Our Champion by Derek Melton

In the garden of bliss begin
Two diadems of God
Bear the image of perfection
No thorns or pain to trod

But walking ancient serpent comes
Usurping royal command
Deceives the weaker vessel
Dispels them from the land

Evil thoughts invade their minds
Deeds of shame to act
Murder befalls a brother
From rejected worship lack

From these days and onward
History doth repeat
Pain and misery multiply
And righteousness deplete

Would the generations come
Rise above the mire?
Despondent rebels exercise
Some righteousness desire?

Ascent of man never came
Holiness ne’er be
Evasive of the Law’s demands
And thus continually

Alas! – Season of perfection full
The seed of woman come
Obliges requirements of the law
The grip of death succumb

A purchase of redemption made
Salvation full and true
From tribes, tongues, and nations some
Redeemed and given you

Not one to finally perish
Nor drift away for long
Spirit sealed and protected
Forever they belong

Kept, beloved, and protected
Against that coming day
When elements of earth doth vanish
And Jerusalem descends to stay

Unspeakable day unfolding just
Brightness eclipsing the sun
Revealing the face of our beloved Christ
The Champion of Heaven’s sons.

by Derek Melton

Sorrow Sanctified by John Newton Brown

johnnewtonbrownMy spirits droop with illness now, 
And yet I would submissive bow, 
My heavenly Father, to thy will; 
I would not breathe a single thought, 
With discontent or murmur fraught. 
But, suffering, own and love thee still. 

And yet there is a pensive air 
Steals o'er me ere I am aware. 
And clasps me in its soft control; 
A mildly melancholy mood, 
Of sickness born, and solitude. 
Sad and subduing to the soul. 

At times I check the starting tear. 
And think, my Father, thou art here. 
And I am thine, forever thine; 
Should blow succeed to chastening blow, 
Thou art the very same, I know. 
And future blessings dost design. 

Whence, then, this sadness that I feel? 
Why do these tears unbidden steal, 
And on my better thoughts intrude? 
Still must I weep? Then vanish, pride, 
And let these tears be sanctified 
By holy grief and gratitude. 

Breathe, Holy Spirit! on my pain, 
And I will weep o'er Jesus slain. 
His sufferings for my sins I see. 
When, in that dreary period 
Of insult, agony, and blood. 
He languished on the fatal tree. 

He was no sufferer once! As God, 
He saw me from his high abode, 
Deep sunk in sin, and wo, and shame; 
Compassion kindled with the look, 
For me a servant's form he took, 
And down to earth to save me came. 

O, it might gush an angel's tear. 
To see the Man of Sorrows dear. 
Rejected and despised by men 
For angels knew how rich before 
He was in bliss, and what he bore 
To bring me back to God again. 

Melt then, my soul! 'Twas for thy guilt 
Jesus' atoning blood was spilt; 
He could not sink in suffering lower. 
O, if thou hast one spark of love 
To Him who left his throne above, 
Go, weeping go, and sin no more. 

by John Newton Brown
October 15, 1820.

Augustine’s Philosophy by B. B. Warfield

"THERE is a place for everything, 
In earth or sky or sea, b-b-warfield-portrait-6
Where it may find its proper use 
And of advantage be," 
Quoth Augustine, the saint. 

The mocker quick, with curling lip: — 
"Then there's a place for vice!" 
"Yea, fitly 'neath our trampling feet, 
May lie the cockatrice," 
Quoth Augustine, the saint. 

"Our very vices, great and foul, 
When in the earth they're trod, 
May haply lofty ladders build 
On which to climb to God," 
Quoth Augustine, the saint.

by B. B. Warfield

Life by John Girardeau

girardeau“Life! ‘Tis a passing breath,
A vapor of today,
Appearing for a little while,
And vanishing away.

“Life! ‘Tis a courier swift
With tidings from the fray;
With ‘bending form and foaming steed
He posteth on his way.

“Life! ‘Tis the eagle’s flight
Across the trackless way;
His rapid pinion beats the air–
He hasteth to the prey.

“Life! ‘Tis the gallant ship,
With pennon floating free;
The favouring gale swells all her sails,
Look now! She’s far at sea.

“Life! ‘Tis a fleeting dream
That ends a troubled night;
But start not–Lo! the morning beam
Of everlasting light.

“Life! ‘Tis the setting sun
That sinks in storms away;
But see! the morrow is begun
Of heaven’s eternal day.”

by John Girardeau

Excerpt from Contemplations by Anne Bradstreet

O Time the fatal wrack of mortal things,
That draws oblivions curtains over kings,
Their sumptuous monuments, men know them not,
Their names without a Record are forgot,
Their parts, their ports, their pomp’s all laid in th’ dust.
Nor wit, nor gold, nor buildings scape times rust;
But he whose name is grav’d in the white stone
Shall last and shine when all of these are gone.
by Anne Bradstreet428_abrad

Spring by John Girardeau

girardeau‘Tis Spring, and Nature’s form is seen
Attired in robes of fairest hue;
Her mantle green, how bright its sheen.
And gemmed with drops of pearly dew.
Her voice of love — her voice of love,
How soft it streams from every hill!
How sweet the note that seems to float
From every murmuring, weeping rill!
There’s not a flower in rosy bower
That lifts its modest, blushing head,
And steals a kiss of dewy bliss
From Morning’s lip of glowing red—
There’s not a lovely saffron tint
That paints the couch of dying Day—
There’s not a star that beams afar,
And lights retiring Eve away—
There’s not a tone by Seraphs blown
To which the ear of Fancy listens—
There’s not a bead of early dew
That on the fragrant myrtle glistens—
There’s not a breeze that through the trees
Low sighs the requiem of day —
But worship brings, and praises sings
To Nature’s God in Nature’s way.
Her voice of love is heard above
Though mortal sense despise her tongue,
Her Maker’s ear bows down to hear
Her matin and her vesper song.
Though mortal eye may not descry
The native charms of her sweet face;
Her Maker’s eye is ever nigh,
To note each beauty and each grace.

by John Girardeau

Excerpt from The Apocalypse by John Newton Brown

johnnewtonbrownWhen on the holy mount, a little space,
We saw his glory, and admired his grace.
Hear, ye that love Him, while the tale I tell,
or what that memorable hour befel.
Till every circumstance be so portrayed
On memory’s tablet, that it cannot fade.
Hear, ye that love Him ; for your suffering lot,
Throughout all time, by Him is not forgot —
For his name’s sake, we bear, and murmur not.
Nor space remote, nor distant ages, sever
Those links of love that bind our hearts forever.

by John Newton Brown