek and lowly one.”

No prancing chargerTo bear the Prince of Ages,Only a donkey,At peaceful, plodding pace.

No blasting heraldAnnouncing great deliverance,Only the simpleWith song, perfecting praiseBless’ed these child-likeWho see their King so plainly,Bringing their problems And needs to one so kind.

Theirs is the conquestWhich passes understanding.Theirs is the KingdomThe learn’ed cannot find.

Climbing a Hill…….

I could scarce believe my earsAs the Roman soldier said:“You there, stranger, lift that cross,Follow Jesus, good as dead.”

I had missed the troubled crowd,Having just come into town.Now I pressed beneath the load,Joined to him who wore a crown.

All around humanity,

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Yet my thoughts were fixed on him.Why the back ripped to the bone?Why the cruel and thorny brim?

How he struggled to ascend!How he laboured for his breath!Yet I sensed his body stroveT’ward the hill marked for his death.It became a strange desire To relieve his tortured frame;To receive the brunt of burden,But to go on just the same.

I was reckoning in meA compassion yet unknown,While he nobly took the taunts:“Where’s your kingdom? Where’s your throne?”

Momentarily we stoppedTo console dear grieving friends.In his voice was total calm,Real concern for their lives’ ends.

Then, too soon, my privilege passed.We had come to Calvary.“Thank you friend,” he gazed at me,Then they nailed him to the tree!

Oh, the truth welled up in me!Could the blinded mob not see?Here their sin’s death penalty.Here the Crux of Destiny.In the man from Galilee.In my friend who hung for me.

There were two who shared his plight,Robbers, bearing each his cross.One would hail him Lord of Light.One would choose eternal loss.

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And such love etched on his faceFor the dogs who pierced and nailed.And a priestly prayer for grace,And a final psalm exhaled.

At his death the skies were darkAnd the crowd stood hushed and awed.‘Neath the profile still and stark,‘Neath the battered Son of God.

And a soldier lowered his headWith a sense of grief and shame;For the gentle one now dead,For the folk who were to blame.

And another thrust him throughWith a spear to his right side;Though already we all knewThat the Holy One had died.

And a woman beat her breastAs she looked upon her son.And her sobs held one request,Just what evil had he done?

How was I then to expectThat in three days news would ringOf the tombstone rolled away?Of the resurrected King!

But his converts would explainThat for months the rabbi said,That Messiah must be slainAnd then risen from the dead.

So, I give to you my joy.From my sin I am set free!And my praise I will employ

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For the one who died for me:

Simon, stranger, lift that cross.Follow Jesus good as dead.I will follow him forever,Living for my Lord instead.

Uniting in Prayer…….

We were there in one accordIn that humble prayer room,In obedience to our Lord.He had promised to consumeAll our fears and failuresWith the Spirit’s power;As we prayed for Father’s PromiseIn that hour;On the Day of Pentecost.

Jesus led us to believeIt was best that he should go.Only then could we receiveWhat he promised to bestowIn a shower of glory, Fitting us for preaching;With anointing to conform usTo his teaching,On the Day of Pentecost.

How the Glory hit that roomWith the fire and sound of breeze!As the One who cleared the tombMet us there on bended knees,Speaking languages we knew not,Giving proof.We had found the One to lead us In all truth,On the Day of Pentecost.

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Fifty days after “First-Fruits”In that ancient Feast of Weeks,We were made the first recruits,By the One whom each soul seeks.Yes the Holy Spirit gaveHis unction to us,That the Church of Christ might start herCampaign through us,On the Day of Pentecost.

If we only looked to him,Our great Spirit, Comfort, Friend,He would keep us true and trim,And sustain us to the end;As the Earnest of our hope Of final glory,And the author of a growing Gospel story,From the Day of Pentecost.

We went forth in Jesus’ steadTo engage in Holy WarAs an army Spirit-led,In a way not known before;With his Word to win a woundedWorld to Jesus,In the power which the HolyGhost releases,As on the Day of Pentecost.

Between Two Worlds…….

Marcus Lividius to the Regional Superintendent:

Hail Caesar!By usual courierAnd in the hand of scribe

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Flavius Sornom. Greetings.Wishing to report the Dispatching of a groupOf Christians-Traitorous.Infecting the Region of Mid-AppiaBy their pathetic communityAnd wicked teachingsOf an adverse king.Also wishing to reportUnfortunate deathOf Under-commanderSergius Veritatus.Mid-winter Janus patrolOf Secomd District.

