Flexslider
September 2017
"Houses"-so the Wise Men tell me-
"Mansions"! Mansions must be warm!
Mansions cannot let the tears in,
Mansions must exclude the storm!
"Many Mansions," by "his Father,"
I don't know him; snugly built!
Could the Children find the way there-
Some, would even trudge tonight!
©Emily Dickinson
"Houses"-so the Wise Men tell me-
"Mansions"! Mansions must be warm!
Mansions cannot let the tears in,
Mansions must exclude the storm!
"Many Mansions," by "his Father,"
I don't know him; snugly built!
Could the Children find the way there-
Some, would even trudge tonight!
©Emily Dickinson
"Hope" is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops-at all-
And sweetest-in the Gale-is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-
I've heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb-of Me.
©Emily Dickinson
"Hope" is the thing with feathers-
That perches in the soul-
And sings the tune without the words-
And never stops-at all-
And sweetest-in the Gale-is heard-
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm-
I've heard it in the chillest land-
And on the strangest Sea-
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb-of Me.
©Emily Dickinson
"Heaven"-is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree-
Provided it do hopeless-hang-
That-"Heaven" is-to Me!
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud-
The interdicted Land-
Behind the Hill-the House behind-
There-Paradise-is found!
Her teasing Purples-Afternoons-
The credulous-decoy-
Enamored-of the Conjuror-
That spurned us-Yesterday!
©Emily Dickinson
"Heaven"-is what I cannot reach!
The Apple on the Tree-
Provided it do hopeless-hang-
That-"Heaven" is-to Me!
The Color, on the Cruising Cloud-
The interdicted Land-
Behind the Hill-the House behind-
There-Paradise-is found!
Her teasing Purples-Afternoons-
The credulous-decoy-
Enamored-of the Conjuror-
That spurned us-Yesterday!
©Emily Dickinson
"Heaven" has different Signs-to me
"Heaven" has different Signs-to me-
Sometimes, I think that Noon
Is but a symbol of the Place-
And when again, at Dawn,
A mighty look runs round the World
And settles in the Hills-
An Awe if it should be like that
Upon the Ignorance steals-
The Orchard, when the Sun is on-
The Triumph of the Birds
When they together Victory make-
Some Carnivals of Clouds-
The Rapture of a finished Day-
Returning to the West-
All these-remind us of the place
That Men call "paradise"-
Itself be fairer-we suppose-
But how Ourself, shall be
Adorned, for a Superior Grace-
Not yet, our eyes can see-
©Emily Dickinson
"Heaven" has different Signs-to me
"Heaven" has different Signs-to me-
Sometimes, I think that Noon
Is but a symbol of the Place-
And when again, at Dawn,
A mighty look runs round the World
And settles in the Hills-
An Awe if it should be like that
Upon the Ignorance steals-
The Orchard, when the Sun is on-
The Triumph of the Birds
When they together Victory make-
Some Carnivals of Clouds-
The Rapture of a finished Day-
Returning to the West-
All these-remind us of the place
That Men call "paradise"-
Itself be fairer-we suppose-
But how Ourself, shall be
Adorned, for a Superior Grace-
Not yet, our eyes can see-
©Emily Dickinson
"Arcturus" is his other name-
I'd rather call him "Star."
It's very mean of Science
To go and interfere!
I slew a worm the other day-
A "Savant" passing by
Murmured "Resurgam"-"Centipede"!
"Oh Lord-how frail are we"!
I pull a flower from the woods-
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath-
And has her in a "class"!
Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat-
He sits erect in "Cabinets"-
The Clover bells forgot.
What once was "Heaven"
Is "Zenith" now-
Where I proposed to go
When Time's brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I'm ready for "the worst"-
Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the "Kingdom of Heaven's" changed-
I hope the "Children" there Won't be "new fashioned" when I come-
And laugh at me-and stare-
I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl-
Old fashioned-naught-everything-
Over the stile of "Pearl."
©Emily Dickinson
"Arcturus" is his other name-
I'd rather call him "Star."
