The Quieter Gifts - A meditation on Romans 12:6–8

We have chased the tongues of fire, 

The rushing of the wind,

And marvelled at the spectacular,

As though God was only found in miracles.

Yet from the same eternal Source,

That breath that hovered over the deep,

Some gifts are far more needed,

Yet less spoken of, less sought, less celebrated too.

Prophecy - the still, small voice,

Less heard, still more, less heeded.

Service that asks for no applause,

That sets the table, clears the room,

Carries what is left to bear.

Faithfulness made visible,

Kindness with sleeves rolled up,

Love that will not walk alone.

Teaching - the patient opening of the Word,

The steady lamp that illumines our paths every day.

Exhortation - a gentle hand upon the shoulder,

Words that don't condemn but call you forward.

Encouragement, the words of life and hope

That quench the other words of death,

And make the spirit rise.

Giving - that unseen gift so quietly fills another's need,

That needs no recompense or notice.

Here the fruit of goodness finds its hands and feet.

Leading - with zeal, not of ambition or control,

But of knowing where the path leads

And saving all from loss.

Always true, never faltering,

Faithful to the duty of the soul.

Mercy - perhaps most holy,

Cheerfully offered by the giver

Who has known it well

And cannot help but pass it on.

Here the Spirit's fruit may share its sweetest taste.

These are the quieter gifts.

They do not split the air

Or silence all with awe.

They are given in the ordinary hours,

In the overlooked places,

Among the unimpressive moments

That make up a faithful life.

They are not lesser gifts -

The gifts of simple obedience,

The Spirit's fruit pressed into daily service,

The shape of love so unconditional, so boundless and so free.

One God. One Spirit. One Source.

And of that Source, the Father,

Come gifts for every need -

The spectacular and simple,

The dramatic and the true.

Don't despise what heaven has honoured,

Or overlook the gift that sits so quiet, nearby,

Serving, teaching, giving, showing mercy -

To look here for no servitude,

But to humbly serve.

Mark Humber 2/6/2026

Through a Child's Eyes

Do you remember how you used to see it?

This world He shaped with careful hand.

Do you remember how you'd marvel,

With every simple step you'd land?

Do you recall how beautiful it was,

To see a sunset with its bright glow?

And do you even still recall

The time you marvelled at a great rainbow?

Do you remember your first colours?

The creatures and the things you saw?

Everyone so strangely different,

Each wonder filling you with awe?

Let's go back a little further...

Would you remember the first gaze

Of perfect love from your own mother,

Upon her face, that tender grace.

Do you remember how He formed you,

Before your eyes had learned to see?

He knew your name before you breathed it,

Come back to that simplicity.

Mark Humber.  May 2026

(N.B. These are MY child's eyes, which inspired this poem, the eyes of my little Amalia.)

At the time that I took the photo - 22 May 2021, I penned these words: 

"A Child's Eyes

Little eyes that wonder; what do they perceive, discern; what do they know? 

How do they see beauty, detail, contrast?

Do they feel empathy? Certainly they respond to love visually, also to humour, maybe also sorrow or pain?

What would it be like to see the world through a baby's eyes?"

“The Dawn That Shattered Death”

A poem from the perspective of Nicodemus, representing the glory of the Resurrection - of Christ and symbolically, in the new birth. 

Within a tomb hewn new from rock, where none had lain before, 

We placed His wounded, holy frame beside the city’s roar. 

Near Calvary’s cruel cross we wrapped Him, myrrh and aloes pressed, 

While friends crouched low in shattered hope, by Death so sore distressed. 

Yet I recalled His midnight words: that hearts could rise anew, 

A birth the wind of heaven brings the breath the Spirit drew. 

So, in the hush of shadowed hours, we left Him in that place, 

And rolled the stone to seal the tomb, our tears still on His face.

 

But just before the break of dawn, the trembling earth made known, 

That heaven’s host in shining robes had come to roll the stone.

And when the fearful women came, they saw the angel there; 

They heard him speak, “He is not here - He’s risen, do not fear!” 

They saw the place where He had lain, the cloths still folded fair, 

And with great fear and joyful hearts they ran the news to share. 

But on the way they met the Risen One along the brightening way, 

And worshipped Him, the Son of God, as night resigned to day.

 

Defeated Death, displaced by dawn, dethroned, disarmed, and slain, 

Could hold no power, for God Himself displayed His might again. 

As by th’ Eternal Spirit once the Lamb of God should die, 

So, by the Father’s glory He was raised as Lord on high. 

The One who, in the form of God, did not His rights enshrine, 

But emptied out His reputation to take on form like mine, 

And in that frail likeness, though forever still Divine, 

He scorned the cross, endured the shame, obeyed God’s own design.

 

So, God exalted Christ on high and gave Him that great Name 

That stands above all other names, to Jesus endless fame, 

That at that peerless, glorious Name, all knees shall humbly bend, 

In heaven, earth, and realms below His Lordship all commend. 

The empty tomb stands as the turning point of this dark and ruined world,

New life restored where hope had died and Satan’s malice hurled. 

