A Touch



She didn’t have time

For a phone call

And there were no prophets around

And no mighty word

To purchase, absurd

And no studio

Holy ground.

So lonely and left out

By suffering

The bleeding just never

Would stop

Physicians had tried

Her family had cried

With HMO costs

O’er the top.

But now there was noise

Of a new sort

As folks all had

Flocked to a Man

Whose face was serene

Like none she had seen

Who spoke of a

Merciful plan.

Twas Jesus

And stories remembered

Of how He left

No pain in place.

Twas Jesus

Yes strolling right by her

She reached out

To end her disgrace.

He stopped

In the din of the jostling

“Who touched me?”

His only request

And she looked up healed

Her faith thus revealed

One desperate cry

Passed the test.

How simple this joy

Touching Jesus

How manly

And ready His aid

With no priest between

A sorry state seen

And matchless compassion


Luke 8

(Note: Oh how I desire to see this kind of attachment manifested in believers! Although I cannot get inside zealous hearts, I do suspect that there is too much running to middle-men and middle-women; to measures and means of grace. The “touch” is a personal milestone so powerful as to birth love slaves of the King. Holiness is not duty. It is thankful love.)


In the Olive Press

Still sleeping?
Friends and brothers?
Though you were to watch with me,
And to share in this prayer garden
What the others might not see.

Still sleeping?
Simon Peter?
Coarse and headstrong at your best.
But beneath it all a leader
Who will one day meet the test.

Still sleeping?
Sons of Thunder?
Did you not once ask the seat
At my right hand in the Kingdom?
But you doze now at my feet.

Yes, sleeping,
As I watch you
Like a parent in the night
Checking children’s needful slumber,
Trusting they will be alright.

Sleep on now…
There is comfort,
Strangely getting me prepared,
As I smile now in recalling
All the glorious times we shared.

Sleep on now.
What I do here
Will first bring you grief and gloom;
But the dark must yield to daylight.
I will leave an empty tomb!

Sleep on now.
Dear disciples.
I have loved you from the start.
And have shared the Father’s vision,
And have given you my heart.

Enough now.
Time to rally!
Waken brethren. Watch me stand.
I am ready for the offering.
My betrayer is at hand.

(Picture: Olive Trees by Van Gogh)

Note: Gethsemane translates “olive press”. That the oil might come…

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Cathedral and Sanctuary

Countless feet have trod these stones
Come here, from the thrall of days
Racked with pain and stifling moil
Seeking but the Saviour’s ways.
Does He live beneath this vault
Good as all the stained glass shows?
Did he brave the worst of men
Blessing, while He took their blows?
Could I trust my parcel small
To this Friend from Galilee
Does He even care at all?
Hear my cries; my burden see?
Yes, my spirit answers “Yes”
Most trustworthy of all Kings
Pledging e’en to share His throne
Grasping this, my spirit sings.
All outside is blocked a while
Whispers, echoes strangely bless
Touch His robe, the King of Peace
And the King of Righteousness.