One Lone Flower

 I walked along life’s dusty road

On dry and rocky sod,

 The heat of desert scorched my brow

As step-by-step I trod.

It was not my desired lot

To follow down this path—

A sullen, lonely, barren vale—

To find what e’re it hath.

My heart called to the mountaintops

Where life and joy abode,

T’was there where laughter filled my mouth;

Rich blessings He bestowed.

He said He’d take me to the heights

If I but followed Him,

Yet, here I stood quite far from where

He’d promised to me then.

Away from every climbing steep

And going further down,

My tears descended like the path

That seemed to run aground.

“This is not right!” I protested,

“I don’t deserve this vale!

I want the golden heights, sublime,

Not desert!” I bewailed.

 Then, in the corner of my eye

I caught a glimpse of gold,

A tiny spark of hope and love,

That held a joy untold.

T’was but a little flower standing

Strong, though all alone,

It seemed to sing the sweetest tune

Of faith serenely shown.

I listened, captive by its voice

That echoed in my heart;

What words of yielded, loyalty

No other could impart!

Then, rising from my seat of gloom,

I lifted up my gaze

And looked unto the hills, from whence

My Help shown bright, ablaze.

In trusting, yielded tenderness

My heart but overflowed

With that same sweetness as displayed

Through what a flower owed.

“Behold me, now, dear Lord,” I prayed,

“Thy humble handmaiden,

Though, here my lot is but to pass

Through this land, so barren,

“I sweetly trust Thy will for me,

E’en though it dreary seems,

For You have promised, You will do,

And this is best for me.

“So, take me now, Thy little flower,

 And may Thy grace I employ,

Sparkle Thy love and peace through me;
I am ‘Acceptance-with-Joy’.”

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2015

Has the Football Been Forgotten?

Two eager teams prepared themselves 

To face their opposition;

Much practice had been exercised

With hope of great position.

The long awaited day had dawned

For which they had made ready,

The days for timid weakness, past;

Their focus, now, was steady.

Within their lockers they refreshed

Their minds of all the moves,

Recalling every trick and skill--

This was no time to lose.

All along the sidelines gathered

Crowds of anxious men--

Concessions filled with cheer and mirth--

To see which team would win.

So long had been the eager wait,

So great the preparation,

And, now, at last, the time had come

To reward anticipation.

But, just before the whistle blew,

The best turned almost rotten;

Amidst the hustle of preparing,

The football had been forgotten!

What, in itself, seemed just to be

A minor part of play,

Was vital to the very game--

The essence of the day.

So cumbered we may quickly be

Preparing for "someday",

We practice hard and learn the skills

To master every way.

Then when the greatest moment comes--

The object of ambition--

We find that somewhere in the way

We lost the heart of our mission.

Without the preparation

No goal would be achieved,

And without practice in the skills

The trophy's not received.

Yet, important as the goal may be,

And how vital to prepare,

If we neglect the little things,

We'll never conquer there.

"Someday" may come, but until then

We must embrace the present

And live each moment to the hilt,

For here it is we're sent.

Anticipate the future, yet

Take heed to what's today,

Prepare for what may someday be,

Yet don't forget The Way.

All goals may be so great aspired,

But, if His Word is lost,

No matter what may be your skill,

The battle will be lost.

Amidst your earnest preparation,

Do ask yourself quite often,

"Have I embraced the Source of life,

Or has the 'football' been forgotten?"

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2015

Songs in the Night

A sun that's always shining,

Blue skies with not a cloud,

A pathway lined with roses,

Where hurdles are never allowed,

No raindrops hiding the rainbow,

Nor stormy billows despair,

But mirth and laughter abideth

And gone is the burdensome care.

Such would be ever my lot

If life was within my control;

I'd banish all pain and sorrow,

For happiness would be my goal.

But the pot is put through the fire

And the gold is purged from its dross,

While weakness is turned into strength

Through bearing the weight of a cross.

The angriest storm that rages

Is the magnificent sunset at last,

And the dawn is always the brightest

When the darkest of nights has past.

The flowers of spring are gayest

After the winter's bitterest chill,

And music is never so lovely,

But when sung while the heart resteth still.

For, when pain and sorrow appear

And threaten to strip us of life,

Many are those who will seek God,

But only to save them from strife.

Oh, who is the one who will cry out,

When deep darkness hideth his light,

"Oh, where is God, my Maker,

Who giveth me songs in the night?"

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2015

"By reason of the multitude of oppressions they make the oppressed to cry:

they cry out by reason of the arm of the mighty. But none saith, Where is God 

my Maker, who giveth songs in the night?"

~ Job 35:9-10 ~ 

Arise, and Shine

The night, Lord, is coming,

Deep darkness draws nigh;

The Son is quite hidden 

By clouds in the sky.

The chill of the evening

Is fearfully cold;

Thro' winds of confusion

Great error is told.

The right is called wrong

And the wrong is called right,

The Light of Your truth

Is fading from sight.

The warmth of Your love,

Your mercy and grace

Retreats from a people

Rejecting Your face.

The dark night approaches

With terrible dread,

Sorrow and trouble

Adorn days ahead.

