In a Moment

~In a Moment~
(for anyone who has thought to himself "but, I DESERVE a break!")

Needing a Reprieve, he leaves
Without regard for Gardens crushed
Encroaching greenery Obscene
chokes out, behind him, blooms still plush -
Weeds and Thistles and Thorns!
Without regard for tending Guard,
His plot thickens, all because
He went out for a cigarette.

~L. Page
(c) 2009

make a path, o sunshine!

make a path, o sunshine!
~for the weary pilgrim~

I.
Make a path, o sunshine!
Light a lane, repair this winding way;
My feet have hit the rocks
and bends obscure and blind;
Where snagged and roughed array
of thorns and briars and dragons' frocks
Have contrived a choking hedge.
With flaming tongues they mock my pledge
and steal away my hope.

II.
Yesterday, the violent sea
and before that the desert;
A journey all the world around.
But today, pressed in by thickened trees
and predators haunt, for blood athirst
Heat and wetness gagging, gasping sound
Of my own breath in my ears drying
Is this the last? Softer mournful crying;
Will tomorrow return to me my hope?

III.
My straining, grasping gaze
To see but once the crowning crest
and there the face of Rapture....
So far already traveled;
haze and dark and blistered, festering;
This only trail to my heart's Captor
Fraught with travail and waiting
It will be worth all sorrows, fading
There in the light of my Hope.

~L. Page
(c) 2009 Leah Randelle

"make haste! and come, o ye weary drooper"

"make haste! and come, o ye weary drooper"
~for anyone who has ever needed to be forgiven much~
L. Page

make haste! and come, o ye weary drooper
as thy taste and tongue have lost
the savor, out with drunken stupor
unto thine alabaster flask

ye've nothing left to offer if even
thy tears are tumbling and a flood
and ye wash, with thy hair, his feet
from which will flow a healing blood

make haste! and go, o ye woman seeker
as thy waste! and wrung thy hands,
the Savior! has come out to thee
for thine alabaster flask

ye've everything to offer if even
thy tears are tumbling and a flood
and ye weep with thy heart outpoured
thy worship of the living God.

(c) 2009 Leah Randelle

"making sideways glances past the skyway riding shame"

"making sideways glances past the skyway riding shame"
for anyone who has tried, and failed to be selfless
~L. Page

making sideways glances past the skyway riding shame
his weakened heart's surrender, with no eye to keep the same
miracle of once upon a time
even if it requires a denial
of the path to get there
once a frown and masked despair
with its discarded memory of yesteryear

push past the chains and shackles of the nightmare now forgot
so he can press in fiercely for a heav'n bound straight-aimed shot
no miracle of once upon a time
can't teach his soul of self-denial
so he can't quite get there
even on the skyway smile where
his tomorrows are already worn thread bare

(c) 2009, Leah Randelle

(the above poem was not inspired by this, but arguably, this could be a way of portraying the main character in the recently released movie, "The Wrestler.")

"i'm a weak-eyed wanderer"

i'm a weak-eyed wanderer
~L. Page

i'm a weak-eyed wanderer,
distorted figures linger
in my peripheral sights
as if to haunt or tempt or entice.

it's but a night drive home
and yet a bit of prism rain
distorting the oncoming
traffic lights and those behind,

and maybe this time, the road
is slick and foreboding
while hovering just out of view
is that dark haunting shadow

and it's late, and i am just trying
to sleep in my own bed, o why
do they want me to wander
to drift and drifting veer

to the left or to the right
and my eyes strain despite
the jolting black figures
just beyond my view lingering

the cityscape is blurred
and houses, too, visibly bear
the pressured, heated bend
as if through a drop of rain

and mailboxes become people
and cars in driveways evil
chasers sitting in wait
as if the cue is not yet waved

a signal, but they are all
anticipating the final call
and hover without mercy
my eyes, I cannot trust thee!

and yet i must drive on
if i have any hope of home
and bear the constant strain
if i am to find rest again.

(c) 2009 Leah Randelle

"By Stripes Healed"

"By Stripes Healed"
for Pastor Steve Krogh and Lois
~L. Page

If I had watched idly by from a sideline view
Never picking up the instrument of death,
But instead just spoken to myself on cue....
"'Tis not my execution, and he's deserving anyway;
'Tis not my strength by which the wounds rip and tear."

As though, "I am not without excuse, lowly, employed
For it was always my master who leveled the blows!"
Only hours later, standing guard and now annoyed,
Perhaps third shift stretched into first, five out of seven days
And I lacked my family and friends. The wear

Of such a burden on my back – but no blood or welts,
Nevertheless I should weep to myself in my mind
Even while watching the prisoners bleed, if I had felt
Anything but my own self pity! At last, to graze
Just a single kind thought, to someone else's cares.

