A Prayer To The God Of Nature

A Prayer To The God Of Nature

God of the roadside weed,
Grant I may humbly serve the humblest need.

God of the scarlet rose,
Give me the beauty that Thy love bestows.

God of the honey bees,
Help me to reach deep joys from all I see.

God of the spider's lure,
Let me, from mine own heart, unwind such grace.

God of the lilly's cup,
Till me! I hold the empty chalice up.

God of the sea -gull's wings,
Bear me above each dark and turbulent thing.

God of the watchful owl,
Help me to see at midnight, like this fowl.

God of the antelope,
Teach me to scale the highest crags of Hope.

God of the burrowing mole,
Let cold earth have no terror for my soul.

God of the chrysalis
Grant that my grave may be a call of bliss.

God of the butterfly,
Help me to vanquish Death, although I die.

~  Fredric Lawrence Knowles

From my mother's poetry notebook

Hang Me Among Your Winds

Hang Me Among Your Winds

Hang me among your winds, O God,
     Above the tremulous stars,
Like a harp of quivering silver strings,
     Showering, as it swings,
          Its tuneful bars
     Of eerie music on the earth.

Play over me, God,
     Your cosmic melodies;
The gusty overture for Spring's
     Caprice and wayward April's mirth;
          The sensuous serenade
     Of summer, languid in the alder glade;
          The wistful symphonies
     Of Autumn; and Winter's rhapsodies
          Among the drifted dunes --
     Her lullabies and her torrential tunes
Moody with wild cadenzas, with fitful stress
          And poignant soundlessness.

Touch me, O God, with but a gesture --
     And let each finger sweep
Over my strings until they leap
     With life; and rain
Their silver chimes upon the plain,
In harmonies of far celestial spaces
     Of high and holy places.

~ Lew Sarett

From my mother's poetry notebook

High Flight

High Flight

Ah, I have slipped the surly bonds of earth,
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds -- and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of -- wheeled and soared and swinging
High in the sunlit silence.  Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace,
Where never lark, or even eagle, flew;
And, while with silent, lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand, and touched the face of God.

~ John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

From my mother's poetry notebook

What Is Poetry

What Is Poetry

The basic language of the soul,
Through which dumb life is made
At last, articulate;
The strangled cry
Of world-democracy, new-born,
With wide-eyed vision, unafraid;
          Rhythmic stir
               Of the primal clod,
          To follow the flute-call
               Up to God.

~ Nellie Burget Miller

From my mother's poetry notebook

The Best Road of All

The Best Road of All

I like a road that leads away to prospects white and fair,
A road that is an ordered road, like a nun's evening prayer;
But best of all I love a road that leads to God knows where.

You come upon it suddenly -- you cannot seek it out;
It's like a secret still unheard and never noised about;
But when you see it, gone at once is every lurking doubt.

It winds beside some rushing stream where aspens lightly quiver;
It follows many a broken field by many a shining river;
It seems to lead you on and on, forever and forever.

You tramp along its dusty way beneath the shadowy trees,
And hear, beside you chattering birds or happy booming bees,
And all around you golden sounds, the green leaves' litanies.

And here's a hedge and there's a cot; and then, strange, sudden turns --
A dip, a rise, a little glimpse where the red sunset burns;
A bit of sky at evening time, the scent of hidden ferns.

A winding road, a loitering road, the finger mark of God,
Traced where the Maker of the world leaned over ways untrod.
See!  Here He smiled His glowing smile, and lo, the golden rod!

I like a road that wanders straight; the kin's highway is fair,
And lovely are the sheltered lanes that take you here and there;
But best of all I love a road that leads to God knows where.

~ Chas. Hanson Towne

From my mother's poetry notebook

I Saw God Wash The World

I Saw God Wash The World

I saw God wash the world last night
With His sweet showers on high;
And then when morning came
I saw Him hang it out to dry.
He washed each tiny blade of grass
And every trembling tree;
He flung His showers against the hills
And swept the billowy sea.
The white rose is a cleaner white;
The red rose is more red
Since God washed every fragrant face
And put them all to bed.
There's not a bird, there's not a bee
That wings along the way,
But is a cleaner bird or bee
Than it was yesterday.
I saw God wash the world last night;
Ah, would He had washed me
As clean of all my dust and dirt
As that old white birch tree!