The darkness is coming,

The night, Lord, draws on;

At midnight my heart will

But praise You with song.

Arise, Lord, and shine,

For Thy glorious name;

Send forth Your Word,

Thy greatness proclaim. 

Thy lovingkindness,

Forsake not, dear Lord,

Remember Thy mercies,

Remember Thy word.

Though all of the earth 

Would run far from Thee,

And from Thy commandments

They angrily flee,

For the sake of Thy remnant

Who call on Thy name,

Oh, leave us not desolate,

Let Thy love remain.

Though long be the darkness

And cold be the night,

May You go before us

And grant us Your Light.

When midnight is passing,

O Lord, this I pray,

May we, then, with Your Light

Shine brighter than day.

Not so as to blind men

With its brightest gleam,

But so as to warm them

With Heavenly beam.

Arise, Lord, and shine,

For the darkness is come,

With kindness and love

May we lead others Home.

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2015

Villages in the Wilderness

On earth where only few have trod,

Where ancients once possessed,

Remains the remnant of their lot

Lost in the wilderness.

Their footprints pack the dusty road

Where not a car distressed,

Upon their backs they bear their load,

Lost in the wilderness.

The sunshine knows their sweat-bathed brow,

Though others gaily dress,

To make their meat they humbly plow,

Lost in the wilderness.

They live a meager entity

With sacred faithfulness,

Devoted to their deities,

Lost in the wilderness.

And one by one they cease to be,

Unknown by righteousness,

Their souls for which no man will plea,

Lost in the wilderness.

Will you not heed the sounding cry

To light their deep darkness,

And go unto those forlorn souls

Lost in the wilderness?

Proclaim to them the glorious Word

Of hope and great forgiveness,

That they may praise the One True Lord,
Even in the wilderness.

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2015

The Hand That Rocks The Cradle

See her touch so tenderly

Like never others can,

See the care within her eyes

As she holds her infant’s hand,

See her gently stroke the brow

That’s wrinkled with his fear,

See her kindly wipe away

The saddened, trickling tear.

Precious is the one whose hands

Nurtured the babe that purled,

For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rules the world.

Though it aches her kindly heart

She spares not but doth chastise,

In love she would train up the child

So his God he’ll not despise.

Her gentle guidance, firm reproof,

And gracious instruction

Are as the chisel that mold his block

To Godliness perfection.

For this she ought to strive and labor,

Though Satan’s darts are hurled,

For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rules the world.

 Is character by naught, achieved?

Does prudence come by wind?

Or comes integrity by birth;

And wisdom dwell within?

Nay, e’er must be the influence

Of righteous dignity,

Exemplified in every way

In her authority.

So requisite her influence

In a land where Truth is furled,

For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rules the world.

Though feminine is her delight

And gracious is her touch,

Yet comes a strength unquenchable,

 Though still she dons her ruche,

For though her lot may never be

To wear laurels of fame,

Or conquer nations, rule the throne,

And live with highest name,

Her influence in sons she bore

Lives on, though ages whirled,

For the hand that rocks the cradle

Is the hand that rules the world.

     

O Mother, do not fain despise

Your calling in this place,

Though weariness and struggles come;

God gives His daily grace.

Your tender touch and patient care

Is molding men of great,

The generation next to come

Who’ll bear the nation’s fate.

 Remember as you kiss your babe

And hold his fingers curled,

That the hand that rocks the cradle
Is the hand that rules the world.

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2015

Termites

Wherefore let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall. 1 Corinthians 10:12

Hundreds of thousands of homes each year

Are met with devastating fate,

Destruction is rampant as an avid foe

Sneaks in—so much is at stake.

More damage is caused than all the effort

Of fire and storms combined,

The greatest are falling, though sturdy they seemed,

The smallest are, too, undermined.

Though, if from a distance you gazed upon

The towers standing tall,

They might brave the storms or be fireproof,

But what is it that makes them fall?

It’s not the foundation, for that is quite firm;

This doom does not happen to stone,

But into the wood which has no protection

A tiny foe slips in—unknown.

It tunnels along, so hidden from sight,

Consuming the internal strength,

Then, finally, when all is eaten away

The shell crumbles down at length.

Mourning, we see those great towers fall;

Despairing, we wonder, “why?”

Their foundations were sure; they braved fire and storm.

“What happened?” we sorrowfully cry.

Time and again, to home after home

This tiny foe was not new.

And, long before the great structure fell,

It ate away—hidden from view.

Such mass devastation is come in our land,

Strong homes being eaten away,

Towers looked up to, men we admire

Are crumbling down every day.

Though strong the foundation they stood upon,

And tho’ fire and storm they could brave,

Inside of their hearts where nobody sees

They were slowly being eaten away.

The termites of lust and wickedness

Are slipping in unperceived,

What starts out so small and innocent

Leaves them and their families deceived.

In a day of such great devastation

We simply cannot afford

To lose our homes, great or small,

While termites of sin we ignore.

So, let him that thinks he stands take heed

And guard every window and wall

From the tiny foe which so quickly slips in
And causes the greatest to fall.

Copyright © Elisabeth Linzey 2015