The Giver

Of a past
Forgotten, buried
Or perhaps a future
Yet to be…

Swirl and dance
Drift below
Muffle the ground
Like piled snow

Grab your sled
Hurry up, come on
There’s something there
Something not yet begun
Can you taste the colors and the sounds
Everywhere… they cover the ground

Too many for just one
Bent and broken soul
Too many for two as well

S o   r e l e a s e . . .

Let them drift
Let them fly
Let them billow
Fill the sky

Memories bring joy
Memories bring pain
But in the end
There is wisdom to gain
So catch the snowflakes
Before they turn to rain


So Peal the Bells

Mountain Sunrise

Sunday morning reflections…


Once more we give thanks

Once more we come

Once more we rejoice

For the work You’ve begun


Gathered again

At the rising of the sun

Voices in unison

To praise the Three in One


So peal the bells

“Come, come and partake

Christ accomplished what you could not

All the weight of your sin did take”


So rise believer

Rise up and approach

Draw nigh and kneel at your Savior’s feet

The sovereign, merciful, giver of hope

Reflections [The Broken Rose]

4069169832_c324c6cf41“If we find ourselves with a desire that nothing in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that we were made for another world.”           — C.S. Lewis


I sit and think. Of all the maybes. Of all the might-have-beens. Of all the chances missed.

I ponder. All the mistakes. All the thoughtless words. All the reckless choices.


Every slip. Every slide.

Every skid. I slowly die.


How could it have been, if I had just taken the other bend?


I wonder…

What I should have said.

What I should have done.

And I kill myself.

Over every battle I never won.


The world turns yet, day by day.

Humanity ages, slowly fades.

A continual cycle of birth and death,

The cry of life drowned by the last breath.


Tyrants rise and tyrants fall

Brave men die one and all.

Heroes are born and then perish.

Hearts are torn and never mended.


We struggle daily

Each man alone

Our feelings vacant

In a heart of stone.


You cry and wonder why all is flawed.

Beauty marred, perfection ruined.


A crushed rose upon the path… petals torn… its life blood spilt upon the stones.


Mistep. Mistake.


Oh world

What a sorry mess you’re in.


The cycle repeats, never breaks.

Yesterday’s mistakes become today’s.


Life rolls on. You see the wrongs.   And yet…


How could you recognize that a rose is frail and damaged…

Unless you first had some idea of how a rose ought to look?


…a wisp of thought…a slender hope. But a comfort nonetheless.