Untitled

I've never been to Paris
And I've never been a queen
I've never seen my face
In one of those glamour magazines

But I've heard tales of a Kingdom
A Kingdom truly sublime
Of a Beauty, a Worth untold by men
And I've been told it's mine

A worth not measured by scales
Or by the jewels found therein
No, this Kingdom's worth's intrinsic
It's worth's instilled by Him

So I may never go to Paris
And I'll never be a queen
But I'm an heiress in truth & grace
Of a Kingdom that can't be seen

A poem from high school

O noble knight, draw not nigh unto me.
When near, the Beauty turns Beast.
Come closer, if you dare
To look upon the one you deem so fair;
But blame me not, for I warned you
Love even what you see and you are no fool.

A Promise

A promise has been uttered, written long ago
A Refuge there is and always will be
From the deceits we would be sold.

Love does not blossom overnight
But is forged through deliberate flames;
A bond, an iron pure and bright
To withstand the ensuing storms.

Love is not fickle, does not waiver from its object,
Is not out for what it can get.
Until this lesson be learned,
What havoc is made in an untried heart!

Love is not easy, but love is best;
It is the one thing that means something.

Is my heart capable of love?
I hardly know...

May I bear my refining.
May I emerge with a stouter heart.

The One who hears my heart's deepest longings
And sees my tears
Is Faithful.
He will carry me til the end.
At least of that I can be sure!

Inspiration

The heavens declare the glory of God,
But not many may stop to listen.
The stars and moon call out and croon,
But who looks up to see them glisten?

A son of Adam, by work still plagued,
Toils diligently and long.
Though this work he would not choose,
It grows him strong.

At the end of the day, he goes his way
Seeking starlight and peace.
With upturned face, he is embraced by grace
And finds his soul's release.

New courage is he given,
And strength for another day.
He wakes next morn with focus and desire,
Still dreaming with feet planted firmly aground.

He has not lost hope; no, he has hope to spare
By heaven his sonship is bound.

Peace

It's what we're all looking for, is it not?

We search for it in activities - things that we love to do. We seek it in the eyes of the people we love. Our sight turns inside ourselves and we try to produce it, to root out all of our own flaws, after which the desired peace will surface.

Maybe if we could just look a little deeper, try a little harder, perfect ourselves, then we would find it.

But we've tried all those things and they haven't resulted in the peace we're looking for. The peace they produce is counterfeited and it doesn't last.

Even as Christians, I think we miss the source of peace sometimes - at least, I know I have. I believe if I could just do all the right things, read the right books, make time for the right activities, answer the questions the right way, get through my life with minimal damage, then I would find peace.

But what if we're wrong? What if peace has nothing to do with how much I accomplish for God?

What if it's not about what I do but what's been done for me?

Because of the cross of Jesus, I can find peace. He has caused reconciliation with God to be a possibility for men and women again. God not only promises to "keep in perfect peace him whose mind is steadfast because he trusts in him" (Isaiah 26:3), the Bible also says that Jesus is the Prince of Peace. So, if He's the Prince of Peace, that means I can look to Him to give me the peace I need, right?

But I think I've got to surrender first. Maybe Surrender = Peace. And that's not easy.

How does one give over control of every area of life? How does a Christian yield up expectations, plans, the future, self-awarded rights, so that she can experience the peace that passes all understanding (Philippians 4:7)?

I know that in most cases the Christian life is simpler than we make it. So the answers to these questions must be simpler than I expect. I want peace, and I want it to last, and I want my life to count for the Kingdom of God. So, I'll keep asking my questions and working towards surrender the best I know how. Then I'll let Him teach me what it looks like, how a surrendered heart should act, and hope that I'll better understand how it works as I go.

I know that God is good, that He's in control, that He loves me, and that He wins in the end. So, really, isn't that all that matters?

River

The following is a poem written for my senior-level British literature class in high school. It was partially inspired by Susan Ashton's song "Lonely River" - an absolutely beautiful song. It's an older song, but worth looking up if you have a moment. Enjoy. : )


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River

I am a river ever winding
Turning corners, ever wandering
Sometimes swollen, sometimes peaceful
Never still, never satisfied
I must push on to see
What lies round the bend
What lies along my banks
Ever curious, ever seeking
Rushing here, rippling there
I want to travel to my Source
To discover where I began
To find my purpose, why I was made

Why a river and not a tree
Or a flower or a bee
But I must content myself
With ceaseless rushing, ever wondering
A river forever flowing, forever roaming

Somewhere down around an unexpected bend
Will a meet another rushing, rippling river
Our waters will converge, our lives may merge
And mysteriously our Source is the same
Two winding rivers become one
We seek and search
Wondering at every mystery along the way
Not completely satisfied until the day we find it

What is Poetry?

The following is a poem written as a collaborative effort in my Advanced Composition class in college. Grace Spradlin, Sarah Clark, and I were assigned to the same group and asked to write a poem about poetry that included as many figures of speech as possible. Hope you enjoy it! Although maybe I should just say as a disclaimer... We were trying to be melodramatic, make the others laugh, and also be as creative as possible... So maybe you should take this with a grain of salt. : )


What is Poetry?

Poetry is like a river -
It flows from the soul.
Poetry laughs, it cries,
And occasionally, it dies.
Poetry is the sky -
Open and free.
Poetry is wordless language,
Painfully beautiful, aesthetically morbid.
Poetry is meaningfully meaningless.
It is nice.
Poetry drips from the pen
And splashes across the page.
Poetry is like duct tape -
It holds the world together.
Poetry is like the fragrance
Of a rose garden after the rain.
Poetry owes itself
Only to the morose.
Poetry is the most perfectly
Pleasant pastime.
Flow river! Flow from the soul!