Monday, January 3, 2011

A Poem Inspired by Betsy’s Determination During Her Illness

Onward, onward, onward she cries!
She shall never turn back and she’ll not hear the lies.
Gloom and death hover o’er as a cloud,
But she shall not submit herself to the shroud.
As lithe as a nymph and graceful as a queen,
She presses on with the strength of Rome’s fighting machine.
As Wellington won Waterloo so she shall win to,
For she places her trust in the faithful and true.
With Christ on her side her life she’ll renew,
And with heaven’s great ranks she shall march right on through.
Oh, Ye that need strength in time of despair,
Just look to the maid with the soft golden hair.
With hair as the sun and eyes as the deep,
The damsel shall not submit to death’s sleep.
For once in the water with Christ she did die,
And she’ll rise again to live ever on high.

This poem was inspired by a dear friend of mine who was terribly ill.  When things seemed most bleak, still she was determined to fight her illness and to strive against it.  I hope that is captured in these words.  

To Betsy Upon the Occasion of Her Illness



Arise fair maiden and do not despair,
Let not thy brow be furrowed with care.
For Christ our dear Lord did lay sickness low,
And deal unto death its last killing blow.
Take heart dear friend this is not the end,
For life and health to thee shall God lend.
He shall remove thy sorrows and give the an hymn,
For the burden upon thee Christ’s death did condemn.
Take thou the med’cine which Christ gave to thee,
When he bled and died on that rugged tree.
In chalice and paten he doth give himself,
A treasure more precious than heaven’s great wealth.
So arrise and take heart and feel no more dread,
‘Tis Christ our dear Lord that fights in thy stead.



This poem was written for a dear friend of mine while she was very ill.

Sunday, January 2, 2011

Sonnet #1

Oh solitude, the only joy I find,
You save me from this world so black and base.
For those that rule our land have been struck blind,
and on my native soil I have no place.
Now wrong is right and truth is giv'n no place,
So that I scarce know what I ought to do.
Oh God above grant mercy and all grace,
Or else I fear my birth one day I'll rue.
Unrighteous men now lord over the good,
The meek are trampled underneath their feet.
Upon their plots and schemes the ever brood,
And honest men with death and guile they greet.
Oh God above come visit them with fire,
And we'll give thanks with dance and voice and lyre.