~ Wm. L. Stidger

From my mother's poetry notebook

Song For Walking

Song For Walking

Often in sun or in starlight,
Often in fair or foul weather,
It is good, it is good to go choose a friend
And walk out a mile together.

Sometimes, in a stray little hour
When you've no desire for talking --
O, then it is good to discover a path
And take only yourself out walking.

And whether you follow a street,
Or a flagstone path or the sod,
It is good, I know, I know it is good
To go walking sometimes with God!

~ Elaine V. Emans

From my mother's poetry notebook

Faith Is A Living Power

Faith Is A Living Power

Faith is a living power from heaven
Which grasps the promise God has given;
Securely fixed on Christ, alone,
A trust that cannot be overthrown.

Faith finds in Christ whatever we need
To save and strengthen, guide and feed;
Strong in his grace its joys to share
His cross, in hope his crown to wear.

Faith to the conscience whispers peace;
And bids the mourner's sighing cease;
By faith the children's right we claim
And call upon our Father's name.

Such faith in us, O God, implant,
And to our prayers thy favor grant
In Jesus Christ, thy saving Son,
Who is our font of health alone.

Author Unknown

From My Mother's Poetry Notebook

The Secret

From My Mother’s Poetry Notebook: The Secret

MARY LOUISE HOOLEY-CARLISLE·FRIDAY, APRIL 15, 2016

The Secret

I met God in the morning,
When my Day was at its best,
And His presence came like sunrise,
Like a glory in my breast.
All day long the Presence lingered,
All day long He stayed with me,
And we sailed in perfect calmness
O’er a very troubled sea.
Other ships were blown and battered.
Other ships were sore distressed;
But the winds that seemed to drive them
Brought to us a peace and rest.
Then I thought other mornings
With a keen remorse of mind,
When I, too, had loosed the moorings
With the Presence left behind.
So I think I know the secret,
Learned from many a troubled way;
You must seek Him in the morning
If you want Him through the day.

~ Dr. Ralph S. Cushman

Birth Night

From My Mother’s Poetry Notebook: Birth Night

MARY LOUISE HOOLEY-CARLISLE·FRIDAY, APRIL 15, 2016

Birth Night

Here is where stars are falling softly,
continually, and the snow is white,
white as the white of doves’ wings; here
where snow crystals sparkle in the
blue moonlight, and here where things are
pure and sweet, there is peace.

--Here is God, and here moreover is
Christ, that beautiful Christ who was
born on this night, and to whom all
choirs are singing, and for whom
all chimes are pealing, and because
of whom there is tonight joy o’er all
the countryside.  

-- forgotten for a time individual
destinies, for we are one, we frail human
beings, this night, as we rejoice and
feel once more this great beauty which
God has given us; and it is far too
much beauty to hold at once.

-- God was so kind, O Christ-Child
to give us Thee, so infinitely kind --
to be our loving Saviour, to teach us
to walk in love and to know that some
day this great peace we feel tonight
may be ours forever and for all time.

~ Author Unknown

God In The Marsh

From My Mother’s Poetry Notebook: God in the Marsh

MARY LOUISE HOOLEY-CARLISLE·WEDNESDAY, APRIL 13, 2016

As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sand,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God;
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies,
In the freedom that fills all the space ‘twixt the marsh and the skies;
By so many roots as the marsh-grass send in the sand,
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God.

~ S. Lanier (?) [untitled]

Peace, Be Still

From My Mother’s Poetry Notebook: Peace, Be Still

MARY LOUISE HOOLEY-CARLISLE·WEDNESDAY, APRIL 13, 2016

I found a spot of beauty rare,
Both God and nature lingered there;
And in the quiet of the hill
I hear God whisper, “Peace, be still.”
In the deep arch of blue above
I read of His unbounded love
While in the murmur of the breeze,
The gentle rustling of the trees,
I heard His voice speak low and sweet:
“Fear not, my child, go forth and meet
Life squarely, for it is My will,
Receive My blessing: Peace, be still.”

