Our God is kind in every way,
He holds the evil tide at bay,
With love he showers his faithful saints,
In Christ no follower falls or faints.
He bears us on the Spirit’s wing,
That we might daily praise and sing;
In us he lives, we shall not tire,
The word within burns like a fire.
Our God is good, and goodness proves,
In every trial and pain he moves;
In heaven’s path the Cross we bear,
His suffering and joy we gladly share.
On this day, the first, when Jesus rose
Alive, and set aside his burial clothes,
His faithful followers come together and meet,
To sing his praise, around his table they eat,
And in his Name they pray for peace
And courage to speak, that he increase,
His grace be given, his saving truth be spread,
Because they know he lives who once was dead.
Their God is Father, they in Christ immersed,
This day they glory in him whom God raised first.
On the Prancing Pen site, I posted a poem in honor of Fred E. Dennis and his booklet “Fifteen Hundred Bible Questions and Answers.”
Questions and Answers
Those interested in ordering the booklet can order from Mrs. Benton K. Cochran. They ask the recipient pay postage and a small donation toward the cost of printing. Email her here: firstname.lastname@example.org
Simple faith, the goal of searching,
Life with center and circumference,
That single word of fullest meaning,
Limitless love for one and all.
I thought it would be good to share this poem which was published in the latest Bulletin Gold.
The poem was written by Edd Sterchi, who preaches for the church in Kentucky.
I hope you enjoy it as much as I did:
The Ironies of Calvary
By Edd Sterchi
Man of sorrows, Prince of Peace,
Son of Joy, Man of griefs,
Wounded healer, Rejected King,
Earth’s disdain, Salvation’s wing.
Friend of sinners, Friendless One,
Men charge sin to the Holy Son,
Innocent, yet judged with guilt,
Had no home, but mansions built.
The irony Christ was and gave,
Buried, yet o’ercame the grave,
The irony Christ makes in you,
Buried in Him, you’ll rise anew.
The neighbor’s party noise is patent:
He thinks to drown his sadness with sound,
To fill his empty heart with drink,
His meaningless days, with movement and song.
While dwelling in darkness, dwarfed by loss,
He makes himself out a magic giant.
To save his soul, Jesus sends me.
Now where’d I put that precious thing?
How could I ever forget?
Be it age or lack of a finger’s string,
It still makes a body fret.
I look on high, and I look down low,
I turn the house into a mess;
I turn and ask the Lord to show—
When found: relief! God bless!