Up before dawn

And needing a cup

Writing to do

And thoughts to collect

I saw her alone

In corner so quiet

Nursing her beverage

And bruised self-respect.

No never eye contact

Though smiles I had tried

Her life at a stand-still

And doubtless she’d cried.

Was it a quarrel?

Apartment now lost?

Some friend turned deceiver?

Some burning bridge crossed?

Some bondage to substance?

That robbed strength and will?

With no “next-step” coming

Fear-frozen and still.

She hummed to the music

As sun touched the glass.

I prayed to the Son

That her trouble would pass.

But was that enough

As I started my day?

Perhaps there were words

But she’d gone away.

Controversy with David’s Psalm (37)



Whadya mean “fret not”?

Can’t ya see all

The wickedness


Outright oppression

Slippery talk

Unjust gain

Pain and grief


By rogues who

Could easily help?

Even the King

Sold over

To darkness.

And you say…fret not.


But you say more

Don’t you.


That’s a good one

Trust others?

Trust family, myself?

That’s pretty shaky.

Oh, trust you Lord.

But I hardly know you

And can you be known?

You say “delight”

Easy perhaps for the shepherd

With the psalms

And fresh air and liberty.

…Oh but that shepherd

Became the hunted animal

Despised and tracked

And nearly trapped

But got through somehow.

And that was you right?

Well I’ve had some

Narrow misses too.

Should I be thanking you

Looking higher for provision

And protection?


Obviously that shepherd

“Delighted” in you

Got to see really

That there was

No other Source.

Committed” his ways

And hopes unto you.

Found that he could

Rest” in a mighty confidence

Found only in Another.

Made the conscious quality

Decision to “cease from anger

And forsake wrath”.

Started to realize

That nothing, absolutely nothing

Could better the newfound process

Of “waiting” upon your majesty

Your timing, agenda and pathway.

But all that is really

Just for your special anointed


The steps of a good man are ordered…”

Could that ever be me?

You forsake not your saints

They are preserved forever.”

Could that ever be me?

The meek shall inherit the earth.”

Could that ever be me?

This process of delightful dependence?

Surely such a God

Is all Giver and not Taker.

And I think

I am beginning to see

And I praise you

For your justice and mercy

And sing out my thanks.

Starting now.


(painting by Peter Etril Snyder of Waterloo)

Folded Neatly

The stone was huge

Yet rolled away

And entrance showed

Not resting place

But brand new day.

No upset there

No tossing to and fro’

No thievery

Or disrespect

To last remains.

But death shrouds folded

As mother might

Some clothes outgrown

The child moved on

To greater things

Til then unknown.

And loved ones knew

The import of this sight

Their Teacher lived

The worst been done

But He had

Conquered night.

The Clay Considers

Not much of a reader

Not much of a saint

Have tried meditation

But clearly I can’t.

Walked down that straight aisle

And pledged a fresh start

But memories still haunt me

And torment my heart.

I see the True Vine

But vaguely I guess

Still Jesus you graft me

And promise your best.

Not A grade or B grade

I simply believe.

In night calms you visit

I gladly receive

A touch of compassion

A measure of hope

A burden for others

Who wander and grope

This clay has your purpose

And spins with delight

And feels your caressing

And shaping so right.

Almost a Monologue

Minolta DSC

Son, you come to me


This New Year’s Day

Taking stock perhaps

Seeking direction.

You sense it’s hard

Routine job

No great challenge

No great thanks

Disabled wife

With large demands

Children living their lives

Friends few

On the horizon

No formal church connection

No desire either

In that direction.

This your 65th year

Will work, yet

And you wonder

About significance

And legacy.

Many large names

In your ken

Are gone

And all but forgotten.

What do I want of you?





A listening ear

A smiling disposition

Words in season

To downtrodden

Or confused.

Oh, and there are your writings

I haven’t forgotten

Touching a small readership

Glorifying my Son

Holding forth my Spirit

Some of the works

Have pleased me

Proved that you were






Passing along.