It's very mean of Science
To go and interfere!
I slew a worm the other day-
A "Savant" passing by
Murmured "Resurgam"-"Centipede"!
"Oh Lord-how frail are we"!
I pull a flower from the woods-
A monster with a glass
Computes the stamens in a breath-
And has her in a "class"!
Whereas I took the Butterfly
Aforetime in my hat-
He sits erect in "Cabinets"-
The Clover bells forgot.
What once was "Heaven"
Is "Zenith" now-
Where I proposed to go
When Time's brief masquerade was done
Is mapped and charted too.
What if the poles should frisk about
And stand upon their heads!
I hope I'm ready for "the worst"-
Whatever prank betides!
Perhaps the "Kingdom of Heaven's" changed-
I hope the "Children" there Won't be "new fashioned" when I come-
And laugh at me-and stare-
I hope the Father in the skies
Will lift his little girl-
Old fashioned-naught-everything-
Over the stile of "Pearl."
©Emily Dickinson
Once a turtle, finding plenty
In seclusion to bewitch,
Lived a dolce far niente
Kind of life within a ditch;
Rivers had no charm for him,
As he told his wife and daughter,
"Though my friends are in the swim,
Mud is thicker far than water."
One fine day, as was his habit,
He was dozing in the sun,
When a young and flippant rabbit
Happened by the ditch to run:
"Come and race me," he exclaimed,
"Fat inhabitant of puddles.
Sluggard! You should be ashamed.
Such a life the brain befuddles."
This, of course, was banter merely,
But it stirred the torpid blood
Of the turtle, and severely
Forth he issued from the mud.
"Done!" he cried. The race began,
But the hare resumed his banter,
Seeing how his rival ran
In a most unlovely canter.
Shouting, "Terrapin, you're bested!
You'd be wiser, dear old chap,
If you sat you down and rested
When you reach the second lap."
Quoth the turtle, "I refuse.
As for you, with all your talking,
Sit on any lap you choose.
I shall simply go on walking."
Now this sporting proposition
Was, upon its face, absurd;
Yet the hare, with expedition,
Took the tortoise at his word,
Ran until the final lap,
Then, supposing he'd outclassed him,
Laid him down and took a nap
And the patient turtle passed him!
Plodding on, he shortly made the
Line that marked the victor's goal;
Paused, and found he'd won, and laid the
Flattering unction to his soul.
Then in fashion grandiose,
Like an after-dinner speaker,
Touched his flipper to his nose,
And remarked, "Ahem! Eureka!"
And THE MORAL (lest you miss one)
Is: There's often time to spare,
And that races are (like this one)
Won not always by a hair.
© Gutenberg.org
Once a turtle, finding plenty
In seclusion to bewitch,
Lived a dolce far niente
Kind of life within a ditch;
Rivers had no charm for him,
As he told his wife and daughter,
"Though my friends are in the swim,
Mud is thicker far than water."
One fine day, as was his habit,
He was dozing in the sun,
When a young and flippant rabbit
Happened by the ditch to run:
"Come and race me," he exclaimed,
"Fat inhabitant of puddles.
Sluggard! You should be ashamed.
Such a life the brain befuddles."
This, of course, was banter merely,
But it stirred the torpid blood
Of the turtle, and severely
Forth he issued from the mud.
"Done!" he cried. The race began,
But the hare resumed his banter,
Seeing how his rival ran
In a most unlovely canter.
Shouting, "Terrapin, you're bested!
You'd be wiser, dear old chap,
If you sat you down and rested
When you reach the second lap."
Quoth the turtle, "I refuse.
As for you, with all your talking,
Sit on any lap you choose.
I shall simply go on walking."
Now this sporting proposition
Was, upon its face, absurd;
Yet the hare, with expedition,
Took the tortoise at his word,
Ran until the final lap,
Then, supposing he'd outclassed him,
Laid him down and took a nap
And the patient turtle passed him!
Plodding on, he shortly made the
Line that marked the victor's goal;
Paused, and found he'd won, and laid the
Flattering unction to his soul.