This child, once bound in deathlike night, now lives, was lost and has been found, 

Thus, resurrection is the birth by which my life is crowned.

Mark Humber 06.04.2026 

Redemption for the Master’s Hand

The Touch of the Masters Hand

'Twas battered and scarred,

And the auctioneer thought it

hardly worth his while

To waste his time on the old violin,

but he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good people", he cried,

"Who starts the bidding for me?"

"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?"

"Two dollars, who makes it three?"

"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,"

But, No,

From the room far back a gray bearded man

Came forward and picked up the bow,

Then wiping the dust from the old violin

And tightening up the strings,

He played a melody, pure and sweet

As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?"

As he held it aloft with its' bow.

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?"

"Two thousand, Who makes it three?"

"Three thousand once, three thousand twice,

Going and gone", said he.

The audience cheered,

But some of them cried,

"We just don't understand."

"What changed its' worth?"

Swift came the reply.

"The Touch of the Masters Hand."

"And many a man with life out of tune

All battered and bruised with hardship

Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd

Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,

A game and he travels on.

He is going once, he is going twice,

He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,

And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,

The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought

By the Touch of the Masters' Hand.

Myra Brooks Welch, 1921

Redemption for the Master’s Hand

(Inspired by the above poem, written more than 100 years ago)

Narration/alternate singer in normal font; italics to the tune of "The Gambler

He stood at the window of the pawn shop door, 

Watching the dust on the case he once bore, 

The instrument silent, its glory long gone, 

A relic of worship he’d traded at dawn.

For years he had played in the house of the Lord, 

Till wounds from his brethren cut deep as a sword; 

Rejection and whispers, betrayal and blame,

Had smothered his music and hollowed his flame.

 

“You know, I used to play in worship, 

'Fore the hurt and all the heartache, 

But the wounds ran so much deeper 

Than the songs I used to sing. 

So I laid my music downwards, 

Left my calling in the shadows, 

And I walked away from worship, 

With a bitter, broken string.”

 

So bitter and broken, he carried it in,

The last of his worship, the weight of his sin. 

“Just give what you can,” he had muttered that day, 

And walked out in silence, so full of dismay.

The shopkeeper placed it with others in line,

A tarnished old treasure no longer divine. 

Its strings had grown brittle, its polish grown pale, 

Its voice, once a psalm, now a sorrowful tale.

 

“So, I pawned the gift He gave me, 

For a handful of survival, 

Never thought that I would ever 

Hear its voice or feel its frame. 

But it sits there on the counter, 

Just a memory of my sorrow, 

And I wonder if redemption 

Could restore what I became.”

 

Then one quiet morning, a stranger stepped in, 

His eyes on the instrument pawned for a sin. 

He lifted it gently, examined each scar, 

And whispered, “This beauty is worth more by far.”

“How much for this one?” The shopkeeper frowned. 

“It’s worthless to most, just a few battered pounds.” 

But the stranger laid down a far greater sum, 

As though he knew fully what it would become.

 

He said, “I used to play in worship, 

'Fore the hurt and all the heartache, 

But the wounds ran so much deeper 

Than the songs he used to sing. 

So he laid his music downwards, 

Left his calling in the shadows, 

And he walked away from worship, 

With a bitter, broken string.”

 

He carried it out to the light of the street, 

And sought the musician with weary, worn feet. 

“I bought back your instrument—take it,” he said. 

“Its purpose is waiting; its song is not dead.”

The man took the case with a trembling hand, 

His heart overwhelmed by a grace he’d not planned. 

The bitterness melted, the years fell away, 

As mercy restored what he’d thrown in dismay.

 

Then a stranger stepped beside me, 

Laid the payment on the table, 

Said, “I know the cost is heavy, 

But the worth is more than gold.” 

And he placed the case before me, 

Said, “The Master still can use you, 

For the One who buys you back again 

Is the One who makes you whole.”

 

He tightened the strings with a reverent fear, 

And music awakened he thought he’d not hear. 

A melody rose like a prayer from the dust, 

Redemption resounding in notes shaped by trust.

And those who had known him all wondered again 

What changed the musician, once wounded by men. 

The answer was simple, though few understand: 

The fruit of redemption, by the Master’s own hand.

 

Now I lift the song of mercy, 

For the grace that came to find me, 

And the music He restored now 

Is a fire within my hands. 

All the bitterness has melted, 

In the light of His compassion, 

For the glory of redemption

Is the touch of the Master’s hand.

Mark Humber, 6/3/2026

The School Where Jesus Trod

And it came to pass, as I journeyed through the gates thereof,  

I lifted up mine eyes, and behold, a place of peace.  

For the principal walked in the midst of the young,  

Speaking kindly unto them, as a shepherd among his flock.  

And the staff, with gladness of heart, greeted one another;  

They inquired after the welfare of their brethren,  

And they bare one another’s burdens,  

And lifted holy hands in prayer without ceasing.  

