Oh, The Horrid Tragedy

Tune of: Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me (Toplady); Thomas Hastings, 1784-1872
Mark 9:44, 48; Rev. 20:10, 15

Oh, the horrid tragedy, when the sinner disbelieves.
Where the worm their never dies, Where the fire; they burn alive.
God of wrath is justified, where the sinner longs to die.

End of mercy, end of grace; there the soul no longer taste,
Who rejected cornerstone, Jesus Christ, who died alone.
Place of sin, the horrid curse, they will suffer timeless thirst.

There a final Devil’s hell, where the gospel won’t expel.
Where the smoke shall rise in praise of the goodness God has made.
If the sinner now could see, untold future misery.

Will you turn from unbelief; will you die a wretched thief?
Come to Jesus and be saved, do not go to Satan’s grave.
At the cross Christ died for sin; rose from death, thy soul to win.

Running

Running the race in someone else’s shoes
A pair broken in that won the race.
The chosen One Who was battered and bruised,
He runs within and gives present grace.

The path is narrow, I plow toward the gate
An invisible applause helps me endure.
I fight to love what I once did hate,
Despising the shame, I reach for my cure.

Running away from former chains of sin
Casting off distractions that slow the pace.
Watching, that I might not lose what I win,
Keeping sight of future grace.

The course is filled with billboard signs
Living water given with heaven’s bread.
They blur vision and confuse the lines
The body and blood of Christ is greater instead.

Night falls but there is no time to rest
The field is ripe and all must hear.
Slumber calls but we must give our best.
Sabbath comes for those who hold dear.

I discipline my body to keep my feet
Looking in the word to measure progress.
Loving the bride that I might not cheat
Under grace, I run to confess.

Are you running well my Friend?
Is Christ winning in your heart?
Do others see the change within?
Is Christ finishing what only He can start?

This Rock

(Matthew 16:16-18)

Upon this rock I will build my Church
I will plant her as a force in all the earth.
They will be like a coat of many colors
And call each other; sisters and brothers.

Upon one confession their foot will not slip
And from my hand not even Satan can rip.
Many will be poor and few will be rich,
They will watch for my return as they sow and stitch.

The Church will be a seamless union,
Though scattered, they enjoy one Holy Communion.
I will be their one true confession;
“Messiah”, “the Christ,” the Father’s election.

No weapon formed against her will succeed
Hell cannot prevail against her deeds.
Every member is joined together to give,
Serving in freedom so that others might live.

Rooted in faith, strengthened by grace
Though dimly we see, we shall be face to face.
Upon this word I will save my Church
My remnant preserved until I finish the work.

Man of Fame

(Mark 8:34-37)

What will it profit a man if he gets to hell?
What price he paid to gain flaming cell?
All his profits now turned to loss.
The World he loved; man no longer the boss.

Man of fame, why do you run?
The pleasures you want are ne’er any fun.
Toils – all in vain here under the sun.
Thy good you plea will not tip thy evil done.

Though you entertain others and yourself
Soon they will put you on a dusty shelf.
In your heart you say, “I don’t care!”
Will you say the same when justice comes to bare?

You will shout for help and no one hears
The fires will feed thy many sorrowful tears.
Billions will cheer for thy tortured soul
Like a constant gnashing, sea billows roll.

The higher thy flight, the greater thy fall,
You shall be cast down from thy loftiest hall.
Go; lie forever to howl in perdition
Having gained all, you gain lowly condition.

Oh, why will you die, O man of fame?
To gain the world that will go down in a flame?
Turn; run to the man of sorrows; love his name!
He bore your wrath and your soul to gain!

I Wish

I wish the world were better
I might sit around and pout,
Why is our well not wetter
Has all the help run out?

I wish that saints were kinder
And less eager after gold.
When will we shed our blinders;
Do the obvious we’re told?

Are they sure they know who made them;
Who works in human clay?
It is His will to take them
Shine the light and show the way.

Here a world filled with sorrow
Here are bitterness and pain,
And the joy we have tomorrow
May be ruined by the rain.

Here are hate and greed and badness
But we are love and mercy to.
The host of heaven is gladness
When at last we’ve lived it through.

Could we only understand it,
As we shall one day see?
We are servants to the masses
As Christ is our liberty.

I wish the world were better
I might sit around and pout.
Let us be a living letter
Spring of hope and blessed fount.

A Pile of Leaves

As a boy I’d run and jump into a pile of leaves.

Throw them in the air and watch them fall all over me.

Pile them up into a great big heap

A running start and then a big leap.

Crashing down into the rustling sound

Hiding in the joy I’d found.

Facing the sky, I’d dream on a cloud

So as to ignore the pain and crowd.

As I stared into the tree, a single leaf did fall,

That once in time did not exist at all.

I watched it tumble back and forth,

I see it obeyed a greater force.

Landing softly on my face,

As if to find me in its place.