Then in fashion grandiose,
Like an after-dinner speaker,
Touched his flipper to his nose,
And remarked, "Ahem! Eureka!"
And THE MORAL (lest you miss one)
Is: There's often time to spare,
And that races are (like this one)
Won not always by a hair.
© Gutenberg.org
A farmer built around his crop
A wall, and crowned his labors
By placing glass upon the top
To lacerate his neighbors,
Provided they at any time
Should feel disposed the wall to climb.
He also drove some iron pegs
Securely in the coping,
To tear the bare, defenceless legs
Of brats who, upward groping,
Might steal, despite the risk of fall,
The grapes that grew upon the wall.
One day a fox, on thieving bent,
A crafty and an old one,
Most shrewdly tracked the pungent scent
That eloquently told one
That grapes were ripe and grapes were good
And likewise in the neighborhood.
He threw some stones of divers shapes
The luscious fruit to jar off:
It made him ill to see the grapes
So near and yet so far off.
His throws were strong, his aim was fine,
But "Never touched me!" said the vine.
The farmer shouted, "Drat the boys!"
And, mounting on a ladder,
He sought the cause of all the noise;
No farmer could be madder,
Which was not hard to understand
Because the glass had cut his hand.
His passion he could not restrain,
But shouted out, "You're thievish!"
The fox replied, with fine disdain,
"Come, country, don't be peevish."
(Now "country" is an epithet
One can't forgive, nor yet forget.)
The farmer rudely answered back
With compliments unvarnished,
And downward hurled the bric-Ã -brac
With which the wall was garnished,
In view of which demeanor strange,
The fox retreated out of range.
"I will not try the grapes to-day,"
He said. "My appetite is
Fastidious, and, anyway,
I fear appendicitis."
(The fox was one of the élite
Who call it site instead of seet.)
The moral is that if your host
Throws glass around his entry
You know it isn't done by most
Who claim to be the gentry,
While if he hits you in the head
You may be sure he's underbred.
©gutenberg.org
A farmer built around his crop
A wall, and crowned his labors
By placing glass upon the top
To lacerate his neighbors,
Provided they at any time
Should feel disposed the wall to climb.
He also drove some iron pegs
Securely in the coping,
To tear the bare, defenceless legs
Of brats who, upward groping,
Might steal, despite the risk of fall,
The grapes that grew upon the wall.
One day a fox, on thieving bent,
A crafty and an old one,
Most shrewdly tracked the pungent scent
That eloquently told one
That grapes were ripe and grapes were good
And likewise in the neighborhood.
He threw some stones of divers shapes
The luscious fruit to jar off:
It made him ill to see the grapes
So near and yet so far off.
His throws were strong, his aim was fine,
But "Never touched me!" said the vine.
The farmer shouted, "Drat the boys!"
And, mounting on a ladder,
He sought the cause of all the noise;
No farmer could be madder,
Which was not hard to understand
Because the glass had cut his hand.
His passion he could not restrain,
But shouted out, "You're thievish!"
The fox replied, with fine disdain,
"Come, country, don't be peevish."
(Now "country" is an epithet
One can't forgive, nor yet forget.)
The farmer rudely answered back
With compliments unvarnished,
And downward hurled the bric-Ã -brac
With which the wall was garnished,
In view of which demeanor strange,
The fox retreated out of range.
"I will not try the grapes to-day,"
He said. "My appetite is
Fastidious, and, anyway,
I fear appendicitis."
(The fox was one of the élite
Who call it site instead of seet.)
The moral is that if your host
Throws glass around his entry
You know it isn't done by most
Who claim to be the gentry,
While if he hits you in the head
You may be sure he's underbred.
©gutenberg.org
DARK FANTASY
Dark Fantasy
The forest is of ebony
Night is moonless and starless,
sable and silent.
Air as sticky as tar
Sloughs on the road as dark as pitch .
On the horse, Nyx
With Raven , his dear katana, at his side,
the most ruthless servant of The Hand
rides quick and silent.
The mission is almost over.