Encountered small village.Approximately thirty-five personsVarying in age and sex.Sparsely prepared for the cold.Foodstuffs largely dairy, coarse barley,Local plants, berries, tubers, fish salted.Limited fuel availableIn region around the lake.Evidences of their strangeAnd bloody sect:Crosses, fishes drawn on walls of huts.Ornate clay chalices,Parchments in possessionOf their Elder, purportingTo convey holy wordsAnd directives of their “Saviour”.(A criminal, one Jesus of Nazareth, executedUnder justice of Pontius Pilate,Procurator, Judea,)Clearly an affront to Caesar,The one true God!Of course, we conducted usualExaminations for signs of hostility,Sedition, witchcraft,Trade with barbarians.

Assembled all in the

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Village compound.Demanded the standardAffirmation-loyalty to Caesar,Renunciation of their “Christ”.Group seemed totallyIn accord with submissions,Resistance voiced by their Elder.Elder chastised with the rod.Physically strong man- unflinching.Expressed his preparedness for death.Said his master had proved Victorious over death.(Strange words to the ears of a soldier!)“His master, the only way, The only truth, the only life.”Peculiar dogma.Assembly appeared mesmerized by his address.Commenced singing- harmonyHaunting, other-worldly.Whereupon Under- commanderSergius Veritatus manifestedIrregular behaviour, suggestions of clemency.

(Had been notingChange in his outlook to duties,Since leave of absence at Rome.Something about an encounterWith other of these mongrels,Gathering secretly, underground.Catacombs.Said he was investigatingTheir activities.Nothing came of it.)

So death was their boast?So, death they should face.Marched entire group Onto the lake ice.Frigid.Again demanded renunciation.Nothing.Additional waiting period.Threatened that as reward For their rebellion, they were to be

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Stripped of clothing.Left to freeze, standing on the lake.Group huddled around their leader,And one senior couple- man and woman.Children surprisingly quiet.Gave the order.Twelve foot-soldiers, spears,Compelling the group to disrobe.Little resistance offered.Finally, one man broke.Ran before Sergius Veritatus, groveling.Words of allegiance, repudiation.Scarcely comprehensible.This evoked moans and wails From the group.Some tried to sing..

Veritatus immobile, silent,That troubled countenance again.Gave his sword to his junior.Removed his robe, breastplate,Marching leathers, tunic,Boots.Walking naked nowTo that group on the ice.Unsound mind, obviously.Refusing orders to rejoin ranks.Joining their number.Their only words:“Receive us now into glory.Jesus is Lord.”All frozen within the hour.Sergius Veritatus.Corpses dragged by horse.Village torched.Armour of Veritatus returned herewith,For his parents.He had been a good centurion. Hail Caesar!

Battling Falsehood…….

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With blood and breathThey sealed the Oath,Though parchment bore the gistOf Covenant with Christ their King,Whose court was moor and mist.

The shields of powerHad spewed a law:That every soul must heedThe pulpits of the puppet-priests,By worldly throne decreed.

But hearts enthralled By Spirit’s touch,And cleansed with Christ’s own blood,Must have the shepherd-hearted princeTo preach to them God’s Word.

Now banned from kirksAnd presbyteries,The faithful shepherds fled;To holy haunts on heathered hills,To preach life from the dead.

And whispers thrilled The villages,And sought the lonely farms;As secret calls to worship meantA secret call to arms.

Though empty satThe kirks of stone,And empty sat their pews;The glens and rills were filled with psalms‘Neath grand celestial views.

And times would come Of sacrament,Of searchings-out of sin;

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And fateful times when king’s dragoonsWould scatter to the wind.

And legends grewOf gallant menEvading musket-fire;And matrons bold who harboured them,To raise some villain’s ire.

And prophets savedBy providenceFrom Bloody Clavers’ men,Would vanish into cave or fog,Or stream, to preach again.

And gallows bore The testament,And prison glooms the tale;And children saw the cost of truthIn those who walked death’s vale.

