Rain: Part One - God's Tears

{a poem taken from this image}

God's Tears

A knife in my heart, I already know 

before he speaks, what it will show.

I tell myself no, it's only a dream

It's not true! I want to scream.

Then the words come, I cannot hide;

I can only cringe and bleed inside. 

"I'm sorry, Miss April," he looks so sad, 

"I've done all I know; all I could have."

I shake my head. All isn't enough.

He was mine, don't they understand? 

He can't be dead. Shouldn't be gone.

That sort of thing happens in a stranger's home. 

Left alone, I turn away. 

The window beckons, dark and grey. 

I reach for the sill and try not to look;

the weather reads my heart like a book.

Rain hits the pane and slides away;

I reach out and trace their ways,

groping hard to understand,

Why is it me God reprimands?

The drops fall harder, tumbling down;

they splash on the sill, I wonder how and then I know. 

It's mine.

Another falls, I brush it off,

but what's the use?

They flood my eyes;

I struggle to see, to realize.

Jesus wept, I've read it before;

but then, I never placed much store

in two words that seemed

so detached from me.

I guess now I ought to see

 that He feels the pain that empties me.

When I am weak, when I am dry,

and I don't understand the reasons why,

He is with me - not apart;

His tears fall now to reveal His heart.

Jesus knew pain; He wasn't immune;

if He grieves, why shouldn't I?

My baby is held in the palm of His hand,

and with the other He holds mine.

The rain, His tears, flow by my hand,

His great sorrow lessens mine.

I spread my fingers and press the glass;

I don't wait longer for the feeling to pass.

I weep with God and feel inside,

the start of the healing His tears provide.

© JamieChanning 2012

The Story I Live

The Story I Live

If you give a girl a pen, there are five things she can do:

She can take it in her hand and get a vise-like hold,

and write her story just the way she wants it to be told

She can set it to the paper and with strokes that are dark and bold, 

she can draw her story out the way she wants it to be told

She can take the pen and write the notes that swirl inside her head; 

turning air into a song that tells her story loud and strong

Or four, which is the saddest of these, she takes the pen and lets it lie,

leaving her life without ambition and wasting the years she has been given

But five gives an image that is sweetest of all - a picture of trust and love -

when she takes the pen and opens her hand and says to her Father in Heaven:

"This life isn't mine, I've been bought with a price, so take this pen in Your hand,

and write out the story You want me to live and help me to follow your plan."

'Till next time!

© Jamie Channing 2012 

He Says

Here is the poem I promised to share. It's far from perfect (believe me!), because I've never really dabbled in poetry much, but this is sort of how it came out, with or without meter or rhyme.

He Says

In heaven, they say, there is a God,

whom the Bible declares is loving;

that He sees me fall and yet forgives all,

but, oh, are His hands held out to me?

He says I’m His dove, I’m His princess royal,

He says that He thinks I’m flawless,

but I’m soiled and stained and ragged and torn, so tell me,

are His hands held out to me?

He says that He cares, He says that He’s good,

He says that His blood is atoning,

but how can He see all that I do, and still hold out His hands to me?

He says that He knows that I’ll stumble and fall,

He says that it’s all forgiven.

But still I don’t see what He finds in me,

that makes my redemption worth the price.

For He shed His blood on Calvary’s cross,

thinking not of Himself, but me.

And the blood that He lost, covered the cost

of the sins that made me a debtor.

And when I believed, He gave full reprieve

and welcomed me then as His child

And now I see that what He says is true,

and His hands are really held out to me.

Still I don’t understand how I can act

as if all of this never happened.

How I can turn my back and forget He’s there –

holding out His hands to me.

He says to be still and know He is God,

and though I really do try;

so quickly my mind fills with other thoughts

and He is pushed out and forgotten.

Then I struggle and fight and try to do right

but sin is an impulse so tempting

that more often than not, I give in and ignore

the God that is holding His hands out for me.

I get so exhausted trying to do what is right,

because my resistance seems so futile

but one thing I know,

that no matter the sin,

no matter the wrong,

no matter the awful thing I’ve done,

He’ll look in my eyes and say without pause:

“My darling, My hands are held out to you.”

'Till next time,

© JocelynRose 2011

The Way To Pray

This is a poem that was written by a friend of mine. I asked to share it here because I think it's absolutely beautiful and nails down exactly how I feel about prayer. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.

The Way to Pray

I prayed at first, a little girl
Because they told me to.
They said that God wanted to hear me.
God wanted to hear my lisped prayers and petitions.

And so I prayed.
“Our Faffer, who art in heafin,”
Not understanding the words I prayed
But I knew that God liked it
Because they told me so.

And then they told me
That God wanted more than memorization.
He wanted to hear my requests.

And so I prayed.
And my prayers became long
Because there was so much suffering and need.
So I laid it in God’s hands
And checked it off my prayer list
Because they said I should.

And then they told me
That my prayers were too monotonous.
God wanted some praise and thanks as well.

And so I prayed.
I thanked God for making the world
And praised Him for being God and taking care of the world’s needs.
My prayers became so long I had to be selective.
But they liked my lengthy prayers
And said it brought me closer to God

And then they told me
That I should pray the Scripture
Because it increased my effectiveness.

And so I prayed.
I searched through the Bible for appropriate phrases
To express the praise, thanks, and needs.
Prayer time became so long I had to cut out some praying
To look through Scripture to find adequate verses.
But they liked it
And said I was a prayer warrior.

And then as I was praying
“Be still and know that I am God.”
“He who belongs to God hears what God says.”

So I sat.
And I listened.
And truly prayed.

Thanks, Ashley!

'Till next time,