MY God, a verse is not a crown,
No point of honour, or gay suit,
No hawk, or banquet, or renown,
Nor a good sword, nor yet a lute:
It cannot vault, or dance, or play;
It never was in France or Spain;
Nor can it entertain the day
With my great stable or demain:
It is no office, art, or news,
Nor the Exchange, or busie Hall;
But it is that which while I use
I am with thee, and Most take all.
Quiet Sunday morning
My family is snoring
Gentle breezes blow
Fish flies on the window
Hear the cackles of the Blue Jay
The skies are gray
But lift your spirits-it’s the Lord’s day
See His face shine
Feast and dine
And savour this rest day.
by Mark Nenadov
Snow falls like a heavy, wet blanket thrown out the window
carpeting the cold ground
the warmth of tulips comes
from the One who made it all
and all is still because
the one who made it all
by Mark Nenadov
(In memory of Calvinistic Baptist theologian and pastor Andrew Fuller, who was a wrestler in his youth)
A cub grappled on the mat of his youth
became a pen-wrestler for the truth,
a lion in the pulpit, den, and desk
ready to roar for a faith he’d confess.
Cubs of Sozzini and Glas roared as well,
you may notice that,
but the truth they couldn’t quell;
the Lord sent Fuller to the mat.
by Mark Nenadov (this poem previously appeared in Reformed Perspectives)
For holy vestments I'll not take an oath
Which linen most canonical may be;
Some are for lawn, some holland, some Scots'-cloth
And hemp, for some, is fitter than all three.
Paul had a cloak, and boots, and parchments too;
But that he wore a surplice I'll not swear
Nor that his parchments did his orders show,
Or in his books there was a Common Prayer.
by Robert Wilde, 1666
Look whisly, friend, thou seldom seest such men,
Heaven drops such jewels down but now and then--
One in an age, or nation: oh, 'tis rare,
Two Reynoldses(*) should fall to England's share!
Could Rome but show one such, and this were he,
His picture could not 'scape idolatry:
Whom Papists (not with superstitious fire)
Would dare to adore, we justly may admire.
by Robert Wilde
(*) The other was Dr. John Reynolds, an Elizabethan Puritan.
PRONE in the road he lay,
Wounded and sore bested;
Priests, Levites, passed that way,
And turned aside the head.
They were not hardened men
In human service slack:
His need was great: but then,
His face, you see, was black.
by B. B. Warfield (1910)