But still they soughtThe sacred heights,Where Grace did much abound;Where bleat of lamb and lilt of birdWere mixed with Gospel sound.

Still constant proved The shepherd-heart;And constant proved the flock;And faithful proved the King of Kings,‘Midst solemn spires of rock.

Enduring Hardship…….

I hope the horse

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Is ably hitched.The pine-gum is Strong and headyIn this stand of trees.And I have onlyThe woolen saddle-blanketTo keep me dryAs the dew comes on.Up this gnarled oak,With its autumn brownAnd orange all but gone.

The ride from the Settlement at Five BirchesWas windy and cool,But I was oblivious.Caught in the memoryOf the noon-hour’s lesson.With no less thanFifteen natives gathered.Captivated by the storyOf the Master blessingAnd breaking and passingThe loaves and fishes.

Moses is gettingVery convincingIn the translation.Seems they heardThe tone of my voice,But followed moreEagerly his cadenceAnd graceful hand-gestures.Fifteen months ago it was,He stumbled intoMy meeting,Drunk and disorderly.

Even debilitatedBy the native brew,He was quick to take pity uponMy then feeble effortsWith the language.

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No genuine convictionOf soul in him, then,But a servant’s heart.My travel-mate and guard.Together we watchedNursing does and young.

He excused himselfEarly this afternoon,Hearing of a sick cousinTo the south.I will be aloneFor the next eight days.Six villages ahead.God help me To speak the Word,Lovingly, earnestly.My strangeness to them.The village bustle, the hecklers.

I always marvel how newsPrecedes my arrival.Children and elderlyUsually first to senseOur good intentions.Curious, respectful,Very patient with myUse of language.(Moses predicted as much.)The drawing-slate helps.David! The moon has Broken through that cloud!

Below, the horse, still.Slow breath steaming.Fodder completely gone.How does one sleep, standing?Stiff, cramped and weak,I probably could tonight.But inside, thoughtsAnd memories quicken:The college, the indiscretion,The expulsion, the searching,

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The still, small voiceOf my Lord.

And now here I amUp a tree, contented;With autumn branchesLike medieval window-panesAgainst the night sky.With faces and needsTo lift up fromThat last village.How they love to laugh.Even in face ofDeprivation, winter, sickness.Child-like candidates for Heaven.

Moses had made some joke.(Probably at my expense.)Gleefully they examined me.Head to toe.Perhaps the story of The bee-hive;Or the black bearUp the tree before me…My studies, my papers,Preparation?Given way to horse-backPrayers and sermonettes.

God, you have saidThat the heart must believe;The tongue must confess,That Jesus Christ is Lord.So, I am here withMessage of a ManFrom across the Big Water,Harvesting hearts,Honouring, hugging,Hoping for their dawn.Leaves rustle across pebblesLike scurrying children.

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Forgive me, Father,No burden tonightTo watch and wait.No throb in the chest.No throat-lump.No compulsion to plead.Just an extraordinarySense of place,Of purpose,Of privilege.To be in this wilderness,Witness to a loving Saviour.

I pray this coughClears from the chest soon.Job’s BookThe Thirty-Eighth,Speaks of Your majesticAuthority over allThe creation… the skies,The trees, changing weather,The ravens which cry.And I, oh Lord,Am seen by You…now sleep.

David Brainerd, October 1745, New England

Delivering Good News…….

Gang awa frae tha GlenTae a fearsome place;Where tha darkened soulsHae na gleemps o’grace.Where tha work must fitA new tongue and race.Gang awa frae tha Glen for a wheel.

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“Tis for certs He has ca’dYe, and ye must roon;Tae a land o’ plaguesAnd o’ blastin’ sun,Where tha rule o’ richtHae just sceerce begun.Gang awa frae tha Glen, Robbie, chile.

There be muckle tae kenO’ tha people’s need;O’ tha crops that thrive,O’ tha life they lead;O’ tha daily thirst;O’ their warfare, greed.Gang awa frae tha Glen, and be wise.

Tho’ tha ship be worsted,Tho’ tha trail be long,Tho’ tha beasts be awful,Ye’ll arrive anon;And commence tae cantTha sweet Gospel song.Gang awa frae tha Glen, in His love.

