This is my most recent one, largely written last Sunday. We shall suffer grief, if we live long enough, when a beloved dies. Hope is all we have to cling to. But–God willing–not today! Press on.
In Our Darkest Gethsemanes
In our darkest Gethsemanes,
When we feel the Tempter’s power,
We flounder for the Master’s key—
Seems locked within this dreadful hour.
So easy to blame Beelzebub’s beast
That skulks out there, in crosshairs sight.
So pointless to knead, the soul’s rising yeast,
Or fear the darkness beyond torchlight.
Night’s fierce powers have fled their feast.
What stone? waved aside. He stepped into day.
Beneath His feet, grovels the beast—
In our Gethsemanes, He beams the way.