I miss them.
I miss them all.
The years have flung them about,
Scattered them to the four winds
With little care,
And less a say.
My friends, not here,
But there,
And everywhere.
So hard to hold,
Though near, in heart,
But, oh, so very far apart.
So very dear!
I want them,
Here.
copyright 2015 Joann Nelander
Pray,
Take care
Who you turn away.
Give thought,
And ‘haps a listening ear.
In truth,
The heart of God
Beats in the beggars breast.
copyright 2015 Joann Nelander
What did they say?
The men that came, then went their way.
Seeking the One all people long to see,
They left their hearths, these Wise Men Three.
“Where is He?”; the question echoes through ages long.
As He seeks a home ‘mong busy throng.
We prayed, sang and offered gifts beneath a tree.
Because He’s come for hearts, He’s come for me.
Where is He of blessed event,
Now the festive limbs are spent?
Has He found a hearth to call a throne?
Has He your heart to be His own?
©2015 Joann Nelander
While St. Gertrude was offering a certain action to God, saying:
O Lord, I offer Thee this work through Thine Only Son, in the power of the Holy Spirit, to the praise of Thine eternal Majesty; it was revealed to her that whatever action was thus offered would acquire a worth and acceptableness to God beyond all human comprehension. For as all things appear to be green when seen through a green glass, so whatever is offered to God through His Only-begotten Son cannot be otherwise than most precious and pleasing in His sight.
That you may understand how useful it is to offer all your works to God, listen to what our Lord said on one occasion to St. Gertrude: All thy works are most perfectly pleasing to Me. And as she could not believe this, He added: If you held in your hand some object which you had the means and the skill to render perfectly pleasing to everyone, and if you tenderly loved that object, would you neglect to adorn it? Even thus, because you are accustomed to offer all your works to Me, I hold them in My hand; and as I have both the power and the skill, My love rejoiceth to cleanse and perfect them all, that they may be most perfectly pleasing in My sight.
Joann Nelanderlionessblog.com
Lord of the centuries,
Knit, of our pain, the knots,
That mysteriously arrange themselves
Across our days.
Guide, by unseen fingers,
Each little pearl,
To form a cloth
Alive with Your Golden threads,
Infinitely more than happenstance or tragedy.
Each strand of Time a mystery,
Bathed in trial and tears,
Yet rich in Awe,
Resplendent in Beauty,
And the gracious beneficence
Of sacrificial love.
Whole cloth,
Woven into a seamless robe,
You don in majesty,
Humble and meek in triumph o’er our graves,
As Life welcomes to the Banquet,
Our souls, now clad in bodies,
One with Your Own.
© 2015 Joann Nelander
Be Holy! 