And ye’ll spot tha deeWhen it starts tae click.As they bring their young,And they bring their sick;For o’ Jesus’ kindThey ken nae sic lik..Gang awa frae tha Glen, tae be used.

An’ it’s nae sa muckleThat their needs ye know,Whuch’ll fan tha flame,Cause your strenth tae grow;But tha confeedence“Tis your Laird says, “Go!”Gang awa frae tha Glen, ‘til you’re gone.

Robert Moffat, Pioneer Missionary to South-west Africa

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In War and in Peace…….

Yankee lad,A midnight sentry.On the graveyard watch tonight.In this bitter autumn campaignAs our Rebels hold ‘em tight.

Fighting sleep,The soldier’s struggle,With the lives of troops at stake.Fighting dampness, all a-shiver.Singing, just to stay awake.

Perched on bluff,And silhouetted,With a chilly moon behind.Easy target for my Springfield.Morning sun-up, corpse they’ll find.

But the songDrifts cross the valley,In his soothing baritone,Of a loving, reaching Saviour.One, by mother’s side, I’d known.

Something of A calling Jesus;And a wanderer’s cry for peace;And one bitter night’s unloading;And the Spirit’s sweet release.

I had lovedMy Mama’s rendering,But I would not heed the call.

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And with years of tramps and camps, since,I’ve no heart for it at all.

So tonightOh foolish Yankee,I will put the song to rest.With a careful eye, a long breathAnd a bullet through your breast.

Though sitedDown the cold, gray steel,I cannot make this kill.My trigger hand’s a-shakin’And it isn’t from the chill.

Oh, blue-coat boy,You’re “saved” againTo see the sun’s first rays.I’ll not have Mama’s ghost, and yours,To haunt me all my days…

…A million milesI’ve traveled since.And countless moons I’ve seen.A business came, prosperity.The war seemed but a dream.

One Christmas Eve,Some long years’ thence,I chanced to be afloat.A break from work. A change of scene.A festive riverboat.

And word got ‘roundThe evening’s sportWould be a talent fair.“The lights, the song. Oh come along.We’ve got to see you there.”

The program came.

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I went outside.I’d no love for this day.And aft, I watched the big wheel churnIts frigid wake away.

Another year.Another gain.By rights a sound success.But like those waters swirling there,Inside I was a mess.

Too cold it was.I joined the throng.I sat right at the rear.A special guest, evangelist,One Ira Sankey, here.

I’d heard the news.I’d read the press.His tour of Britain’s hallsWith Moody; their effectiveness,Their skill in Gospel calls.

And after songsOf Yuletide hope,This tall man took the stage.His frame so straight, his dress so fine.A prince in any age.And then the voice.That baritone!My mother’s song begins.Not Christmas cheer; the sentry’s hereTo call me from my sins!

How’s this, I quake?It must be so.I’m here, but by some plan.Oh Mama dear, I think thatNow I understand the man!

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His words so true.His voice so rich.God’s presence fills the place.I’ll leave my night. I see the Son.I’m saved and by His Grace.

(A life was spared.A song was sung.His Christ had seen him through.I’d heard the song. I’d come along.And now, his Christ I knew.)

Working with Others…….

It is good to toilWith the men I know;And to trim the treesAnd to lay them low;And to haul their bulkTo the stream below;I am glad that the Lord sent me here.

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And from time to timeWhen the mood is right,In the vaulted woodWith its dappled light;Where the bluejay’s flashQuickens shrill and bright;I can sense that the Lord meets me here.

There’s a constant strainFrom the whistle call;As we scale the heightsMaking giants fall;And we swing our steelAnd our chain and maul.And I know that the men test me here.

But the dusk does come,And the campfires burn;And the grub is good,And our thoughts will turnTo the ones at home,And for those we yearn;But for weeks we must still labour here.

Yet another time The alarm will sound;That a trunk has split;That a man is downed.And like mother birdsWe all gather ‘round.And I sense they are glad I am here.

Then the Sabbath dayBrings some extra rest;And a few will come,And by that I’m blessed;And we search the Book,And I share Christ’s best;For the Lord of the harvest is here.

Oh shantymen sing!

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In the golden field;In the fishing hull;In the mineshaft’s yield;In the factory’s pulse;Sing of grace revealed;And the joy of the Lord finds us here.

Gathering the Flock…….

