Come Away, My Beloved

I will not miss him again. When He calls for me at morning’s early break. I simply rolled over and pulled tighter the covers. Dreaded the feel of the cold floor upon my feet.

But it could have been so perfect. No sounds of the Busy City. No pressures of the workaday. His victorious Account spread before me. His waiting upon my every petition or puzzlement. Or pain.

Certainly the Lord was up and ready and available…and I blew it.

But tomorrow is another day. His Day. They are all His days. Even when the clouds cover.

 Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario

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Now Thank We All

Rural Charge

Richard arrived ninety minutes early.
There had been some difficulty
Starting up the old Chev.
First frost on the glass.
Heater rudely whining
At season’s change.

Samantha busy in the back
Preparing Communion’s elements.
Pew upon pew checked
For hymnals and print-outs
On their mission relief challenge.
Bibles waiting, as always.

Truck noise in the lot
Announcing Harry, Sam and Art.
The hardware store.
The dairy farm.
The township office.
Come to welcome and worship.

Sanctuary lights left off.
The early sun brings delights,
As it warms the one
Stained glass, Christ
With his shouldered lamb
Back from its wanderings.

Another car arrives
With tell-tale tic-a-tic.
The two women finally settled
Upon harvest treats worthy
Of the after-hour.
But this year minus Christina.

Art’s Christina…so sudden.
He at the piano
Sampling a few strains:
“Now thank we all our God…”
And he was thankful
For rescue of friends, memories.

Richard reflects on year’s near close.
One wedding, funeral, two baby girls.
Two farm foreclosures.
The awful crash in the fog.
County hospital’s new wing.
Clothes bundles and books for Haiti.

And what of this morning?
Fifty or so would come,
Harvests all in.
Lands churned, blackened,
And ready for sleep.
Crows in the final clean-up

Thanksgiving,
A wonderful pause,
And a weapon, wherein
Folk laud their Creator
Regardless.
The best yet to come.

PSALM 65

9Thou visitest the earth, and waterest it: thou greatly enrichest it with the river of God, which is full of water: thou preparest them corn, when thou hast so provided for it.

10Thou waterest the ridges thereof abundantly: thou settlest the furrows thereof: thou makest it soft with showers: thou blessest the springing thereof.

11Thou crownest the year with thy goodness; and thy paths drop fatness.

12They drop upon the pastures of the wilderness: and the little hills rejoice on every side.

13The pastures are clothed with flocks; the valleys also are covered over with corn; they shout for joy, they also sing.

Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario

Through the Eye of a Needle

Leave all…and follow Him

That was His answer

I had stolen time out of my day

To hear the Master

(Or so they were calling Him)

I had simply asked

What must I do

To see this thing through?

He took me to the law

Familiar ground

And diligently followed

Best I could

Obedience, reverence, clean tongue

Nary a misdemeanor

From youngest days.

And wealth had come.

Hadn’t Heaven smiled?

But now the Carpenter says:

“Drop it, disdain it, divide it

…And simply follow.”

Not me, not now.

Why does this guy

Raise such excitement

Anyway?

Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario

Poets’ Evangel

It’s a mirror

It’s a ladder

It’s a weapon for Mansoul

It’s a bombast

From the Christ past

Crying now to be made whole.

It’s a comfort 

For the wounded

And a hospice for their hurt

It’s a warning

To the haughty

That their Father came from dirt.

It’s another

Look at Calvary

And another, yet again

It’s a resume

On Jesus

Working still today for men.

It’s a fairground

For the senses

But it must not leave the trail

Of the journey

Ever upward

By the folk who pass Death’s Vale.

It’s an invite 

To the wayward

And a shelter for their night

It’s adoption

To a family

Resting washed and safe and right.

It’s an offering

From the heart’s purse

With but two small mites in hand.

It’s a blessing

To the writers

That they hardly understand.

 

Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario

john bunyan writing

A Nod of the Head

Jesus passed by three women

Or so the dream revealed

The day was full of pity

And folks were raised and healed.

To one He gave kind converse

To next a gentle pat

The third the simplest nod of head.

Now what was meant by that?

 

 

A moment dreaming, puzzled

But then a Voice so clear.

The Spirit, Holy, Comforting,

Had come to me, drawn near:

 

 

“Profound, dear child, and common

Those sufferers needed Grace.

The first two, novice in the walk.

The third a veteran’s place.

The third got not the fondling

The third knew well the Book

The third could thrill in Christ’s good will

With just a simple look.”

Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario

Most Powerful Verses

(taken from The Cry of the Children, 1843)

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,    And their looks are sad to see,For the man’s hoary anguish draws and presses    Down the cheeks of infancy;”Your old earth,” they say, “is very dreary,      Our young feet,” they say, ” are very weak;Few paces have we taken, yet are weary —      Our grave-rest is very far to seek;Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,    For the outside earth is cold,And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,    And the graves are for the old.

“True,” say the children, “it may  happen    That we die before our time;Little Alice died last year; her grave is shapen    Like a snowball, in the rime.We looked into the pit prepared to take her;      Was no room for any work in the close clay!From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,      Crying, ‘Get up, little Alice! it is day.’If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,      With your ear down, little Alice never cries;Could we see her face, be sure we should not know her,      For the smile has time for growing in her eyes;And merry go her moments, lulled and stilled in    The shroud by the kirk-chime.It is good when it happens,” say the children,    “That we die before our time.”

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

‘neath Industry’s wheels

Harry’s Lunch

The old man placed his order
His wait in line was long
And shaded specs
Betrayed the fact
His vision almost gone.
But smile he did
As one young kid
Just chattered on and on.
Each Thursday noon
He took a cab
And left his lonely room
To join the crowd
Alive and loud
And tastes of life consume.
His cooking was the  meagrest
Five years the wife was gone.
But here the swirl
And one young girl
Gave strength to carry on.
She called him by his first name
Her voice held honest care
She knew on cue “his usual”
She helped him to his chair.
She sounded much like “Anna”
In courting days long gone
And years and tears just vanished
And “Harry” shuffled on.

Doug Blair, Waterloo, Ontario