Lord, You Are

Lord, You Are

By Rev. Lonnie C. Crowe

Lord,

You are listening--

I know.

You are caring--

I heal.

You are empowering--

I am strong.

You are speaking--

I hear.

You are peace--

I rest.

You are redemption--

I am free.

You are song--

I sing.

You are worthy--

I praise.

You are forgiving--

I am forgiven.

You are glory--

You are mercy--

You are holy,

Holy, God.

I am Your Child.

You are my King.

Preacher Man

Preacher Man

By 

Rev. Lonnie C. Crowe

Unlettered, unschooled in the ways of man,

He stood an Elijah in the old oaken pulpit

And preached of God and His salvation plan.

Jezebel complained of his grammatical mistakes.

Ahab repined, "Those folks 'cross the aisle

Better listen for their sinful souls sakes."

Jezebel, she cringed.  "Yes," she cried in despair,

Ahab sneered in disdain as the old preacher sang,

"When the roll is called up yonder, I'll be there."

His anointed words called the holy fire from the sky.

Jezebel worried what the neighbors might think,

And Ahab glanced away when the the off'ring went by.

They met him at the door, smiled and shook his hand.

Embarrassed by the faithful old preacher man,

Jezebel and Ahab, pillars of the church, led the

murmurer's band.

When the time upon the earth for the trio was through,

To one, our Lord Jesus, He said, "Well done, My son."

To the others,

"I never knew you two."

The Barnacled Shell

The Barnacled Shell

By Rev. Lonnie C. Crowe

On the coast of Brittany,

Beneath the silvery twilight,

The sea rolled in gently,

Gently for a sea,

And left its treasures.

One was a barnacled shell encrusted

With scars of victories in the battles of life.

I picked it up briny from the sea

And traced its furrows,

Rough and unseemly.

"Throw it away.

Keep this one instead."

Yet, I kept it in my hand,

And again, ran my fingers

Over its cicatrices--

Its victories in the battles of life.

I slipped it, encrusted, triumphant,

Into my jeans,

And joined the others on the margin of the La Manche, 

Resurrection

Resurrection

By Rev. Lonnie C. Crowe

Jesus, beautiful Redeemer,

You who bore the agony of Calvary,

Pierced by the thorns,

Scourged,

Wounded,

Forsaken,

Reviled.

Your passion paid sin’s price.

Your death opened the veil.

Your tomb is the key to freedom

From death and the grave.

Your resurrection sealed our covenant

with the Father.

Your return is the culmination of creation,

The restoration of Eden,

The doorway to eternity.

You are the way, the truth and the life.

The Herald

The Herald

by

Rev. Lonnie C. Crowe

Heralding the equinox,

The crocus wakens,

Stretches to shake its numbness,

And awaits the warmth of sprouting time.

Then nudging the softening earth,

Pushing aside the rimey loam,

Sensing the promise of the Spring,

Thrusts its purple through.

Heralding eternity,

We, too, shall waken,

And nudging aside the loamy earth,

Thrust through

To meet the Son.

My Grandma

My Grandma

By Rev. Lonnie C. Crowe

She sat near the window,

The light fading over her shoulders,

Not one of those unlined, expressionless, face-lifted

perennially young women.

Time had sculpted her eighty-seven years,

Had etched into her being

Character,

Depth,

Wisdom.

 A Michelangelo tenderly carving into the

dormant marble of humanity and bringing forth

Laughter,

Despair,

Life.

Her hands, gnarled,

worn,

polished,

Evinced her struggle,

her toil,

her compassion.  

The fire of her eyes,

Alert,

Luminous.

Her voice, like a mellowed violin,

Soft,

Melodic,

Alive.

Slumped in her wheelchair,

Near the window in the nursing home,

The light fading over her shoulders,

She smiled

As the shadow crossed the pane.

The Family Cemetery

The Family Cemetery

By Rev. Lonnie C. Crowe

On the sesquicentennial of the first burial,

Auntie took us to the stone-walled family cemetery.

As the western sky reddened into purple,

Amidst the flickering fireflies,

She shared the humanity of those resting

In the darkening hillside.

She remembered her Josiah

And traced her fingers over the stone

Already etched in her honor.

The children whispered,

The owls questioned,

And Auntie sat calmly upon her tombstone

And watched the fireflies dance.