Yahweh my Shepherd

Wednesday, November 11, 2015

VOM Nov 10 Update

After "Abdul" and his family came to Christ in a predominantly Muslim area of Uganda, they faced persecution from villagers and Muslim leaders. Local leaders came to his defense, and for the most part, the harassment ended. However, still fearful that they are being watched, Abdul and his family decided to be baptized in another village. A VOM worker says a strong discipleship team located in the region continues to see people like Abdul and his family come to Christ in spite of the risk of persecution. Some converts come openly to church events, but the team also meets secretly with believers who have not yet told their Muslim families about their new faith. VOM Sources Photo: "Abdul" Faces Hostility from Muslim Neighbors 

- VOM Nov 10, 2015

Imagine the persecution of going through this. Many nations are still restricted and do not allow for Christians to live or worship freely. This kind of intolerance for the Christian community is growing in some places and dwindling in others. Our only hope is the Prayers of the Righteous and more importantly the power of the Blood of Jesus. 

Jesus answered, "I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me. 

John 14:6 

Wednesday, October 21, 2015

Check it out!

I Heard The Flowers Whisper

I heard the flowers whisper
behind the garden gate
about how scandalous the Sun
had been to Earth of late.

He'd burnt her dainty edges
and warmed her vast blue seas
while courting dusky kisses
from Moon, just as you please!

Emily Dickinson

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

In Flanders Fields

Mine Host
There stands a hostel by a traveled way;
Life is the road and Death the worthy host;
Each guest he greets, nor ever lacks to say,
"How have ye fared?"  They answer him, the most,
"This lodging place is other than we sought;
We had intended farther, but the gloom
Came on apace, and found us ere we thought:
Yet will we lodge.  Thou hast abundant room."
Within sit haggard men that speak no word,
No fire gleams their cheerful welcome shed;
No voice of fellowship or strife is heard
But silence of a multitude of dead.
"Naught can I offer ye," quoth Death, "but rest!"
And to his chamber leads each tired guest

-John McCrae 

Sunday, October 11, 2015

A Durable Fire: Mozart Again

Mozart Again

Now it is Mozart who comes back again
All garlanded in green.
Flue, harp, and trumpet, the sweet violin --
Each sound is seen.

Spring is a phrase, repeated green refrain,
Sound of new leaves springing.
I see the wind flowing like slanted rain,
Wind winging.

I learn this loving fresh, in ancient style
(Lightly time flows),
And mine a green world for pure joy awhile.
Listen, a rose!

Leaves are glissando. A long haunting phrase
Ripples the air --
This harpsichord of light that the wind plays.
Mozart is there.

- May Sarton 

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

Can't Breathe

Can't breathe
Nasals arid
as a desert wind
The running ceiling fan
Cools me not
It dries
My sleepless eyes.

Too much
Tossing and turning
Unable to think,
Senseless thoughts
Occupying my mind
Leaving no room
For my fears
Of the night.

My stomach
Is performing
It's own concert
Like children whimpering
In their nightmares.

Can't wait to see
The eastern skies
Fading to gray
exposing the outlines
Of the trees.

I crave
The oncoming scene
Of the orange hues
To paint the heavens
Of the horizon east
I'll know then
Tomorrow is outside. 

William Bonilla

Wednesday, September 23, 2015

My Poetry #1

All poured into a glass spoon,
Teeth, her teeth sink past..
The gears turn,
Making metal noises,

Cries from above,
See the mean fairy dance,
Leaves fall, suddenly I don't know,
How long or how shallow the grave,
Will be


Thursday, September 10, 2015

Oliver Wendell Holmes

Extracts from a Medical Poem. The Stability of Science

THE feeble sea-birds, blinded in the storms,
On some tall lighthouse dash their little forms,
And the rude granite scatters for their pains
Those small deposits that were meant for brains. 
Yet the proud fabric in the morning’s sun
Stands all unconscious of the mischief done;
Still the red beacon pours its evening rays
For the lost pilot with as full a blaze,—­
Nay, shines, all radiance, o’er the scattered fleet
Of gulls and boobies brainless at its feet.

I tell their fate, though courtesy disclaims
To call our kind by such ungentle names;
Yet, if your rashness bid you vainly dare,
Think of their doom, ye simple, and beware.

See where aloft its hoary forehead rears
The towering pride of twice a thousand years! 
Far, far below the vast incumbent pile
Sleeps the gray rock from art’s AEgean isle
Its massive courses, circling as they rise,
Swell from the waves to mingle with the skies;
There every quarry lends its marble spoil,
And clustering ages blend their common toil;
The Greek, the Roman, reared its ancient walls,
The silent Arab arched its mystic halls;
In that fair niche, by countless billows laved,
Trace the deep lines that Sydenham engraved;
On yon broad front that breasts the changing swell,
Mark where the ponderous sledge of Hunter fell;
By that square buttress look where Louis stands,
The stone yet warm from his uplifted hands;
And say, O Science, shall thy life-blood freeze,
When fluttering folly flaps on walls like these?