The man of God had made his plans.He’d crossed the rolling blue.His tent was raised.His posters out.And all the churches knew,That he was blessed with seed-faith powerAnd healing for the weak.And now Australia was his goal,A soul-harvest to seek.

But troubled times had hit the isle,As Labour made demands.Their pickets set.Their tempers raised.And now perhaps their plansWould take them “to the Yank’s church-show”,White-collars there to find.A ruffian bunch all dressed in blue,With foul-play on their mind.

Now those in suits and fancy hatsAlready held their place.The orchestraWas warming upTo play “Amazing Grace”.And backstage still, the man of GodWas praying with his crew.(The audience were getting loud.Was this what Aussies do?)

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Then bursting in upon the prayer,A helper spoke with fear;That groups of men,Truckloads of them,Were standing in the rear.And searching ‘round for business folkWho set their work and wage.What now to do? Just call things off?The preacher took the stage.

The big tent was so quiet You could hear a small pin fall.The man of GodSpoke well-wishingTo visitors, one and all.The singers, leafing for the hymn,To set a joyful mood.But then, the crash, the curse, the crush;The platform rushed and “booed”.

The place of praise and promiseBecame a bedlam-den.As women screamed,And chairs were smashed,And men stood up to men.Then all around the seed-faith manThey formed a loyal guard,Which rushed him out the canvas flaps,And drove him from the yard.

Three nights they tried to quell the tideOf devilry and hate.That doubt might seeIntegrity,That mischief might abate.While outside, tabloids mocked the workAnd heckled healing grace.Were love and light and being rightIll-suited to this place?

The plane trip home, a troubled one,

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As souls were searched and pained.Had they been wrong?And missed God’s will?Had nothing good been gained?But back on Aussie soil, a move Of God’s own grace was stirring.As blue and white each saw their wrongs,Conviction was occurring.

A year would pass before a manOf slightly different sort,Would fly againTo Aussie-land,And gain a good report.As thousands flocked to Gospel rest,Their stress and strife all through.The telegram brought Billy’s news:“Dear Oral, our thanks to you!”

Singing the Praises of Jesus…….

A matchless joyCrossed his face,As he pulled out the piano bench,Cracked the spine of the hymnal,Cracked his fingers for good measure,And, taking one long breath,Looked around the parlourFor harmony helpers;To begin.

Sunday evening serviceHad been a special one.Visitors were welcomed;And invited to shareAny words of encouragement.Pastor’s wife had readThe scripture portion:Something from Colossians,

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Christ, by whom all things consist.

She always managed To make the Word of GodSound conversational,Personal, promising.Truly, God’s love- letterTo the heart of each listener.Elder Jamieson led us in prayer:“Larger hearts, Lord; greater challenges,Greater assurances through the blood of Jesus.”

Pastor’s son told usOf his recent experience in travel.Church conference in Halifax.One free night out.The restaurant, the old manIn the corner booth.The gentle inclusion of himIn their conversation. His past losses,And the light of Christ dawning gently.

The message had been delivered with power:“The Two Shortest Verses”.“Jesus wept.” “Rejoice evermore.” What an exchange! His tears, our joy.The Gospel reduced to four words.How the preacher could illustrate the storyWith colour, place, mood, insight,Weaving it all together.

And now, the “seventh-inning stretch”.Making our way to the parlour My favourite part, hearty choruses,Gathered around Sandy’s piano.Word was, it had had itsFifteenth re-tuning.The soul-focus of manyA crisp Christmas, bright Easter,Baptism and Thanksgiving

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Sandy was its fourthMaster of the Ivories.Ruddy, compact, middling-height,Powerful forearms and grasp.Joyful lover of the Cross,Pentecost, the Lord’s Table, Healing.Friend of many a hurting one.Visitor when the chips were down.Showing Christ in shoe-leather.

For the first few pieces,It seemed as if Madge’s beautifulSoprano carried us through.Then came “Power in the Blood”,“He is All You Need”, “Jesus Set Me Free”.(Friends catching on now with gusto.Sandy’s power and flair evident.)“He’s Coming Back on a Silver Cloud of Glory”.“Leaning on the Everlasting Arms”.

