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Archive for the ‘Religious’ Category

n31ZSzw

In your life,
Is there anyone
At the helm?

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photo by Karen Andrews at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/n31ZSzw/ships+wheel

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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, 2017.

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dkxvuv


(a thought for the new year)

 

High in the air, low in the sod –
One’s always in the hands of God.

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photo by Steve Woods at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/dKXvuv/Golden+Girls

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2017.

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p0xyijq


We can, with envy at another look,
As frogs at swans must take a greenish glance.
Our lives, to us, are but an open book,
While theirs seem polished as a ballroom dance.

We see our mirrored marks each morn we wake
While sleep’s ill-fitting shroud still clings like dew.
Through slits, we see the hair before we rake.
And bare?  The flaws that none must see, we rue.

Our words, our acts are all on written page
As well as thoughts none else can ever read.
We know the tiger pacing in the cage.
Man’s blind.  Oh, God!  God sees them!  Ev’ry weed!

With cause, all men at heart are insecure.
The reason is that none of us is pure.

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photo by Craig Phillip at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/p0XyiJQ/Green+Tree+Frog

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© Dennis Allen Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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It’s found sometimes within a furrowed face;
A sneer, a mouth turned down like fangs, a frown;
E’en more in eyes, panes to the hidden place:
A cold hard glint to which ice gives its crown.

It surfaces in words like whales that breach
And wounds without regret, and wracks once more,
Like heartless waves pound piers within their reach
And view the pieces, do naught else but roar.

It is systemic, makes one’s pressure rise,
More prone to heart attacks and crippling strokes,
A venom in the veins of the unwise
A blight that fells the mightiest of oaks.

Hate curdled in the heart spreads through the whole
Till one possession’s left – a poisoned soul.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016

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 2dk0Gxl

Dear God, I’m caused to worship Thee
Not by the great things made by man
But what I see ‘twas made by Thee
And that includes Your glorious tree. 

Dear God, that I might worship Thee,
I do not need the chapel’s wall,
But only what you made, the tree.
And underneath, I’ll worship Thee. 

Dear God, I’m free to worship Thee
Not by the goodness of my hands
But only by the love in Thee
That gave your Son upon a tree.

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photo by Agnes Scholiers at
http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/2dk0Gxl/Chapel

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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“You’ll have to take me just the way I am”;
Says he won’t change and that he does not care.
Such causes God, in spite of grace, to damn,
And gives to others burdens they can’t bear.


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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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For heresy, there are a thousand ways to die
As truth unveils what men love most – the devil’s lie.
But truth stands firm ‘gainst all the salvos foes may give,
And like our God who is its source, will always live.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

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We sell our souls for flim and flam.
And have no hope when in a jam.
The prayer of sinners is God-spurned
When they are reaping what they’ve earned.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

 

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The safest place on earth should be the womb,
Wrapped by maternal love instilled by God above.
But love of self makes it a killing room.

It’s woman’s greatest glory and her plume
That God made her the one, to bear a daughter, son.
The safest place on earth should be the womb.

A child is weaved in her; she is the loom.
Conception’s grand event – new human’s great advent.
But love of self makes it a killing room.

A tiny bud is just a folded bloom
Woe to the gardener who snips – the murderer!
The safest place on earth should be the womb.

Too oft, the wicked rides upon her broom
And sweeps away the child that has her life defiled,
And love of self makes it a killing room.

There is no right to bring another doom.
The murder’s always wrong, e’en when it’s sung as song.
The safest place on earth should be the womb,
But love of self makes it a killing room.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2016.

 

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Forgiveness is the patch to bind
A breach that one won’t bring to mind.
For such forgiveness must involve
Forgetfulness, or it won’t solve
A brokenness between two friends
E’en though the one repents of sins. 

Forgiveness plus remembering
(Not passing thought, but lingering)
Is nothing but a thin veneer
O’er rust that will soon reappear.
For each long visit to the sore
To pick the scab and moan some more
Brings back emotions of the past
Into the present, where they last
As long as they did at the first,
Or even longer, and they burst
Like boils erupt, or simmering
As coals of anger, sullenly. 

Turn loose! Let go! the rottenness
That would ooze back and make a mess
Of Now, and what is precious yet.
When you forgive, also forget.

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© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.

 

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