The climax of the end is near.
The blood stains on him make him smell metallic.
The last kill awaits, sleeping,
oblivious to sounding of the death knell
© The Eagle
DARK FANTASY
Dark Fantasy
The forest is of ebony
Night is moonless and starless,
sable and silent.
Air as sticky as tar
Sloughs on the road as dark as pitch .
On the horse, Nyx
With Raven , his dear katana, at his side,
the most ruthless servant of The Hand
rides quick and silent.
The mission is almost over.
The climax of the end is near.
The blood stains on him make him smell metallic.
The last kill awaits, sleeping,
oblivious to sounding of the death knell
© The Eagle
... came these lines {for oluwamarc}
.
From where came these lines?
That strike rebellious mind like Jack the ripper
Whose beauty faded not, even across times
For from many lips came the testimony of this healer
.
From whence came these lines?
Cooked with life and lifes over times
Thats mirrors our life as prodigal sons
The words that scar us in tons
.
From he that wields the pen of the legend
The very amplifier of the gods
Whose lines will babysit unworthy lads to the end
Trumping over beautifully ugly odds
.
One who has the strength to pull the sword
Not with energy, but by great lines of words
From he that has reminded us of our heritage
Came the lines that does not age, even through age
.
Balogun David Tolulope
{drunk poet}
©️2017
To one of the guys that built me
#danke_bro
... came these lines {for oluwamarc}
.
From where came these lines?
That strike rebellious mind like Jack the ripper
Whose beauty faded not, even across times
For from many lips came the testimony of this healer
.
From whence came these lines?
Cooked with life and lifes over times
Thats mirrors our life as prodigal sons
The words that scar us in tons
.
From he that wields the pen of the legend
The very amplifier of the gods
Whose lines will babysit unworthy lads to the end
Trumping over beautifully ugly odds
.
One who has the strength to pull the sword
Not with energy, but by great lines of words
From he that has reminded us of our heritage
Came the lines that does not age, even through age
.
Balogun David Tolulope
{drunk poet}
©️2017
To one of the guys that built me
#danke_bro
JUST A DREAM
I caressed a silvered floor
With my slippers of gold
On a mansion mounted in the deep heart of the sea;
I
Imposed the day upon the dull night
With the flip of my succulent fingers
When sleep became too afraid t be my guest;
I
wined with the wind
On a self-driven car
That flies and sails at will,
I
fathered countless parties
With endless spraying spree,
And registered my name
In the right corner of every mind.
Alas, just a dream in front of NAIRABET game-board!
Copyright © Ijalana Afolabi | Year Posted 2016
JUST A DREAM
I caressed a silvered floor
With my slippers of gold
On a mansion mounted in the deep heart of the sea;
I
Imposed the day upon the dull night
With the flip of my succulent fingers
When sleep became too afraid t be my guest;
I
wined with the wind
On a self-driven car
That flies and sails at will,
I
fathered countless parties
With endless spraying spree,
And registered my name
In the right corner of every mind.
Alas, just a dream in front of NAIRABET game-board!
Copyright © Ijalana Afolabi | Year Posted 2016
Only through memory
.
It was not far before long
When our stares would meet all night long
Your little smiles I would see, when my lips
Sing you a beautiful song
.
It was really brief before far
Together at the right side of our sofa
Sharing dreams of being called Mama and Papa
And our love be of this dream's ladder
.
It was not far before now
When our love began to go down
Like a stormy rain that receives a peaceful
Calm
It went puff like the smoke of tobacco
From the tender balm of our palm
.
It won't be soon after a long while
When salty rain from my eyes will follow this Last line
I see you only through memories, as days begot day
And it comes and go like menstrual pain
.
Balogun David Tolulope
(Drunk poet)
©️2017
Only through memory
.
It was not far before long
When our stares would meet all night long
Your little smiles I would see, when my lips
Sing you a beautiful song
.
It was really brief before far
Together at the right side of our sofa
Sharing dreams of being called Mama and Papa
And our love be of this dream's ladder
.
