A prayer for the aborted children of God who loves them and Of Man who deposed them.
They will never see the light of a birth day. Yet accomplishment will be theirs. Because God created them, because they exist, because they have mother and father, ancestors and life, because I want eternity as much for them as for myself, I pray God grant them merit and reward.
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, through Whom and for Whom all things were created, I pray the blessings of mercy and forgiveness, redemption and conversion, be bequeathed to the lineage of the Little Ones soon to die; aborted, reduced, researched and materialized. Amen.
In the world to come, may you be thanked for the mercy that flowed in answer to this prayer straight from the throne of God to your fore-bearers countless in number. May you be embraced in eternity as you never were in life, save for the Heart…
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On Earth, you are held accountable,
Are you not?
You sing for your supper.
You dance to life’s tune.
Only the air is free.
All else is taxed.
The first fruit is owed another.
You fear to run from the law.
You are held to a measure.!
If it be such for a man of earth,
Mortal, yet accountable,
Where will a soul, immortal,
Flee upon a coming demise?
Without the stuff of Earth,
Naked and stripped of pomp and circumstance,
Revealed as soul and spirit,
Answering not to man,
But to God,
Are we not all the more accountable?
Copyright 2015 Joann Nelander
When did his passion begin?
Did it commence with the kiss
By which he bid his loved ones adieu.
Or did the call to battle
Bid him count the cost,
Shattering vanities and proud hoorahs,
With winter ice
Piercing to the marrow of bone.
The Call was always greater
Than one man’s valor or presumption.
Holier than Adam could undertake in rage,
Yet a young David found an “Amen”
Rising within his shepherd- breast,
Shielded by hope and faith
Born of a Savior,
Yet borne into battle
By the foal that carried Him forth.
Waged for the souls of men,
Find common ground;
Friend and foe,
Dying side by side.
As grains numbered as the sand,
And the blood,
Bridle high at Armageddon,
Corpses piled and claiming
The best among us,
As generations of spent warriors’ might,
Trust to God
To judge the heart of every man,
And wear his colors in His raiment.
Memories, born as festering wounds,
Or toughened scars,
Mark the man and record the Passion.
No jot or tiddle forgotten,
Fingered on the ground,
Condemning only the Accurser.
Angels minister the balm of Gilead
As the dead live again,
And the living love
Through the Darkness.
Held to a measure,
Weighed on scales of Mercy.
How long? How long?
Martyrs witness the passion of the warrior,
And place merited crown,
And victor’s wreathe,
As a new name resounds,
Pronounced by the Mouth of God.
©2012 Joann Nelander