Posts Tagged ‘Bible’

The Great Jehovah speaks to us,
In Genesis and Exodus,
Leviticus and Numbers see,
Followed by Deuteronomy,
Joshua and Judges sway the land,
Ruth gleans a sheaf with trembling hand,
Samuel and numerous Kings appear,
Whose Chronicles we wondering hear;
Ezra and Nehemiah now
Esther the beauteous mourner show;
Job speaks in sighs, David in Psalms,
The Proverbs teach to scatter alms.
Ecclesiastes then comes on,
And the sweet song of Solomon.
Isaiah, Jeremiah then
With Lamentations takes his pen.
Ezekiel, Daniel, Hosea’s lyres
Swell Joel, Amos, Obadiah’s.
Next Jonah, Micah, Nahum come,
And lofty Habakkuk finds room,
Rapt Zephaniah, Haggai calls,
While Zechariah builds the walls;
And Malachi, with garments rent,
Concludes the ancient Testament.



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….The Kansas Emigrants

We cross the prairie as of old
The Pilgrims crossed the sea,
To make the West, as they the East,
The homestead of the free. 

We go to rear a wall of men
On Freedom’s southern line,
And plant beside the cotton tree
The rugged Northern pine! 

We’re flowing from our native hills
As our free rivers flow:
The blessing of our Motherland
Is on us as we go. 

We go to plant her common schools
On distant prairie swells,
And give the Sabbaths of the wild
The music of her bells. 

Upbearing, like the Ark of Old,
The Bible in our van,
We go to test the truth of God
Against the fraud of man. 

No pause, nor rest, save where the streams
That feed the Kansas run,
Save where our Pilgrim gonfalon
Shall flout the setting sun! 

We’ll tread the prairie as of old
Our fathers sailed the sea,
And make the West, as they the East,
The homestead of the free!


gonfalon – a flag, a banner


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Sonnet 27 – The Empty Tomb Stories

On that first day, two tales sprang from the grave.
Like couriers, one headed north, one south.
We choose which is the knight, which is the knave,
Which tells the truth, which comes from lying mouth.

The first has always been its own worst foe:
We slept; disciples stole the corpse away.
But if they were asleep, how did they know?
And if awake, they would have won the fray.

The second’s known, for it is strong, survives.
The ones who scattered as their teacher died
Said He arose, and we can see changed lives.
E’en though it cost them all, they testified.

Two stories of the empty tomb were told:
One made men laugh; the other made men bold.


Stanza 2 – An angel appeared and rolled away the stone.
The Roman guards shook in fear and became like dead
men.  When they recovered, they went to the Jewish
leaders for protection (to avoid being killed by Pilate).
They were given money and told to say that the
disciples came and stole the body of Jesus while they
were sleeping (Matt.28:2-4; 11-15).


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.

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The Dying Christian To His Soul

Vital spark of heavenly flame!
Quit, O quit this mortal frame!
Trembling, hoping, lingering, flying,
O! the pain, the bliss of dying!
Cease, fond nature, cease thy strife,
And let me languish into life! 

Hark! they whisper: angels say,
Sister spirit, come away!
What is this absorbs me quite?
Steals my senses, shuts my sight,
Drowns my spirit, draws my breath?
Tell me, my soul, can this be death? 

The world recedes; it disappears!
Heaven opens on my eyes! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring!
Lend, lend your wings! I mount! I fly!
O Grave! where is thy victory?
O Death! where is thy sting?

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There once was a god men demoted.
(It wasn’t because they all voted.)
   He now holds the clock
   Since men found, in shock:
The earth wasn’t held but it floated.


“God…hangs the earth on nothing” (Job 26:7,
written perhaps around 1500 B.C.).


photo by Adrian van Leen at


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2014.


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The Rain Falls On The Hill Above

The rain falls on the hill above,
   And some runs through my yard,
Across my driveway, and then down
   The sloped road, rushing hard. 

In silver streams and waterfalls
   And rapid, churning foam,
It charges to the creek below,
   Like students hurry home. 