And the teachers ministered unto the children,  

Not in knowledge alone, but in spirit and in truth.  

They tended the souls committed unto them, 

Strengthening the weak, guiding the eager,  

And teaching with diligence, as stewards of a sacred trust.  

And the students rejoiced before the Lord;  

Their countenances were bright, and their hearts were steadfast.  

For they beheld a vision of excellence,  

And ran their race with patience,  

Knowing that character is the path,  

And Christ the Everlasting Light upon it.  

Thus was Christ in the midst of them,  

Even as the pillar of fire in the wilderness.  

And all things were done unto His glory;  

For excellence was their measure,  

And righteousness their crown.  

And I departed from thence with wonder in my soul,  

Saying, "Surely the Lord hath sanctified this place;  

Surely His hand is upon this people;  

And His praise shall be in their midst for evermore."

6/2/2026 (written in KJV style) 

The Cross We Carry

It is no sculpted timber raised against the sky,  

No monument of stone that time will calcify;  

The cross of Christ is nearer,

a weight against the bone,  

A truth that settles in the flesh  

when we must walk alone.  

It rests upon the heart in nights of aching loss,  

When graves are freshly dug  

and love bears winter’s cost.  

In bereavement’s hollow silence,  

when tears refuse to cease,  

His cross becomes our company,  

His wounds our borrowed peace.  

It presses on the body when pain will not relent,  

When breath is thin with suffering  

and strength feels nearly spent.  

For He too bore the torment  

that tore through nerve and vein;  

We find Him in our weakness,  

a fellowship of pain.  

It shadows us in moments  

when loved ones turned away,  

When rejection’s bitter sentence  

is all they choose to say.  

For Christ was left deserted,  

betrayed by those He knew;  

The cross becomes our shelter  

when hatred’s arrows flew.  

So let the world keep symbols  

of polished, distant grace,

The Christian bears a cross  

that time cannot erase.  

Held close against the body,  

engraved in soul and scar,  

It binds our wounds to Jesus’ wounds,  

and makes His suffering ours.  

Mark Humber 4/2/26

The Midnight Cry

A whisper stirs the dark, then rises like a flame:  

“Awake, you slumbering ones - the Bridegroom calls your name.”

The heavens hold their breath; the earth begins to sigh,  

For judgment walks the night when sounds the midnight cry.  

The days of Noah speak, their warning still alive,

A world absorbed in ease, yet doomed when floods arrive.  

So now the signs align; the hour draws swiftly near,  

And those who mock the truth will tremble when they hear.  

The trumpet soon will break the veil of mortal air;  

The Lord stands in the clouds, His glory to declare.  

The righteous rise in joy, the faithless shrink in dread,

For every secret thought is weighed and swiftly read.  

O people, heed the call - let hearts be trimmed with light;  

Cast off the works of dusk, walk sober in the night.  

The cry will split the skies, no moment to deny,

Be ready for the King, when comes the midnight cry.  

Mark Humber 4/2/2026

Have a God New Year

I. In the Valley of Shadows

When sorrow veils the morning light,

And tears like rivers freely flow,

When prayers are groans in deepest night,

And hope lies buried deep below—

Then Christ, the Man of Sorrows, near,

Draws close to catch the falling tear.

He bore our griefs, our pain He knew,

And walks the midnight valley too.

(Psalm 23:4)

II. In the Dance of Joy

When laughter rings and hearts arise,

And blessings bloom like springtime rain,

Let songs ascend to sapphire skies,

For grace has triumphed over pain.

The Lord song, our shield,

Has sown His joy in every field.

Rejoice! For Christ, our risen King,

Has tuned our hearts anew to sing.

(Psalm 30:11)

III. In the Fog of Uncertainty

When paths grow dim and stars are veiled,

And questions crowd the weary mind,

When every plan seems weak or failed,

And faith is all we’ve left to find—

The Spirit whispers, “Peace, be still,”

And bends our will to match His will.

He leads through storms with unseen hand,

And sets our feet on solid land.

(Proverbs 3:5)

V. In God’s Waiting Room

When answers tarry, slow to come,

And time drips down like winter rain,

When prayers return in silence, numb,

And patience wears beneath the strain—

Still wait, O soul, upon the Lord,

His promises are not ignored.

The Comforter is near, not far,

A guiding light, a morning star.

(Psalm 130:5)

V. In the Hope of the Cross

O year anew, with pages white,

We write with ink of faith, not fear.

For Christ has conquered death and night—

His mercy crowns the dawning year.

He is our Saviour, strong and kind,

Our Healer of both heart and mind.

Our Friend who walks each step we take,

Whose love no trial can ever shake.

(Hebrews 13:8)

VI. In The Spirit’s Power – a Benediction

So lift your eyes, O child of grace,

The road ahead is not unknown.

The Spirit walks at mercy’s pace,

And you shall never walk alone.

In joy or grief, in peace or strife,

He breathes in you the breath of life.

So let this year, through every sphere,

Be crowned with God—A God New Year.

(Romans 15:13)

 Mark Humber 1 January 2026