The Child Of Promise

I don't want to lay her down to sleep,

Though I hear her gentle breathing,

I want this day to last forever,

With my baby in my arms.

I don't want to close my eyes,

And have to wait until tomorrow,

By her cradle I could kneel,

Until the light of a new day.

But another day dawns,

And the tiny arms quiver,

As she cries for the breast,

That will nourish her pain.

But as each new morn breaks,

And I quickly grow older,

I will pray I will be strong,

For the child of promise.

I had waited for so long,

As the world changed oh, so quickly, 

So the aged ones all passed on,

And little boys became strong men.

And as the seasons turned around,

We forgot that we grew older,

But our time, it grew much shorter,

And our strength turned into dust. 

But another day dawns,

I see the smile of my baby,

And she says her first words,

And she takes her first steps.

But as each new morn breaks,

Though I quickly grow older,

I will pray to be strong,

For the child of promise.

I hope I'll be able to protect her,

Raise her noble, good and true,

Most of all, that she'll know my Saviour,

For I know He'll bring her through.

Now I dream she stands before me,

A lovely daughter, fully grown,

Even though I'm aged and feeble,

I can hear her whispered words.

Yet another day dawns,

I see a woman sitting by me,

Now she says her final words,

And she holds me in her arms.

For as the new morn finally breaks,

And I will never more be older,

I will stand before Him there,

As the child of promise.

The Gate of the Day

I once stood on the threshold of the gate of the day,

The old world behind me, the new one begun,

And he took hold of my shoulders and I heard him say,

You enter this home now, you're not come to stay,

As a visitor here but as my very own son,

As my tears fell, I knew my heart had been won.

As the years past, I drifted from village to city,

As I followed my fortunes and tried hard to succeed,

But the words that were spoken at that moment of pity,

Would brighten my pathway through much enmity,

And strengthen my faith, my soul then to lead,

To a future unknown, but a path clear indeed.

My father now stands at the gate of the day,

How long he will linger, I sure cannot tell,

But as he walks onward, I constantly pray,

That the pathway be smooth all the rest of the way,

And the journey be glorious, the sunset look swell, 

For I know that his Father's door's open as well.

Matthew 25:35

Dedicated to Leon Smith 

Marks Wedding Vows

I vow to be patient, I vow to be kind.
And try not to envy, to pride be inclined,
To always be grateful that I have found you,
To overcome rudeness, and selfishness too. 

I'll be not easily angered, forgive if you're wrong,
I'll always protect you, our trust shall be strong,
I'll delight not in evil but in truth never fear,
In hard times to hope always, and so persevere.

These three I'll commit to: to faith, hope, and love,
But the greatest of these is the bond from above:
By the same love that Jesus has loved His own bride,
So I'll always love you and stay by your side.

Derived from 1 Cor. 13, played on ukulele

Under His Baton

He raised His hand to the heavens,
As the silence grew the more loud,
And each face looked so expectant,
In the orchestra and in the crowd.
As His hand approached the zenith,
Each player had taken a breath,
Every heart grew so expectant,
But each hand was still as death.

But the feeble drop of the baton,
Drew forth then a plaintiff tone,
And the song sobbed out in the night hall,
As the orchestra, it moaned.
The unresolved chord, the knife twisted,
The timbre was harsh to the ear,
Still the Master of Song never faltered,
As He taunted the anthem of fear.

But wait, still the baton, it changes,
Its tempo, its gait and its style,
And the orchestra sinks to a hush,
Like a waif that has walked her last mile.
And the tragedy deepens to longing,
That a rescuer might yet be found,
And He rises alive from the cobwebs,
To drive Death itself from the ground.

And the baton, it rises, unweary,
Each eye rises too as it flies,
But this time, it moves with a newness of life,
As it drives out the tears from the eyes.

For the Conqueror rose all-victorious,
And He beckoned the instruments play,
In one great eternal moment,
The song became joyous and gay.

The song rose exultant, majestic,
The mode changed from minor hue,
And the moments of anguish found meaning,
As the time to resolve all was due.
And the Lord of the Cue in His splendour,
Made the final decision in Time,
As the rapture of harmonious cadences closed,
With a flourish that said, "All is Mine."

24/11/2018
Written spontaneously without edit from inspiration by a fellow Christian, and former teaching colleague in Thailand.

By the Death of an Innocent

I never deserved it; it is so unfair;
Unwarranted outcome for a life of despair.
I should be condemnéd for error and sin,
My pathway was reckless and my record was thin.

I tallied the balance of my good deeds and bad,
And as I reflected it made my heart sad,
That my choices were foolish, my conscience was weak,
And the balance sheet showed that the outlook was bleak.

But one thing I trust when recounting my deeds,
A strange moment eternal, that fair justice impedes,
When a victim was murdered at Calvary,
An Innocent died for a sinner like me.

When the eternal day comes and time ceases to be,
The guilt will be covered, and all He will see,
Is what we did for the weak ones, so we did it for Him,
And the balance is settled, the lost can go in.

MJH 15/11/2015

The Nameless Ones

The Nameless Ones

I happened to notice them there,
Hiding behind the skirts of others
As they sat in their allotted corner,
And made sounds that had no.words,
Expressions of another culture,
Where the foibles of their craft was quickly lost,
On the vapid minds of the pretentious,
Who claimed to understand the fabric
Of a conceited Emperor's wardrobe.

They had no names, no claim to be remembered,
As the august throng loudly drowned them
In their useless noise, and heard their sound,
But failed to listen or perceive the meaning
Of the gentle sound that listed nervously
Between the harsh voices of the self-absorbed.
But yet, the indifferent and ravenous audience
Sucked the marrow from their strange forms
So carelessly, and spat it on the filthy floor.

Nobody saw them work for countless years
To show their voiceless craft,
The aching hands, the tireless discipline
Of making sound to please another,
While the gaudy work of two mere years
Was elaborated on with gusto.
And nobody saw them leave:
They only played the music.
But they were leaving too.

An expression of frustration at the disinterest shown towards my wonderful music students when they played at a school Art exhibition. I had to ask the Principal to acknowledge them AFTER the speeches were given. Beijing 2017

The Murgid Berdilist

The Murgid Berdilist

"A verdok!" said the berdilist while rurling on his berdle,
"I want a cisky verdok in the dask of the gormoe!"
But on the awt-side of the klug, a borgsome treedle jaskled,
A protched, wutched, worgid horp that could not match a verdok.

The berdilist then in torstor murgid,
Kreeged and reebed and fubbaged.
For never was a berdilist bereft of verdok cisky,
So in his quilsted bastor, he turned a herfy hue.

"Biedwist, you jeggids," cursed the rurler,
Of the faymlus Nacklish berdle,
"I's graborsked there for a herklish moment,
By the absence of trombones."