CALLED by your Savior in the bloom of youth,
Ameek disciple at the shrine of truth;
Reflect, O Caroline, with grateful sense,
On the rich mercy of Omnipotence,
Lavished upon your soul with lustre rare,
In that dark hour when sinking in despair!
Nor cease to own it is through Jesus’ love,
Enraptured now you seek the glorious life above.
What humble gratitude, what love sincere,
In all your future conduct must appear!
Let each day’s first inquiry with you be—
Command me, Lord ! what I may do for thee.—
On high behold a bright and palmy throng,
Xerxes’ vast host outnumbering, cheer you on.
O, keep their bright example full in view,
Nor ever be ashamed of Him who died for you.
by John Newton Brown
Did filthy Lust and Whoredom ever rage
With more success then in the present Age?
Abominations of so vile a Name,
That their bare mention is indeed a shame.
What Sin more hateful in Jehovah’s Eye?
Then this of Whoredom and Adultery?
‘Tis rank’d as Chief, and marches in the Van
Of all the gross Debaucheries of Man;
In those black Muster-Rolls God does record
Of grand Offences in his holy Word.
What more affronts the Second Table? Or
Provokes the Lord? No fitter Metaphor
Could be produc’d t’ express Idolatry,
Then that abhored Name, Adultery.
Besides the Terrors of God’s firey Wrath,
Which judges such to everlasting Death;
On Earth, amongst all sober men, they gain
So vile a blot, so infamous a stain,
As all the Waters in the Sea can nev’r
Wipe off, nor can it be forgot for ever.
But O what dismal Consequences wait
For speedy entrance at the wreches gate!
by Benjamin Keach, 1681
At one of Jesus’ temple-teaching sessions
He posed the people a revealing question
“How can the scribes say
that Christ is the son of David?”
He then turned to the Spirit-inspired Word
to Psalm 110:1—the Psalm about the Priestly King
which Acts 2:34-26 says is all about Him
showing that the scribes’ Christology was absurd.
by Mark Nenadov
November 24th, 2012
Snow, flake upon flake,
Covers the soilèd earth:
It is the year’s first snowfall.
And my soilèd heart,
Its rubbishy vanities and filth,
Is blanketed, drop upon drop.
Of course, ’tis a different hue:
To angelic amazement—and mine—
Only His bloodied crimson will do.
© Michael A.G. Haykin, 2012.
(Reproduced with permission from author from a blog post at The Andrew Fuller Center.)
And I, I’m hateful of the afternoon,
the ten long hours I must spend alone,
while you, across the desert world from me,
subject to Sol’s impartiality,
take comfort in your portioned hours of sleep
as I my work’s appointments restless keep
and cannot speak to you, but only pray,
since till our vague tomorrow I must wait
to hear from you again. The suns are hot
that even-handedly our days allot,
and separate us both by time, and space,
and eager abjuration of all haste,
and wither up my heart in nonsense doubt
that something might from yours have driv’n me out.
by Kilby Austin, 2009
O kings of earth, and presidents,
Do you have any notion whence
There blows the wind that moves your mind?
Or whither any bill you’ve signed
Will lead? Or what ten billion waves
And ripples are unleashed in caves
And mountains, slums and palace halls,
When you make your decrees? What walls
Are built or fall? What bridges stand
Or, full of men, collapse? What lands
Live happily and well, or cling
To pleasant scorpions and sing
Of death unwittingly? Do you,
The kings and presidents, see through
Ten thousand days, and know the end
Of your intent, or comprehend
The outcome of your peace, or wars
Or even if your plan is yours?
This is the light of candle one:
God governs everything you’ve done.
You never take him by surprise,
The dark is bright before his eyes.
All kingly ways are in his hands,
And all your deeds fulfill his plans.
And if you make a war on God,
You find that you are but his rod.
(taken from a page on the Desiring God website)
By John Piper. ©2013 Desiring God Foundation. Website: desiringGod.org
How still the morning of the hallow’d day!
Mute is the voice of rural labour, hush’d
The ploughboy’s whistle, and the milkmaid’s song.
The scythe lies glittering in the dewy wreath
Of tedded grass, mingled with fading flowers,
That yester-morn bloom’d waving in the breeze.
Sounds the most faint attract the ear — the hum
Of early bee, the trickling of the dew,
The distant bleating midway up the hill.
Calmness sits throned on yon unmoving cloud.
To him who wanders o’er the upland leas,
The blackbird’s note comes mellower from the dale;
And sweeter from the sky the gladsome lark
Warbles his heaven-tuned song; the lulling brook
Murmurs more gently down the deep-worn glen;
While from yon lowly roof, whose curling smoke
O’ermounts the mist, is heard, at intervals,
The voice of psalms — the simple song of praise.
by James Grahame