But I did watch idly by, and not so idly after all
As my tongue would on occasion speak against
These men of God rendered to these walls;
And my careful, guiltless, watchful, trying gaze
"'Tis not the execution of my justice! My mere

"Passive willingless-ness! It would take violence
Here to shudder me. These men deserve to be
Put away and crushed, if only they'd be filled with silence!
They bring this condemnation in their own way
To justify their just reward!" But in my heart

I have seen their joy even as their words have poured
Forth with declarations of a mercy I've never known.
So now, tonight, these men have sung praises to the Lord
Even while shackled and bound, and new scars will stay
Upon their backs from the beatings they've endured.

Even sleeping through my shift, I dreamed my own
Condemnation – as though the very earth would shake
To my destruction beneath my feet. Such preparation!
I had only to ensure that the very men bound by day
Would through the night be subject to my stare.

If I had watched idly by from a sideline view
Never picking up the instrument of death,
But instead just spoke to myself on cue?
I'd never have learned that death itself on my awaking
Would be my new master. For the earth had fared

A true disaster, and these walls which formerly bound
Were loosed, and the stocks and shackles had broken.
In the dark I knew, with what little sympathy found
I, in my indifferent thoughts, that had I been so arrayed
In prisoners' garb, I would have fled so fast from there.

Not merely suspension or an employer's derision,
My very life would be taken if these men of God
Were found to be torn from this place. My decision
Was easy. I would execute mercy on my own way
And fall to my own sword to prevent a worse horror.

Tears in my eyes, no longer idly by, the "if" was proved!
These men, my charges, scourged and wounded, and otherwise
Dying, yet I always remained so callously unmoved.
I should meet this God, then, who would send his blaze
Of truth on the tongues of such doom! "Now, Sayer,

"Would you not save so wretched a man as I!?"
My eyes were darkened, dust falling all about me.
"Do not harm yourself!" a battered voice cried.
"We are all here, we have not escaped."
I felt, rather than saw, the dust begin to clear.

Even the darkness, then, became a vision of mercy.
I knew who these men had proven to be while among us.
But my mind had brewed its own confusion, not seeing
The very word of God in their mouths: That is, no way
But this Jesus who had, by his life and death so fiercely stirred

The officials and the powers that be, and the people,
And myself! Though I would otherwise refuse him.
I knew I was without excuse even as my feeble
Strength now failed me. These men armed with grace
Had faced their own deaths with joy in God's glory,

And I had watched idly by, and not so idly after all
As my tongue would on occasion speak against
These men of God rendered to these walls.
Now found I was crying out, "What must I do to be saved!
The quake had long passed, and now the impending story

Of my own doom at the hands of a merciless master
Was stayed as the prisoners identified each man;
They were all present and accounted for!
There was nothing of man or reason to compel my exclaim
In such an ignoble fashion, except deep sorrow

Now uprooted and exposed as I saw myself as I knew God saw me,
Helplessly lost, and more deserving of such bloody welts
Than these men could ever bear in their own bodies.
Just one thing: "On the Lord Jesus, you must believe
And you shall be saved!" And not only I, what mercy

My whole household could receive! It was a simple
Confession of my mouth, having seen with my eyes
And heard with my ears! What joy should fill my soul!
And so these men, shredded, broken, bleeding – nay –
Abused! Nay, crushed! The would-be executed! Now carrying

A man, whom they should hate, by their own forgiveness.
There was no escape, that night, but I was the one set free.
And so I bore these men to my own household.
Like the sinful woman who, once forgiven, would wash
Jesus' feet with her hair, at least I could share

A ministry of washing as I, myself, would piece together
The flaps of flesh hanging from their backs.
She had cried her tears to show her love; and whether
By empathy or if such sorrow is always
Mingled with tears of joy, I dressed the injuries

Born to these men by my own apathy. And we all
With joy began to sing out praises to the Lord
Who by his mercy had fulfilled what was always His call –
To bring to light what in darkness formerly bathed,
And to wash our wounds, for by His stripes we are healed.