~ M. Elizabeth Coulson (?) [untitled]

God Is My Great Desire

1 God is my great desire,
his face I seek the first;
to him my heart and soul aspire,
for him I thirst.
As one in desert lands,
whose very flesh is flame,
in burning love I lift my hands
and bless his name.

2 God is my true delight,
my richest feast his praise,
through silent watches of the night,
through all my days.
To him my spirit clings,
on him my soul is cast;
beneath the shadow of his wings
he holds me fast.

3 God is my strong defense
in every evil hour;
in him I face with confidence
the tempter's power.
I trust his mercy sure
with truth and triumph crowned:
my hope and joy forevermore
in him are found.


Source: Renew! #109

~ Timothy Dudley-Smith

The above was taken from hymnary.org.

This site is great for full texts and information regarding hymns.
http://www.hymnary.org/text/god_is_my_great_desire

God's Grandeur

God's Grandeur
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
   It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
   It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed.  Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
   And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
   And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
   There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
   Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs --
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
   World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

How Beautiful The Feet

How Beautiful The Feet
by Genevieve Glen, OSB

Along each dusty road and busy street
the gospel walks on tired and wounded feet
whose tread is steady though the road is long.
The sound of herald footsteps falls as song
on those who labor in the heavy heat
of life grown burdensome, which once was sweet.

A freshness follows when the footsteps come
and play surprising music through the hum
of boredom making noise to hide the sound
of fear that lurks behind the daily round
and whispers that of all life's hours the sum
is empty beating on a hollow drum.

The steps awaken hidden hymns of praise
which murmur, spring-like, at the heart of days
that suddenly remember hopes which grew
in future's endless fields when life was new.
Their seeds in dark earth stir and dare to raise
green shoots that startle jaded, jaundiced gaze.

The footsteps gather crowds that run behind,
astounded at the beauty that they find
in words that sing of other ways than those
that lead the disillusioned to suppose
there is no life beyond the dreadful grind
that starves the soul and stultifies the mind.

But no pied piper, this, with jaunty air
to lure us to the place where dreams despair
before the gates of death that once stood shut.
These footsteps that we follow, bleeding, cut
a passageway that leads us out to where
life's music catches fire -- for God is there.

[Oh, God bless Genevieve Glen!!!  Thank you, GG, for your inspiring and nourishing poetry!!!]

God Of Grace And God Of Glory

God of grace and God of glory,
On Thy people pour Thy power;
Crown Thine ancient church's story;
Bring her bud to glorious flower.
Grant us wisdom,
Grant us courage,
For the facing of this hour,
For the facing of this hour.

Lo!  the hosts of evil round us
Scorn Thy Christ, assail His ways!
From the fears that long have bound us,
Free our hearts to faith and praise.
Grant us wisdom,
Grant us courage,
For the living of these days,
For the living of these days.

Cure Thy children's warring madness;
Bend our pride to Thy control;
Shame our wanton, selfish gladness,
Rich in things and poor in soul.
Grant us wisdom,
Grant us courage,
Lest we miss Thy kingdom's goal,
Lest we miss Thy kingdom's goal.

Set our feet on lofty places;
Gird our lives that they may be
Armored with all Christ-like graces
In the fight to set men free.
Grant us wisdom,
Grant us courage,
That we fail not man nor Thee,
That we fail not man nor Thee.

Save us from weak resignation
To the evils we deplore;
Let the search for Thy salvation
Be our glory evermore.
Grant us wisdom,
Grant us courage,
Serving Thee whom we adore,
Serving Thee whom we adore.

Amen!

CWM RHONDDA 8.7.8.7.8.7
Fosdick/ Hughes
The Mennonite Hymnal, 1969, Herald Press