Glory Descending

Glory Descending

G.Yeatman

Glory of God descending

Heralding Truth come nigh

Showering grace and mercy

Straight from His throne on high.

Beckoning forth His calling

Gathering those who would come

Loosening chains of bondage

Powers of Satan undone.

Redemption at last extended,

Pardon from sin's last grasp.

Going forth to victory,

Perils of darkness now past.

Why would He show such kindness?

Who could refuse His entreat?

Oh the sweet smell of victory

Quelling the stench of defeat.

The infinite joy of redemption.

How soon we forget its delight,

Taking back burdens once lifted,

Dwelling in fear and fright.

Rekindling the fire once within us.

Reclaiming the promises won

Accepting his blood-bought mercy.

Basking in Light of His Son.

May we never forget his goodness.

Falling prostrate before his feet,

Lifting praises of Hallelujah.

To banish the call of retreat.

That the standard go forth into battle.

His victory proclaimed through the land.

The conflict quelled by his Presence,

Crushed by the pow'r of his hand.

Forever his promise extended.

Eternity proffered to all

Who beckon his tender blessings,

Who heed his heralding call.

Oh, the perilous path of destruction.

Overcome by price of the Lamb.

His death on the cross of Calvary.

Resurrected, The Way of "I AM."

Remaining Memories

Wisps of soft air bathed me melting any hint of moistness from my skin.  A cool delight overcame my senses in spite of sweltering heat that hovered in midair.  I lay on grandmother’s quilted masterpiece, a pallet of pleasure spread upon a grey, covered porch.  Awakening, I lifted my head from its prone snooze to gaze upon the source of this peace, the whirring delight of an oscillating fan. All was well within my toddler soul.

This is my earliest memory.  I long for others to awaken old neurons, renewing the uncomplicated pleasures of early childhood.  But they remain silent overwhelmed by reams of data and thrown away like unlabeled floppy disks.

I had basked in cool fantasies of childhood amidst the heat of a warring world. Free of its gaping wounds, I would remain cradled in a cocoon of silk.  A chrysalis shielded my innocence with massive walls and rock-strong ramparts. Now mere wisps of an aromatic childhood seep out only to quickly disappear in the polluted air of reality.  Yet I drool from the ephemeral savor of those that remain.


Why are the early years of our bountiful nurture rarely remembered?  The joy we brought with a moon shaped smile, the gaga sounds we screeched to everyone’s delight, the unabashed trust in our own lush Eden.  What galactic dark hole has sucked these light rays from our view and sound waves beyond our hearing?  Whose data bank crashed erasing our photos of joy, our sound clips of cheer?

Why are dark moments displayed in permanent view like footprints in the drying goop of cement?  Many of us have been there. The swing of an errant baseball bat to the harsh disapproval of a high-decibel coach, the laser-glares piercing a girl under-dressed for the prom, the disappointing look of a parent when a C appears on a tear drenched report card.  

Why do deep scars rarely heal?  How could schoolyard bullies give us names adopted for life?  Why may short stature leave us shy of the mark or obesity weigh down slim hopes?  What mountains remain unclimbed with insecure crampons, talents hidden beneath massive boulders, New Worlds undiscovered by incorrect maps, and seas uncharted by broken sails? Shattered hopes and spoiled dreams like a dance card unpunched, a motion tabled, molded bread in a nailed-shut cupboard.

Adulthood does not protect us from such travail.  Shattered dreams are giant threads in the tapestry of our loom.  Broken promises are not mere wisps of dark cloud made radiant by a rising sun. They often coalesce, overcasting our skies and hiding any radiant orb from warming our maturing soul. 

Yet there is hope even now-eternal hope.  Hang on.  For within you lies an ever-golden dream awaiting release from the chains that bind.  Break them and stand tall!       
GW Yeatman                                      

                                                                 
                                                 

This Mortal Soul

This Mortal Soul

Reflections on James 1:4-5  

What soul doth stir within this mortal frame,

 a weathered shell in which a child remains,

 who with abandon sprang to conquer every foe,

 with but a righteous cloak of self, to show

 with pomp and pride the gain which he did view  
 as that of toil and merit now come due?

Scant prayer for wisdom ere he began  
 to march the wide, worn trails of greedy man. 

Then laden ships of spoils succumbed

 to raging squalls that had become

 a tempest in the turmoiled tide,

 crushed by gales of stormy pride,  

 afloat except for saving grace 

 in tumult of a turmoiled place. 

Now calmed are once tormented seas.

Solemn stills once urgent pleas.

From placid shores flotillas embark

 on pacific routes from the Master's chart

I pray that God may always be,

 my compass on vast and troubled seas.

                                         GW Yeatman

Zack and the Mystery Light

Bathed in moist, soothing darkness, Zack slowly returned to the peaceful state from which he was so abruptly jostled. A cadence of comfort once again gently bounced him from side to side in his crowded quarters. Taking a deep, sighing breath he drifted into an unimaginably dreamy world. Bathed in light, strange dreams began to fill his narrow view. For the first time he glimpsed the vast unknown that lay beyond his cramped confinement. Magical shapes moved in the light, fuzzy at first but clearing into mystical beings.

Pursing his lips, Zack uttered a bubbly, “ooh.”

Just ahead a mysterious shadow waded into a sparkling, flowing stream. It was as if Zack were suddenly there, beyond the warmth he had known, shivering and afraid. The glowing form of a man joined the shadow. A peaceful aura surrounded them. They approached, paused and then dipped together into the wetness below.

“Uh, oh,” Zack sputtered.

Suddenly the shapes returned, dripping, dripping. Zack was blinded by powerful light. A majestic voice shattered the eerie silence. Heavenly sounds and flying shapes burst into panoramic view.

An unbearable urge grew within him. He must find the glowing presence and disappear with it into this wondrous pool. He must see once more the soaring, singing, angelic visions. Striking the sides of his chamber Zack’s cadence quickly sharpened. He lurched forward, and a new world violently burst into view. The shivering cold returned. Blinding light reappeared, moving shapes bent over him grabbing all his parts. He punched and kicked, but there was no chamber to receive their blows.

“What is he called?” a gruff voice shouted in the distance.

Zack heard the soft reply of a gentle lady, but could not understand. It was obvious, however, the man did not approve.

“That is not his name,” his voice returned, “None of your fathers has used that name.”

“Put me back in my cell,” Zack tried to scream, but no one seemed to hear. Zack lay confused knowing neither his place nor his identity. Nor would he understand what happened next for, like Zack, the next visitor could not speak.

Stooping down, an old man scratched a slate for the others to see, “It is as Elizabeth has said,” he wrote, “His name is John.”

John snuggled into his new swaddled chamber, warm and dry. His pulse returned from its quickened beat. He was where he should be. He would never again hear his old name. And someday, someday, he would kick again and bathe in splendor with the Wondrous Light.

His Royal View

High on a hill, such vantage.
A commanding view
  were it to be seen.
        
A cooling breeze.
   were it to be felt,
    were it to be breathed
     were it not for gravity-yanks
      and voltage-surged nerves.

Yet through eye-filled blood cakes.
  he saw your tears.
Through the roar of the crowd
  he heard your adoration.
Amidst the weight of the world
  he bore your burden.
And against all odds.
  He lifted your sins.

A soldier from his knees proclaimed,
  “Surely this was the Son of God.”
                               G. Yeatman