The change came with Barry’s tenor solo:“It Matters to Him About You”The emotion soon flowed from the group.Uninhibited, sincere, thankful.Individual voices lost in the blend.“There is Room at The Cross for You”,“Amazing Grace”, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus”,“He Was There All the Time”.Sandy’s final notes lifted the hall in magic.

Thus it was for five years of college.That small town in the valley.My brother and I walking home,‘Neath the stars; message and musicAnd ministry glowing in our hearts.Then graduation, and I to my students, And he to the Christless poor Across the sea.And each with a “parlour piano.”.

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Persecuted…….

Back of the factory,Just past the clamour,Out of the range of Chisel and hammer;In the apartmentUp on the third floor;End of the hallway,Room three-oh-four;Sonya cooks dinner.

Red sun is settingOver the roof-tops.Bicycles clattering,Work of the day stops.Labour retreats throughStreets filled with litter.Muffled, they peddle,As cold winds grow bitter.Vladimir comes home.

Quick is the kissAnd quick the unraveling.Nothing of newsAt work or in travelling.Dinner is ladled,Hot broth and some bread.“Markets are rationed”,The papers have said.Dishwater friends still.

Two chairs are nestledBeneath the one light.All shades are drawn down To keep out the night.Pictures of children Adorn the end wall.Off at the State-School Since early this fall.

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How they are missed!

Telephone rings!The voice of the Pastor:“Prayer group was raided!A tragic disaster!Three brothers takenTo Heaven knows where.Wives are quite frantic.Please lift them in prayer.”Again, it happens.

Outside the chimesAre striking eleven.Church-turned-museumHurls rude sounds to Heaven.Inside the coupleKneel down by their bed,Pull out the box where Their Bible is hid,And plead their cause:

“Father in HeavenBring peace to our friends.Release our brethrenFrom tormentors’ hands.Thy Kingdom cometh.We long for that day.Keep our hearts watchfulAnd holy, we pray,In Jesus’ name.”

These are the soldiers At front-line of war,Hurting in battleAs often before.Doctrines of devilsResist the Good News.Claiming their ProgramBrings much wiser viewsTo rule the land.

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“Jesus, sustain usUntil you return!Proud, plotting nationsHave so much to learn!Godlessness grows inThe push and the shove.Risking our all, weWill show forth your love!And trust in you.”

Serving in Love…….

Older Woman to an acquaintance after service:

Wasn’t that a service?Didn’t praises ring?Couldn’t miss the Spirit.How that choir can sing!

Weren’t the children eager,Coming at their time?Marvel how that teacher Keeps those kids in line!

Wasn’t that a challengeFor the mission field?Have to raise the money For a heathen yield!

Wasn’t that a sermon?Could have raised the dead!Have to get a copy.Must know all he said.

Wasn’t that a prayer line?Elders all in white.

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When will Sister SarahEver get her sight?

Wasn’t that a grand callAt the closing hour?Preacher got three sinners ;Fell beneath the power.

Really, dear, so quiet;All’s not well with you?Tell me, girl, your problem;Quickly now, we’re through.”

Younger Woman, thinking to herself:

(Oh that I had someone With the heart to showHow to keep my husband,When he wants to go.

How my son is hurting,Failing at his school.Only needs some guidance.Really, he’s no fool.

Landlord gave me notice.Have to leave my flat.Are the foreign missions Only where it’s at?

Job is getting tricky.Boss is always right.Can’t betray my problems.Mustn’t seem uptight.

Heart and soul are hurting.Is there no relief?But the truth, we’re skirting,As it’s time to leave.

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Preacher’s at the doorway,Shaking hands good-bye.Couldn’t interrupt him.Couldn’t bear to cry.)

And then speaking to the other:“Really, there’s no problem.God’s still on His throne.How I praise and thank HimFor this fine church home.

Yes that was some service.Time just goes so fast .See you Tuesday eveningAt the ladies class…”

Setting the Captive Free…….

I’ll have to think about it.Something is happening here.This morning,H Block’s exercise period,East-side fitness yard.Usual pick-up basketball,Games of catch,Half-hearted aerobics.Twenty minutes out.Kipper got into trouble.Dealer Kipper, old-timer,The Joint’s entrepreneur.Smokes, bandages, magazines, canned treats.(No rumours of hard stuff.)Went long for a pass.Still pretty fit.Lost track of where he was;Barreled into Dutch’s corner.Dutch, the Man.