I laughed to think the coincidence

When suddenly I knew it providence.

Of all the places it could land

I was chosen by a sovereign hand.

At just the right time in a pile of leaves

The Spirit fell all over me.

John 3:8

The Road

The road to happiness is a narrow way

Trod by faith for those who pray.

Broad the way and crowded the path

Fools, they are, who waltz in wrath.

The road to happiness is carefully trod

By humble hearts who worship God.

Vain glory turns men’s heart from aching

For selfish love and money making.

The road to happiness is also those

With storms and lulls, with joys and woes.

Some who start may go astray

The world too much for them to stay.

Two lovers meet; walk arm and arm

Better than one so easily charmed.

Few will journey to its end

Face to face to see their friend.

The road to happiness is a narrow way

Our Savior lights the road each day.

                                                           MATTHEW 7:13ff

The Abiding Pastor

A marriage broken,
Kind words unspoken,
“Will pastor save the day?”
Old wounds revealed,
Still not yet healed,
“Please sir, show us the way.” 

Such grand demands,
How does he stand,
A shepherd of the flock?
Upon his shoulders,
The weight like boulders,
Success is not a lock.

He slips away,
Collapsing prays,
The floor receives his face.
Weaknesses felt,
Sober heart melts,
He needs the God of grace.

When rising up,
Scripture he sups,
To know the will of God.
Then back with them,
Full of his Friend,
His counsel marked by love.

Though often tired,
Numerous fires,
Potential to be sour,
He points out sin
And proclaims Him,
The gospel is the power. 

Never this life,
Freedom from strife,
He knows there will be pain.
With Christ beside,
He will abide,
And death will be sweet gain.

Black Sheep Lost

Cage rattled at the rake of a bone held by a filthy guard.
Sweat and blood drenched the humid stockyard.
Master calls for another; present the item for bid
Lock and chain dress before the eyes perverted.

Our bodies abused and made for dehumanizing sport
Many die of suffocation and exposure before reaching port.
Groans of pain and grief turn to wails of despair
Anger gives way to hopelessness; we learn not to care.

Thoughts of freedom and what it used to be
Picture cool blue skies and laughter; a distant memory.
Wincing eyes close, pretend to see it once again
As I heard the crowd clamor, demand another skin.

Vision stolen from dreams; death our closest friend
Hope gives sway to hate; no justice to defend.
Mothers cry for their children lost
Fathers made slaves to capitalistic costs.  

Pair of strong-arm hands jerks the back of my head
Burning in pain and slung around like rag doll thread.
Pain reminds of the curse; evil seemed the prizewinner.
Death comes as a reward from our slave tenor. 

Advertised as young and not quite as used
Plenty of services left, you don’t want to lose.
Auctioneer boasts, “Who will give me more?”
Appetites insatiable; sin makes us all a whore.

Going once, Going twice, do I hear a mighty spender?
Amount exceeded greatest price, beyond human lender.
Stepping to the front with all ability to redeem
A ransom price paid-full by the Kinsman unseen.

Looking to see the hands that gave unattainable cost
The son of the Owner had come to redeem black sheep lost.
Spitting in his face knowing previous owners abuse
I fought and screamed profanity as he freed me of my noose.

The auction block closed; the spectacle fell hush
As the victor took control with a kind loving touch.
Wrapped in clean clothes; carried out of the pit
His mercy my owner, the soul bound he doth remit.  

What wondrous love is this, O my Lord, who saves!
That would cause you to wage your glory for hopeless slaves?
For the Son loves the Father and obeys all his commands
Chosen in him based on the infinite worth of his hands.

The Little Will Be

(Revised from Edgar A. Guest, 1917, “The Man to Be”)

The world will need a man of courage amidst confusion and doubt
Somewhere, a future man grows, that little boy he plays about.
Within some humble home, that instrument of greater things
Climbs upon a daddy’s lap or mother’s leg he clings.
So shall come that call one day to render service fine
To do God’s purpose here may be your little boy or mine. 

Long years of preparation mark the path for sacred souls
Generations live and die some no nearer to their goals.
And yet the purpose of it all, the fleeting pleasure and woe
The laughter and grief in life that all who live must know
Pave the way for them, one to serve the will Divine
And it is possible that he may be your little one or mine.

The world will need a man! Dad stands by his bed at night
And wonders if he teaches him, as best he can, to know the right.
As a father of a boy, his life is mine to make or mar
And he no better can become than what my daily teachings are.
There will be need for someone wise; I dare not falter the line
The man that is to serve the world may be that little boy of mine

Perhaps our boys and girls may not ascend lights of worldly fame
But orders for their births are hid; we know not why they came.
Yet in some little frame tonight great men of morrow sleeps
And only He who sent them, the secrets of His purpose keeps.
To fathers our call is this, to keep in mind the great design
The man the world will need may be your little boy or mine.