It was not far before now
When our love began to go down
Like a stormy rain that receives a peaceful
Calm
It went puff like the smoke of tobacco
From the tender balm of our palm
.
It won't be soon after a long while
When salty rain from my eyes will follow this Last line
I see you only through memories, as days begot day
And it comes and go like menstrual pain
.
Balogun David Tolulope
(Drunk poet)
©️2017
Though I may walk in darkness
The light shines bright
Though am blind and cannot see
The light guides me
Though my problems could be as seven mountains
The light frees me
Though I suffer the guilt of sin
The light gives me peace within
Light! ,light, oh light
My mouth is down in your awe
My spirit flies to the top of the world
For I have been set free from misery
Though life may mock me
The light gives me hope
Though I may be small and weak
The light lifts me up
Fear be gone so long
Discouragement and disappointment be lost
The light gives me joy
From its from you my Lord
The dark knows not light
As we know only Christ
Our ways he has made alright
With his grace and mercy on our lives
©Tujahsuccess
Theadvopoet
Light
Though I may walk in darkness
The light shines bright
Though am blind and cannot see
The light guides me
Though my problems could be as seven mountains
The light frees me
Though I suffer the guilt of sin
The light gives me peace within
Light! ,light, oh light
My mouth is down in your awe
My spirit flies to the top of the world
For I have been set free from misery
Though life may mock me
The light gives me hope
Though I may be small and weak
The light lifts me up
Fear be gone so long
Discouragement and disappointment be lost
The light gives me joy
From its from you my Lord
The dark knows not light
As we know only Christ
Our ways he has made alright
With his grace and mercy on our lives
©Tujahsuccess
Theadvopoet
Light
Save your tears for your next heart break
.
Kolade was my first love
My rainbow, oh my once true love
He came into my life not long after I lost my "ibale"
To brother Godwin our church choir master
Who called me his "tomato" and he my banana
But Kolade chased me away like a goat from a garden
He called a whore after he caught me kissing his best friend
And that was the end
.
Kunle came in very short after
He promised to put a calm to the tornado in my heart
We did introduction, but only to his half-brother
What we shared was the sweetest on earth
Until he saw me naked on his half-brother
.
Doctor Alade later chased away my tears
At the hospital after my last abortion
When he examined my nakedness without his flares
Love runs in my vein I felt like I was a nation
Till the day a woman with dangling breast called me "husband snatcher" paving
More gutters for my tears
.
But like sun you came, you tried up my tears
I swear it, you would be my bus stop
Life with you with long years
... So she said
Save your tears for your next heart break is now
.
Balogun David Tolulope
(drunkpoet)
©️2017
Save your tears for your next heart break
.
Kolade was my first love
My rainbow, oh my once true love
He came into my life not long after I lost my "ibale"
To brother Godwin our church choir master
Who called me his "tomato" and he my banana
But Kolade chased me away like a goat from a garden
He called a whore after he caught me kissing his best friend
And that was the end
.
Kunle came in very short after
He promised to put a calm to the tornado in my heart
We did introduction, but only to his half-brother
What we shared was the sweetest on earth
Until he saw me naked on his half-brother
.
Doctor Alade later chased away my tears
At the hospital after my last abortion
When he examined my nakedness without his flares
Love runs in my vein I felt like I was a nation
Till the day a woman with dangling breast called me "husband snatcher" paving
More gutters for my tears
.
But like sun you came, you tried up my tears
I swear it, you would be my bus stop
Life with you with long years
... So she said
Save your tears for your next heart break is now
.
Balogun David Tolulope
(drunkpoet)
©️2017
YEARN
{Soul Poet}
.
.
Do you yearn for
someone just as I do,
When he went to
The Trojan war for glory.
.
.
You must have hated Odyssey
For becoming a hero leaving you
Abandoned all alone, all days.
.
.
Could this war bring you back to me?
.
.
@nwllbardin, a fairy, you're beautiful, you're extraordinary woman. I'm thankful!
A poem I inked from legendary Trojan War, it tells the loneliness and agony of Odyssey's wife when it took him a long time to return home.