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Protection boss. Double-lifer.Hand in every trick in the Joint.Favours, payments, or else.No love lost between the two.(Something about a disputed “tariff”.)Dutch’s corporals,Lonzo, Turk and KrugerSlammed him against the chainlink.Flurry of arms, feet andShimmering steel.Kipper, down, motionless,Twisted in frightening posture.Bleeding from the nose, throat, shoulder.Hands on the abdomen.

“Doc, get over here, now!”Call me Doc.(Short stint as a para-medicIn Philadelphia.Before the armed robbery career.)The scene, heavy:Guts spilled, shoulder perforated.Expert shiv work.Tower guards not moving.Kipper, unresponsive to my efforts.Five terrible minutes.Buddy pressing torn jacket against open wounds.No vital signs; plodding C.P.R.Somewhere behind meVoices- the guards?Sounds like praying.Parson Eddy on the sceneWith his hallelujah bunch.Bible class-“born-againers”.I step back.Circle of prayer moves in:“We rebuke death.Devil, Kipper will not be taken!Raise him, Lord, raise him.For your glory.”Variations on this rap continue.Hands on our fallen friend.Three guards, Ed, Nelson and DonnyAt the periphery,With the stretcher,

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Watching.“Devil, you have already lost.Our Lord whipped you at Calvary.We rebuke you, in Jesus’ name.We plead the blood of Jesus.Lord, now, like Lazarus.Bring him back.”And then it happened.I swear it.Kipper inhaled.Long and beautiful.A smile graced the bloody lips.The rascal-eyes blinked open.Alive! Jesus!Had to be thirty-five men around,Between us and Dutch’s Dark corner.Bible class will never be the same.Stretcher work underway.Eddy’s hand placed on my shoulder:“Check out John Chapter Eleven,Doc, John Chapter Eleven.”

Fanning the Flame…….

Godlessness, recoiling,Strikes again the blow.Jesus’ name is slandered.Lord, that they might know.

(He is all the glory.He is all the praise.He is all the answer,For these restless days.)

Fear of God is lacking.Love of Christ is rare.Churches hide their candle.Do they really care?

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“Men are all-sufficient;”So the journals sing.(Why need we a “saviour”?Strange, out-dated thing.)

Still the candle flickers,Touching one by one,Hearts that seek for better,Hearts that hear the Son.

Stop the superficial!Stop the sad parade!There is not a blessing,But that God has made!

He will soon take action,Laying bare men’s games.Burning through the nationsWith revival’s flames!

Then Christ gets the glory.Then the ransomed sing.Then awakened men seeGod in everything.

Lord, please send revival!Send the latter rain!Holy, happy wondersIn our midst again.

His Very Own…….

Better the storm with Jesus,Better the wind and waves.

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Better the strain at sea, thanComfort the worldling craves.

Better the toil with Jesus,Better the cost of love.Better his servant’s wage, thanRiches from push and shove.

Better the shame with Jesus,Better the sneers and scorn.Better the world’s reproach, thanPraise of the Devil born.

Better the trial with Jesus,Better the laboured prayer.Better the night of faith, thanShallow days free from care.

Better the cross with Jesus,Better the wounded side.Better the taken hurt, thanHurt given back in pride.

Better the grave with Jesus,Better the death to self.Better the Father’s will, thanComfort and praise and wealth.

Better the life with Jesus,Better the hope of gain.As with him we may suffer,So with him we shall reign!

Proclaiming Resurrection…….

Just one word,

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Yet it released meFrom the heaviest dismay,In the resurrection gardenWhere I heard my Saviour sayJust one word: “Mary”.

Just one soul,So undeserving,And besieged by demon power;Now become his little gardenAnd expected yet to flower.Just one soul: Mary.

Just one gift,Has changed the historyOf the followers of Christ.Bless’ed blood’s redemption mystery,We need never pay sin’s price.Just one gift: Calvary.

Just one hopeTo light the future,And the world must know it yet,Ere the lover of the sinnerTreads again on Olivet.Just one hope: Jesus.

Just one life Now worth the living,And its thrill will never wane.Bearing witness to his risingAnd his coming back again.Just one life: Jesus.

