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Archive for April, 2018

One sweetly solemn thought
Comes to me o’er and o’er;
I am nearer home to-day
Than I ever have been before;

Nearer my Father’s house,
Where the many mansions be;
Nearer the great white throne,
Nearer the crystal sea;

Nearer the bound of life,
Where we lay our burdens down;
Nearer leaving the cross,
Nearer gaining the crown!

But lying darkly between,
Winding down through the night,
Is the silent, unknown stream,
That leads at last to the light.

Closer and closer my steps
Come to the dread abysm:
Closer Death to my lips
Presses the awful chrism.

Oh, if my mortal feet
Have almost gained the brink;
If it be I am nearer home
Even to-day than I think;

Father, perfect my trust;
Let my spirit feel in death,
That her feet are firmly set
On the rock of a living faith!

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mQBSAbW (1)

Moby Dick
Rises o’er the depths
By the sea.

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photo by Kevin Tuck at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mQBSAbW/Meadow%2C+cliffs+and+beach

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.
 

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I cannot sing the old songs
I sang long years ago,
For heart and voice would fail me,
And foolish tears would flow;
Far by-gone hours come o’er my heart
With each familiar strain.
I cannot sing the old songs,
Or dream those dreams again. 

I cannot sing the old songs,
Their charm is sad and deep;
Their melodies would waken
Old sorrows from their sleep,
And though all unforgotten still,
And sadly sweet they be,
I cannot sing the old songs,
They are too dear to me! 

I cannot sing the old songs,
For visions come again
Of golden dreams departed
And years of weary pain;
Perhaps when earthly fetters shall
Have set my spirit free
My voice shall know the old songs
For all eternity.

 

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mf8bmbK

I found no rhyme for Florida
So, orange you two are kin.
And very understandably,
You two already spend
Much time alone together
Since each must need a friend.

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photo by Dominic Morel at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mf8bmbK/Orangey

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

 

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When lovely woman stoops to folly
And finds too late that men betray, –
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover
And wring his bosom, is – to die.

 

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oyhnc3A

Where are they
When one is needed –
Boy Scout?

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photo by nbsnoopy (Nani ) at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/oyhnc3A/Streets+of+Bratislava

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* The haiku I write are lines of 3-5-3 syllables instead of 5-7-5.

See Haiku article here for explanation, if needed: https://thebardonthehill.wordpress.com/2011/08/08/haiku/

——————–

© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.
 

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O Friends! with whom my feet have trod
The quiet aisles of prayer,
Glad witness to your zeal for God
And love of man I bear.

I trace your lines of argument;
Your logic linked and strong
I weigh as one who dreads dissent,
And fears a doubt as wrong.

But still my human hands are weak
To hold your iron creeds:
Against the words ye bid me speak
My heart within me pleads.

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought?
Who talks of scheme and plan?
The Lord is God! He needeth not
The poor device of man.

I walk with bare, hushed feet the ground
Ye tread with boldness shod;
I dare not fix with mete and bound
The love and power of God.

Ye praise His justice; even such
His pitying love I deem:
Ye seek a king; I fain would touch
The robe that hath no seam.

Ye see the curse which overbroods
A world of pain and loss;
I hear our Lord’s beatitudes
…And prayer upon the cross.

More than your schoolmen teach, within
Myself, alas! I know:
Too dark ye cannot paint the sin,
Too small the merit show.

I bow my forehead to the dust,
I veil mine eyes for shame,
And urge, in trembling self-distrust,
A prayer without a claim.

I see the wrong that round me lies,
I feel the guilt within;
I hear, with groan and travail-cries,
The world confess its sin.

Yet, in the maddening maze of things,
And tossed by storm and flood,
To one fixed trust my spirit clings;
I know that God is good!

Not mine to look where cherubim
And seraphs may not see,
But nothing can be good in Him
Which evil is in me.

The wrong that pains my soul below
I dare not throne above,
I know not of His hate, – I know
His goodness and His love.

I dimly guess from blessings known
Of greater out of sight,
And, with the chastened Psalmist, own
His judgments too are right.

I long for household voices gone.
For vanished smiles I long,
But God hath led my dear ones on,
And He can do no wrong.

I know not what the future hath
Of marvel or surprise,
Assured alone that life and death
His mercy underlies.

And if my heart and flesh are weak
To bear an untried pain,
The bruised reed He will not break,
But strengthen and sustain.

No offering of my own I have,
Nor works my faith to prove;
I can but give the gifts He gave,
And plead His love for love.

And so beside the Silent Sea
I wait the muffled oar;
No harm from Him can come to me
On ocean or on shore.

I know not where His islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
I only know I cannot drift
Beyond His love and care.

O brothers! if my faith is vain,
If hopes like these betray,
Pray for me that my feet may gain
The sure and safer way.

And Thou, O Lord! by whom are seen
Thy creatures as they be,
Forgive me if too close I lean
My human heart on Thee! 

 

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nj98RMe

I’m here, and I’m waiting again
(Another will suffer the pain).
But as that’s occurring – away –
My minutes are whittled – my day
Is shortened, restricted. My view:
An office, a worker, or two.

Life’s filled with these moments we wait
Like horses to start at a gate.
A woman will wait for a child
Nine months, though it’s driving her wild.
The check’s in the mail – will it come?
Impatient, our fingers may drum.

I’m sitting here thinking of this,
And waiting is not far from bliss.
I’m turning these thoughts in my mind
To verses some others may find.
Thus, sweet balm of peace fills my brain
Like sounds and the smell of the rain.

Occurring to me is this thought:
Since waiting is often, we ought
Put weight in our waiting so space
Won’t sit on, like shadows, our face.
If silver, or if it is gold,
The wait will shine forth forty fold.

Our living itself is a wait,
For death, we hope distant in date.
And what with our lives will we do
While days whittle down till we’re through?

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photo by Robert Proksa at
https://www.rgbstock.com/photo/nj98RMe/Clock+01

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2018.

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