And in such writings

An inkling for you

Of what I really want:

That you worship me

Utter my name before others

And the hope that comes

From my Son

The real life that comes

In my Spirit.

And do it where you are

That factory

That family

That neighbourhood

That marketplace

That readership.

And when you are ready

Perhaps a turn

In the road.

Don’t rush

You have barely begun

Your service

In me, for me.

Do not ever fear

The sand in your glass.

You were not born

In some exotic place

Neither am I sending you.

So Son





Happy New Year.

In my Now.

Buddies Peer Into Prayer

252I began pondering why and how my thoughts took shape this morning, I hadn’t been thinking of anything in particular save for thanking God for so many wonders and provisions blessings and grace.
Aside from meditating upon God my mind, as far as I was aware, was pretty much blank to the world.
I am beginning to actually hear him clearly but it is not like anything I could have ever conceived of or imagined?
There were occasions in the past, just a few or more, where a clear voice was heard but this is very distinctly different.
I could say an almost telepathic implantation but I don’t really believe that could be descriptive enough.
That “constant state of prayer” seems to always be running as if a background program in a computer intrinsic to every application actually being keyed in (autonomous)
just like breathing or a heart beating, nothing we can do about it. It just is…despite whatever we consciously do or are in the act of doing.
The only time I truly became consciously aware of the secret prayer life is when a sinful thought emerges that is anathema to it.
Then the awareness increases substantially into an awakening to address the attacks, whether from our own thoughts or external influences. (AG)

This is a wonderful development. Many Sunday mornings I would go to a
favourite university building with comfortable study rooms. Alone.
Students all sleeping off Saturday night. Much Bible Study. Before
much of the blogging. I felt convicted of absence of prayer. The
struggle began; the long painful lists; the forced effort. Then I can
remember the Spirit saying “What if you just got quiet and listened?”
It was then the real adventure began. The suggestions. The calm. The
road-map through a topic of scripture. The unanticipated words out of
left field. They were the real confirmation. No logical sequitor in my
thinking to get there. But they were God. Peter’s words come to mind
“Be ye stablished, strengthened, settled.” It seems to me AG that you
are addressing the settling part in prayer life. You will have much to
teach others there. (DB)

Under Attack Every Which Way

11-27-dark-walk (2)

The Prophet must be right

Or all is lost

Men outside the walls

Taunt victories of their King


No nation stands

He likens Egypt, wealthy Egypt

To a flimsy walking stick.

He rolls over idols

And false hopes.

Tells our people of a lovely

Exiled way for the taking.

Eliakim rent his clothes

In the telling

So did I at the hearing.

A King – a-cowering.

Those spears, arrows and horses

So real…so present.

And I have only a word

Of a strange man

Becoming stranger:

“Fear not oh Jacob

Only believe oh Israel

For I have redeemed you

Refreshed you

And will bring about

Before your eyes

Total victory.

Sennacherib’s haught

Coming to nought

His departure final.”

…And now there is this sickness

My years flee away as a scroll

My hopes unfulfilled

Tear-streaming face

I turn toward the wall

And call and call

Your mercy my all

In this sore trouble.

Inflaming boil

My waters roil.

Your word so simple

That even the sun

Will be pulled back ten

To prove your keeping love

Time and again

For virgin daughter of Zion,

For David’s throne

For me.

(Isaiah chapters 36 through 38 and Hezekiah’s plight)


Asaph in Quandary

It’s your silence Lord

That I can’t understand.

Holy places cut down

Or ignored altogether

Shove and Avarice

Grin broadly, with the jeer

“Does He see? Does He hear?

Not hardly.”

And you the One Who

Parted dreadful waters

Catalogued the code of peace

Gave holy men their place

And rousing example.

How long dear God

The silence

Deemed disinterest?

Or weakness?

But I know differently

Almost tingling, expectant

One of the turtle-doves

Winging from oppression

Perched high

In your hidden sanctuary.

Cooing and calling deliverance

By faith.

…Purposeful delay

Mercy’s one more day

But then the cruel must pay.

Psalm 74