.
Odyssey was in a war in support of Greeks fighting for honour and glory in Trojan War.
.
After the Trojan War , Odysseus made a ten-year journey to reach his home, Ithaca.
© Balogun David
Drunk Poet
YEARN
{Soul Poet}
.
.
Do you yearn for
someone just as I do,
When he went to
The Trojan war for glory.
.
.
You must have hated Odyssey
For becoming a hero leaving you
Abandoned all alone, all days.
.
.
Could this war bring you back to me?
.
.
@nwllbardin, a fairy, you're beautiful, you're extraordinary woman. I'm thankful!
A poem I inked from legendary Trojan War, it tells the loneliness and agony of Odyssey's wife when it took him a long time to return home.
.
Odyssey was in a war in support of Greeks fighting for honour and glory in Trojan War.
.
After the Trojan War , Odysseus made a ten-year journey to reach his home, Ithaca.
© Balogun David
Drunk Poet
Only if I knew what love could bring
I would have made it my everything,
It would have been my whole
You came to redefine the meaning of love
Although it was late and still when you came
I have found the meaning of love
A reason to be lost on it again
You bring unending joy with your presence
My wounded heart is healed by the love
You brought.
You filled up the emptiness in me and
Loneliness no longer exist
Who else could love me this way when
It is just you for me.
© Nathaniel Omolola Stella
Only if I knew what love could bring
I would have made it my everything,
It would have been my whole
You came to redefine the meaning of love
Although it was late and still when you came
I have found the meaning of love
A reason to be lost on it again
You bring unending joy with your presence
My wounded heart is healed by the love
You brought.
You filled up the emptiness in me and
Loneliness no longer exist
Who else could love me this way when
It is just you for me.
© Nathaniel Omolola Stella
Blow upon my garden that the spices may flow out – Song 4:16
Some of the spices mentioned in this chapter are quite suggestive. The aloe was a bitter spice, and it tells of the sweetness of bitter things, the bitter-sweet, which has its own fine application that only those can understand who have felt it. The myrrh was used to embalm the dead, and it tells of death to something. It is the sweetness which comes to the heart after it has died to its self-will and pride and sin.
Oh, the inexpressible charm that hovers about some Christians simply because they bear upon the chastened countenance and mellow spirit the impress of the cross, the holy evidence of having died to something that was once proud and strong, but is now forever at the feet of Jesus. It is the heavenly charm of a broken spirit and a contrite heart, the music that springs from the minor key, the sweetness that comes from the touch of the frost upon the ripened fruit.
And then the frankincense was a fragrance that came from the touch of the fire. It was the burning powder that rose in clouds of sweetness from the bosom of the flames. It tells of the heart whose sweetness has been called forth, perhaps by the flames of affliction, until the holy place of the soul is filled with clouds of praise and prayer. Beloved, are we giving out the spices, the perfumes, the sweet odors of the heart? —The Love-Life of Our Lord.
“A Persian fable says: One day
A wanderer found a lump of clay
So redolent of sweet perfume
Its odors scented all the room.
‘What are thou? was his quick demand,
‘Art thou some gem from Samarcand,
Or spikenard in this rude disguise,
Or other costly merchandise?’
‘Nay: I am but a lump of clay.’
“‘Then whence this wondrous perfume—say!’
‘Friend, if the secret I disclose,
I have been dwelling with the rose.’
Sweet parable! and will not those
‘Who love to dwell with Sharon’s rose,
Distil sweet odors all around,
Though low and mean themselves are found?
Dear Lord, abide with us that we
May draw our perfume fresh from Thee.”
© Streams in the Desert
Blow upon my garden that the spices may flow out – Song 4:16
Some of the spices mentioned in this chapter are quite suggestive. The aloe was a bitter spice, and it tells of the sweetness of bitter things, the bitter-sweet, which has its own fine application that only those can understand who have felt it. The myrrh was used to embalm the dead, and it tells of death to something. It is the sweetness which comes to the heart after it has died to its self-will and pride and sin.
