At Pentecost

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Expectation hovered over them
as they, the believers there,
with their stories to tell,
and their memories to share….

Broke the bread and drank the wine
for a death that didn’t last,
sang the Psalms, spoke his words
from the three years past.

Squashed together in the upper room,
the rough with the refined,
their commonality their faith,
their joy the strongest bind.

A whistling cyclone filled the house
and as light as the touch of grace,
tongues of fire fell on their heads
and languages filled the place.

They spoke in tongues unknown,
of God and his wondrous ways;
the Spirit upon them, they spoke his words,
as prophesied for the last days.

The Church was born in that upper room
that Pentecost Sunday, that day,
Believing, accepting the message they heard
three thousand followed The Way.

Expectation turned to worship,
to boldness and to power,
that flowed out to the nations
from that place, from that hour.

© Copyright Ellen Carr 2017

From you, Mum

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Flower vector created by Freepik

How much have I learnt –
how many ingrained truths
well-worn habits
turns of phrase
tricks of trade
lines of humour –
and wisdom
from you, Mum?

How much have I learnt –
how many ways to live
get involved
have a go
reach out
invite in –
and share
from you, Mum?

How much have I learnt –
how many truths of faith
enduring patterns
every-day prayers
reading of the Word
worshipping –
and trust
from you, Mum?

You set my path from childhood
steered me on my way.
And for this I’m thankful
on this new Mother’s Day.

© Copyright Ellen Carr 2017

There is Resurrection (Easter: Part 3)

There is Despair (Easter: Part 2)

There is despair 3 iVggP1492234257

There was Darkness (Easter: Part 1)

The Mailbox

Today I am sharing this lovely poem and artwork  by J E McWhinnie, with his kind permission.

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The Mailbox
by j.e. mcwhinnie

At the far end of the dusty road,
where the farm gave way to the highway,
at the corner of the fence of the northwest forty,
where the letters of life were exchanged.

 

Here on a post, weathered and leaning,
in a box of rust and wire,
here where a flag did rise and fall
where the mailman came to call.

 

There at the juncture of a farm and a world,
there where a left-handed car did pause,
there where the wares in their catalogs came,
there at the end of the lane.

 

Then one fateful day the young boy left,
then the mailman came no more,
then when the farm turned sad and fallow,
and oh, how I miss it so.

But Who?

jigsaw-its-still-puzzling-meDazzling beauty greets us

as we lift our gaze

to grandest mountains,

watching soft clouds drift

across a sapphire sky,

as a great hawk soars overhead.

But who is the artist?

 

Symphonic sounds rise together,

piercing the silence

of the morning light,

heralding joyous life,

a bird-song of movement,

and natural melodies.

But who writes the music?

 

Minute creatures crawl the ground,

slither and creep around

on tiny stomachs and legs,

weaving their silken webs,

or trailing silvery lines

in fine precision.

But who is their designer?

 

In intricacy or grandeur,

in whispers, or roaring waves,

the microscopic, the gigantic,

tiny feelers, or highest peaks,

all is in order,

all follows a plan.

There is One who oversees it all.

 

The jigsaw is fitted together,

so nothing is out of its place,

each piece the design of the Maker,

fashioned in detail by His hands

to take its place

in the glorious world,

sustained by His wisdom and care.

 

The mystery of the beginning,

the puzzle of how things will end,

in the hands of the loving Creator,

are ordered, secure and sure,

in His big plan

for all of time.

The puzzle is complete.