Poetry

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Written 11-8-04

I dare not glorify
My own humanity,
My own intellect,
Or creativity;
My talents came fleshly born;
For what they are worth
My gifts I received
At my second birth.

I would have nothing,
If not from the Lord;
Apart from Him, I'm nothing,
An empty human gourd.

If what I write appeals to you,
Or makes your spirit soar,
Know that it's from my God;
As He stands on heaven's shore.
I'm nothing but the middleman,
With heaven's water line;
As I hold it, I'm also washed
Of the evil brine.

It's my joy to share
All He's given me;
The written key that I extend
Also sets me free.

As those many writers,
Who are the Father's children,
These joys I call by Christ
My own loving brethren,
I am given much,
And by much I'm required;
I must live as I write,
And be Spirit-wired.

So praise the Lord, with what He does,
With this foolish imp;
With the way he writes so straight,
While bearing a spiritual limp.

(Thank You, Lord, for what You give me, which is far beyond I can think or even dare to imagine. )

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