Keeping in Remembrance…….

You have much

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To be thankful for,As you boil your leftoversAnd wait for theBathroom wax to dry.

The boy is outDoing his deliveries,And Connie is lateAt school with her project.Ted will phoneTonight from Calgary.

He has been soTired these last few weeks.But the CompanyHas a new customer.Big one…out west.He’s the senior driver.

Still you’re lonely,Veronica.And the bills are there.In various colours.Beckoning.From the top of the fridge.

Hang in there, girl.Everyone will be homeThis weekend.And Saturday dinnerIs planned with KateAnd her fiancé.

Remember how yourSister came to yourKitchen table.And cried that FrankWanted to call it off,After eighteen months.

Remember how the

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Two of youHad really prayed.For guidance, for healing.(She the seasonedCareer girl.)

Remember four summersAgo, Veronica.When you had hadYour own doubts about Ted.The phone calls, late nights,And feeble explanations.

Remember at the Last school, your boy’sCircle of tough friends.The merchandise hiddenIn the basement.The constable’s visits.

How Ted had takenHim out of schoolTo share a six- day runTo Chicago, Kansas CityAnd Saskatoon.How they had really talked.

Remember, Connie’sTrouble with the cysts.And she just getting Used to female issues.The scary first diagnosis.And the kind second doctor.

Remember your Dad’sLast six months.Woeful widower.Deathly quiet apartment.Ted’s insistence on the many visits.Healing the old hurts.

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Remember your Dad’s Hospital stay.The glorious SaturdayWhen you finally shared“That Jesus stuff”He had so long rejected.

Yes, Veronica,Remember, would you?It hasn’t been easy,But it has been good.And it continuesWith God’s help.

In strange waysYoung woman,You have been the glue,Holding it all together.Now, for your own good,Rejoice and be thankful.

Possessing All Things…….

It’s a storyThat came to me,Late spring, early oneThursday evening.We were walking The university grounds.(Still hoofing itOr busing or taxiing-No car in the driveway.)We had been to the Main Library.Hilary dabbling in Huguenot history,Celtic folklore,Charles G. D. Roberts’Animal stories for the kids.

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I, following the canoeOf Grey Owl,Or the letters of My beloved RutherfordAnd Scottish Covenanters.

The evening was Lazy-warm and theLeaves on the maple and oakIn full splendour.The little campus streamWas trickling towardThe duck pond,And the two of usLeaned on the aluminumBridge rail,Arm-in-arm, silent, contented.Watching Mother MallardConvoy her paddling brood of nineToward overhanging bushes.No students passed.(Campus population atA seasonal minimum.)Waterloo traffic noiseMuted through Surrounding wood-lots.I was impressed byA suggestion from within:“All things are yours,And ye are Christ’sAnd Christ is God’s.”

(A morning’s readingHad prompted this thoughtSome days before…Seems a little house-maidWorked in a large mansion.Many rooms, exquisite.Lots of dusting, cleaning, polishing.She reserved a special timeEach day to enterHer employer’s study to work.There it was.Four-by-five oil-painting

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Of the Scottish Highlands.For him, “a good investmentPicked up on tour overseasWith his wife.Last appraisal – hundred and twenty-five Percent jump in value.”

To the maid, this sceneWas Heaven. Multi-colouredHeather, dramatic variable skies,Distant snow-capped peak,Ruddy little Highland cattle,And one old Jock followingWith plaidy and staff.With such a feast for the eyesWork became a luxury,Day’s chores completed with joy.Now who owned that painting?)Hilary tapped my elbow:“This is nice, isn’t it.”The two of us headed downThe path,Fragrance of lilac fromSomewhere up ahead.

DEDICATED TO THE CHRISTIAN CHURCH IN MANY TIMES, PLACES AND PROVIDENCES, SHARING EACH OTHER’S BURDENS, TRUSTING IN THE SAME CROSS AND EMPTY TOMB, ENJOYING KINSHIP THROUGH A COMMON LORD, AND TESTIFYING TO HIS VICTORIES ACCOMPLISHED AND YET TO COME.

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Douglas W. Blair20-20 Mayfield AvenueWaterloo, ON. N2J 4M5Tel:(519) 747-1033Email:douglasblair@rogers.com

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