Category Archives: Poetry

A Hymn of Hope

I Look Not Back

By: Annie Johnson Flint

I look not back; God knows the fruitless efforts,
The wasted hours, the sinning, the regrets.
I leave them all with Him who blots the record,
And graciously forgives, and then forgets.

I look not forward; God sees all the future,
The road that, short or long, will lead me home,
And He will face with me its every trial,
And bear for me the burdens that may come.

I look not round me; then would fears assail me,
So wild the tumult of earth’s restless seas,
So dark the world, so filled with woe and evil,
So vain the hope of comfort and of ease.

I look not inward; that would make me wretched;
For I have naught on which to stay my trust.
Nothing I see save failures and shortcomings,
And weak endeavors, crumbling into dust.

But I look up–into the face of Jesus,
For there my heart can rest, my fears are stilled;
And there is joy, and love, and light for darkness,
And perfect peace, and every hope fulfilled.


Beauty, and grace, and wit are rare;
     And even intelligence:
But lovelier than hawthorn seen in May,
Or mistletoe berries on Innocent’s Day
The face that, open as heaven, doth wear —
With kindness for its sunshine there —
     Good nature and good sense.
Walter de la Mare, Inward Companion: Poems (Faber and Faber 1950).

Frances Havergal, Poet and Hymn Writer



Today my sister, Ruth, handed me this book, with a post-it sticker that said “Annita”.  She knows I enjoy old books.  I’m not sure if she recognized the author from our hymnbook in Ashaway.  But I did.   From our old brown hymnbook, The Service Hymnal : “Take My Life, and Let It Be”; “Lord, Speak to Me”; “Who Is on the Lord’s Side?”; “True-Hearted, Whole-Hearted”; and “I Gave My Life for Thee.”  There are only two more, which I do not remember singing.  My Dad, obviously liked the ones I remember.

The book is well organized and I know I will enjoy it.  The index in the forward is also interesting.  It is divided into topics such as “Ministry of Song” and “Early Poems”.  I love that it includes dates and often where it was written.


Down near the bottom, “Hidden in Light” was written in Harlech. (thinking about those Men of Harlech).

I suppose that is akin to mixing metaphors.


A Day of Re-Creation

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Jan Brueghel the Elder, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, 1615

The Seventh Day

You left the final day for re-creation,
For art and song and festive feasts for all.
You knew we’d work and toil to our damnation,
So you left us space where we could wholly call
Upon your name. Our feasts and songs are sourced
In celebration of you, our only Lord.
You gave us life and yet we were not forced
To listen to your voice, your holy Word.
And when we fell, you did not take the space
You set aside to give us rest and play.
Instead you came and took from death our place,
So from the night we could find the final day.
The week is done, but soon that day is coming,
When we at last will have eternal Sonning.

David Russell Mosley

Found here.


Each Most Rare

This morning, on my usual walk I was struck by how different familiar vistas look on each viewing.  After the heavy rain last night everything looked so fresh and alive and I noticed the contrast between various clumps of grasses.  And I thought about the uniqueness of each created thing.  Awesome.

            A Short Ode

All things then stood before us
as they were,
Not in comparison,
But each most rare;
The ‘tree, of many, one,’
The lock of hair,
The weir in the morning sun,
The hill in the darkening air,
Each in its soleness, then and there,
Created one; that one, creation’s care.

Edmund Blunden, A Hong Kong House: Poems 1951-1961 (Collins 1962).

Thanks to Stephen Pentz.

Lord God of Hosts Be With Us Yet


Rudyard Kipling

God of our fathers, known of old,
    Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
    Dominion over palm and pine—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
    The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
    An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;
    On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
    Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
    Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
    Or lesser breeds without the Law—
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget—lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
    In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
    And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word—
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!

A Translation of MacDonald’s “Sir Gibbie”

Christine Norvell recently wrote an essay about one of George MacDonald’s novels that I’ve not read, Sir Gibbie:

Sometimes you read a book that causes you to marvel at the possibility of goodness in our human frame. As I reread George MacDonald’s Sir Gibbie (1879), I was filled with questions, the same questions I’m sure that prompted C.S. Lewis to call the novel a fantasy. In his Preface to George MacDonald: An Anthology, Lewis termed MacDonald’s novels “a rich crop,” yet at the same time writes that “none is very good.” He felt “they are best when they depart most from the canons of novel writing… to come nearer to fantasy, as in the whole character of the hero in Sir Gibbie.”

I think this book would make a nice gift for young readers, especially the recent translation from the Scots by David Jack.  I love that the original dialogue is given in double column format with the English translation to the side.  (You can read about it here)

And you may enjoy hearing David Jack’s “Scottish burr”  as he reads one of MacDonald’s poems, “Godly Ballant IV”.


With a Dependent Heart

Found this in Alistair Begg’s book Pray Big:

[When praying] [t]he posture of our hearts and not our bodies is the issue.  Are we coming to God in dependence?  Are we asking him to bless our work, to empower our service, to change our flaws, to forgive our sins?  What matters is a dependent heart, not a particular posture, as one of my favorite poems makes hilariously clear:

“The proper way for a man to pray,”
Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes,
“And the only proper attitude,
Is down upon his knees.”
“No, I should say the way to pray,”
Said Reverend Doctor Wise,
Is standing straight, with outstretched arms,
With rapt and upturned eyes.”
“Oh no, no, no,” said Elder Snow,
“Such posture is too proud:
A man should pray with eyes fast closed
And head contritely bowed.”
“It seems to me one’s hands should be
Astutely clasped in front,
With both thumbs pointed toward the ground,”
Said Reverend Doctor Blunt.
“Last year I fell in Hodgkin’s well
Head first,” said Cyrus Brown,
“With both my heels a-stickin’ up,
And my head a-pointing down;
And I done prayed right there and then
Best prayer I ever said,
The prayingest prayer I ever prayed,
Standing on my head.” (Sam Walter Foss)

A Child Again


This morning, feeling thankful for family and friends,  and birthday anniversaries and consequently a little sentimental, I pulled this off the shelves and read through it.  It was fun experiencing just a little of the joy, mystery, adventure, seriousness and hope of being a child again.

I remember my mother reciting “My Shadow.”  Other poems reminded me of days sick in bed (“The Land of Counterpane”), reading treasured books, and being read to by my parents (“Picture Books in Winter”), and one childhood activity that I have continued to enjoy, now for over 70 years:


My copy, an unused library book I purchased (it had never been checked out,)  says that this is the original title page, done by Jessie Wilcox Smith.


It is a wonderful little book and the illustrations are typical Smith.IMG_2375.jpg

One of the nice things about having farmers in your family, and living in the country, is haylofts!  So this brought back memories too, especially of Salemville, Pennsylvania and the Kagarise farm.

The Hayloft

Through all the pleasant meadow-side
   The grass grew shoulder-high
Till the shining scythes went far and wide
  And cut it down to dry.
Those green and sweetly smelling crops
  They led in wagons home;
And they piled them here in mountain tops
  For mountaineers to roam.
Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail
  Mount Eagle and Mount High,—
The mice that in these mountains dwell,
  No happier are than I!
Oh, what a joy to clamber there,
  Oh, what a place for play,
With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
  The happy hills of hay!