Oh, the inexpressible charm that hovers about some Christians simply because they bear upon the chastened countenance and mellow spirit the impress of the cross, the holy evidence of having died to something that was once proud and strong, but is now forever at the feet of Jesus. It is the heavenly charm of a broken spirit and a contrite heart, the music that springs from the minor key, the sweetness that comes from the touch of the frost upon the ripened fruit.
And then the frankincense was a fragrance that came from the touch of the fire. It was the burning powder that rose in clouds of sweetness from the bosom of the flames. It tells of the heart whose sweetness has been called forth, perhaps by the flames of affliction, until the holy place of the soul is filled with clouds of praise and prayer. Beloved, are we giving out the spices, the perfumes, the sweet odors of the heart? —The Love-Life of Our Lord.
“A Persian fable says: One day
A wanderer found a lump of clay
So redolent of sweet perfume
Its odors scented all the room.
‘What are thou? was his quick demand,
‘Art thou some gem from Samarcand,
Or spikenard in this rude disguise,
Or other costly merchandise?’
‘Nay: I am but a lump of clay.’
“‘Then whence this wondrous perfume—say!’
‘Friend, if the secret I disclose,
I have been dwelling with the rose.’
Sweet parable! and will not those
‘Who love to dwell with Sharon’s rose,
Distil sweet odors all around,
Though low and mean themselves are found?
Dear Lord, abide with us that we
May draw our perfume fresh from Thee.”
© Streams in the Desert
Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me – Mark 8:34
The cross which my Lord bids me take up and carry may assume different shapes. I may have to content myself with a lowly and narrow sphere, when I feel that I have capacities for much higher work. I may have to go on cultivating year after year, a field which seems to yield me no harvests whatsoever. I may be bidden to cherish kind and loving thoughts about someone who has wronged me—be bidden speak to him tenderly, and take his part against all who oppose him, and crown him with sympathy and succor. I may have to confess my Master amongst those who do not wish to be reminded of Him and His claims. I may be called to “move among my race, and show a glorious morning face,” when my heart is breaking.
There are many crosses, and every one of them is sore and heavy. None of them is likely to be sought out by me of my own accord. But never is Jesus so near me as when I lift my cross, and lay it submissively on my shoulder, and give it the welcome of a patient and unmurmuring spirit.
He draws close, to ripen my wisdom, to deepen my peace, to increase my courage, to augment my power to be of use to others, through the very experience which is so grievous and distressing, and then—as I read on the seal of one of those Scottish Covenanters whom Claverhouse imprisoned on the lonely Bass, with the sea surging and sobbing round—I grow under the load.—Alexander Smellie.
“Use your cross as a crutch to help you on, and not as a stumblingblock to cast you down.”
© Streams in the Desert
Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow me – Mark 8:34
The cross which my Lord bids me take up and carry may assume different shapes. I may have to content myself with a lowly and narrow sphere, when I feel that I have capacities for much higher work. I may have to go on cultivating year after year, a field which seems to yield me no harvests whatsoever. I may be bidden to cherish kind and loving thoughts about someone who has wronged me—be bidden speak to him tenderly, and take his part against all who oppose him, and crown him with sympathy and succor. I may have to confess my Master amongst those who do not wish to be reminded of Him and His claims. I may be called to “move among my race, and show a glorious morning face,” when my heart is breaking.
There are many crosses, and every one of them is sore and heavy. None of them is likely to be sought out by me of my own accord. But never is Jesus so near me as when I lift my cross, and lay it submissively on my shoulder, and give it the welcome of a patient and unmurmuring spirit.
He draws close, to ripen my wisdom, to deepen my peace, to increase my courage, to augment my power to be of use to others, through the very experience which is so grievous and distressing, and then—as I read on the seal of one of those Scottish Covenanters whom Claverhouse imprisoned on the lonely Bass, with the sea surging and sobbing round—I grow under the load.—Alexander Smellie.
“Use your cross as a crutch to help you on, and not as a stumblingblock to cast you down.”
© Streams in the Desert
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