The creek, flushed with the rushing flow,
   Swims faster to its friend,
And joins the river’s swollen surge –
   And they, together, wend. 

The river rages, current swift,
   Filled with ferocity,
And down the sloping country runs
   And follows land to sea. 

The sun beams on the ocean’s face
   To see the water there,
And sea sighs with a moistened breath
   That rises in the air. 

And in between the sun and sea,
   Their offspring rise and grow –
At first a little tad, then more –
   Oh, children blossom so!         

The wind, a nursemaid, sends them out
   Across the land to play.
Then, some come to my hill and house,
   Make night from brightest day. 

They flash a smile, then loudly shout;
   Their booming rattles panes,
And rumbles in the sky above
   Like bowling pins in lanes. 

Then, rain falls on the hill above,
   And some runs through my yard,
Across my driveway, and then down
   The sloped road, rushing hard.


Eccl.1:7 All the rivers flow into the sea,
Yet the sea is not full.
To the place where the rivers flow,
There they flow again.

(written by Solomon about 940 B.C.)


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.


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The Idol

A man picked up a piece of wood,
   And with a sculptor’s eye,
Saw something special in the log
   That no one else could spy. 

It was a vision in his mind
    But in the wood did hide,
As if there was a curtain there
   That he must fling aside.     

He started carving with his knife
   To shave the wood away –
The dross from end he focused on
   At his heart’s first survey. 

The task seemed long to watching eyes,
   Strokes tedious and slow,
But time means naught for worshiper,
   E’en for this embryo. 

Devoted labor fin’lly done;
   He put the treasured thing
Above his eyes, on pedestal –
   He’s servant, now, to king. 

And thus creator man became
   The less – a worshiper;
And he – in time and sight and thought,
   Though first – a follower. 

Before he fell upon his knees
   Below the god he made,
He burned the log’s still pristine end,
   Not knowing of a trade. 

His wife, who’ll fall and worship, too,
   Knocked piece of wood awry
Before he touched it with his knife
   And only with his eye. 

And when she put the timber back,
   Mistaken was her aim,
The end reversed he looked upon –
   He fed his god to flame.

Isa.44:13-20 ““Another shapes wood, he extends a measuring line; he outlines it with red chalk. He works it with planes and outlines it with a compass, and makes it like the form of a man, like the beauty of man, so that it may sit in a house. 14 Surely he cuts cedars for himself, and takes a cypress or an oak and raises it for himself among the trees of the forest. He plants a fir, and the rain makes it grow. 15 Then it becomes something
for a man to burn, so he takes one of them and warms himself; he also makes a fire to bake bread. He also makes a god and worships it; he makes it a graven image and falls down before it. 16 Half of it he burns in the fire; over this half he eats meat as he roasts a roast and is satisfied. He also warms himself and says, “Aha! I am warm, I have seen the fire.” 17 But the rest of it he makes into a god, his graven image. He falls down before it and worships; he also prays to it and says, “Deliver me, for you are my god.” 18 They do not know, nor do they understand, for He has smeared over their eyes so that they cannot see and their hearts so that they cannot comprehend. 19 No one recalls, nor is there knowledge or understanding to say, “I have burned half of it in the fire and also have baked bread over its coals. I roast meat and eat it.  Then I make the rest of it into an abomination, I fall down before a block of wood!” 20 He feeds on ashes; a
deceived heart has turned him aside. And he cannot deliver himself, nor say, “Is there not a lie in my right hand?”


photo by Sanja Gjenero at http://www.rgbstock.com/photo/mB8AwMi/logs


© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.


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It’s Home

Don’t you gno?
There’s gnome place in Nome


Who Sews?  A Sewer

A close fit
On street’s brick-striped shirt –
A button.


Per See Ving

One can see
God’s word and still not
Truly see.


Home – photo by Salva Barbera at

Sew – photo by drow at

Per – photo by Adrian van Leen at


* 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 Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2013.

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