My Cure

The cure is in the crucible, but nobody will make me enter it.
No one will force me to lay myself down on an anvil to be shaped.

Faith is here, but devotion is found only as we enter into where we do not want to be.



Father, you see my heart and fill me toward bursting.
You speak even now to my mind and guide my mortal hand.
You know my soul and lift me to laughing.

Oh God I do not deserve these tears of passion on You.

Father, all my worship to you and Your Son that You gave me without my asking.
Father in Heaven I know You hear the prayer of this mortal man

Lord, I pray that my life you’ll keep leading, guiding and filling.
Jesus, keep Your fire lit in me and daily fuel me anew.


Dancing With Trees.

How can anyone deny the existence of God?
The whole Universe echoes with His command to Be.
All creation sings to Him in a voice that only God can truly understand.

Sometimes, when I’m quiet inside and listening, I take the time to try to join in the praise that even the lowest worm offers up to God Almighty .
The smallest bacteria to the mightiest Sequoia ring out with this simple pride to just be in the sight of God: “Hey world! God sees me and He knows me! HE MADE ME!”
They shout it with their own special God-given furor.

Do any of us listen?
Do any of us care to hear the words to the songs of the  sparrows?
Do we dare stop thinking about ourselves long enough to listen to our very own soul’s song? The holiest song whose melody is simply the Name, Jesus. Messiah. Redeemer. Christ.

My best advice to anyone who doubts the existence of God is to shut up and listen.

Even the smallest nudge of the wind carries the Name of God in its voice as it runs singing through the trees.

tt 11/28/04

He Shows Me

I hear His Laughter in the distant sweep of thunder.
I see His might in a fire-spark from Heaven.
I’m covered in His compassion when wet form the rain.
His loving arms wrap me in warm sunshine.
And He whispers, ‘Give Me your pain’.
I know His innocence in the eyes of a child.
His boundless grace I see in the smallest flower.
His precious, selfless blood is spilled, spilled on every tree.
He’s held there by nails made of my mortal sin.
As I sit, weeping, I cannot comprehend why He did that for me.

tt, 6/24/2004