(c) 2006 Leah Randelle

"out of the fray and fret"

"out of the fray and fret"

for anyone who lives alone, and feels perhaps forgotten

~L. Page

he has played the hero, but no one knows/his sacrifice, only the sanity and body his own/and the loss of that which could have saved him/was the cost, that what left him all alone/

outside footfalls descending the wooden stairwell/his the bottom floor apartment/tucked away behind the hidden doorway/never emerging except by darkness/

rhythmic, soft thump thump thump on the other side/of the wall where there should have been a bed/perhaps the sound of the honeymoon suite/merely the washing machine and dryer instead/

and not even his own, all the neighbors/picking the prime time of day, and Saturday/tending to the normal, but for him what's left/is all he can do not to throw it all away/

this is how he saves the day/to hole himself up, here out of the fray/and fret, out of the traffic, to stray/from all whose else, it's the only way/to protect themselves from his decay/

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle

"a Greater Prize than Story"

"a Greater Prize than Story"

is innocence not better than a life of experience? even if the resultant "art" must be sacrificed to "purity"?

~L. Page

Have I lived long enough, yet, my dear Professor?/With loss as death upon two lovers so wholly each other's/A love and a leave; "write what you know."/Isn't pain the stuff of great literature?/But need we have been so violated ourselves?

Or is perhaps innocence a greater prize than story?/Imagination sufficient for authentic empathy?/Still, we rape mind and words to redeem our fallenness./What of our entropy is really worth/Capturing and preserving as if it were art?

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle

"it's a crumbling sunshine shame"

"it's a crumbling sunshine shame"
for a gentleman friend who isn't yet
~L. Page

it's a crumbling sunshine shame
framed still in summer glow
although 'tis but the remnant of July
you try to understand

grand posturing as may be
maybe you've been waiting now
sing how you used to for your supper
superstar that you never were

forever where your wishes fell
welcome to the fall memory
summery sigh has crossed the line
in time to take your heart in hand

win's grand stand has you in tow
into meltdown where your mind
for blindness' sake deceived
believing it won't matter

that their gazes shun the older one
for once has desired the better
fettered to a dream of lovers in
saving one's heart, although

all told she can't believe he would.

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle


[same "form" as "first date blind" - my favorite "obstruction" in writing poetry, rhyming/parallel the first "sounds" of a line with the end "sounds" of its predecessor]

"Far From Delivered"

"Far From Delivered"
~L. Page

It's a quiet moment, but it runs away and screams when you get too close
It's a sunshine sky, but the snow's about to obscure the smile of the clouds

It's a broken swarm, but it's still thick and able to choke with the stench of death
It's a verdant spring, but the promised birth has no lasting blooms

It's a conversant library, but the words are meaningless and the sentences incomplete
It's a smarmy grin, but its height cannot match the lack of its breadth

It's a twigh-lit pond, but the cattails and reeds have sunk the silver sunset
It's a satin secret, but the waves of destruction have washed away the shoreline
It's a jealous lover, but his arms are full with another man's family

It's a rended veil, but ignorance keeps the feet from stepping into the depths
It's an unsung song, but only for him who has ears to hear
It's a spent salvation, and we are far from delivered.

(c) 2005 Leah Randelle

"driving home well spent"

DRIVING HOME WELL SPENT
inspired by Emily Dickinson
~L. Page

Driving home well spent
Soft evening just before
An autumn rain ready
To burst, just drops more

On the windshield
Sparkles against a black
Backdrop, the first few
Fallen leaves blown back

Across the pavement
Solitary colored swirls
Breaking the proclamation
Distant lightning crawls

Whisper of a hint
Of wet dirt and the cover
Canopy of droopy clouds
Just in the wait to pour

(c) 1999 Leah Randelle

"First Date Blind"

FIRST DATE BLIND
for "Kevin" - that now infamous "blind date" (true story!)
[best if you read this one aloud]
~L. Page

Book and coffee and table at which to sat
We two sat but first to speak was I.

Says I “This night to meet you here
You fear will put between us a connection,
Stray confection of sweetness to romance
We two perchance of each other mere friends
Here ends. Fear not, for as I fear too,
Our two worries shall cancel out
Chancing doubt, and mere friends we shall
Stay well.” Says he, “I’ll drink to that.”

Do thought I did that, small he of frame,
Love same I was too large upon sight
For some night, should we two try to
Too try woo, not a proper image impart;
In part because two streams can never cross
Ever dross when melded, but not we one.

We won in moment conversation our comfort,
Come sort us later to our places of relief,
Love relief removed. Says I “No longer stranger,
Stranger still I sit here moving, not knowing what
Knowing that you have in you. How came you to
Who you do seek to be? How came you to God?”

“You who do God me by question,” says he, “says I
stays my eye in the eternal talked here over coffee.”

“Scoff ye at the merit of such a question to a man
Who a man while I’ve never met before; should I
Brood I and assume you’ve not met the Maker?”

“The Maker and I met when faced I death
Graced my breath as a boy when nearly crushed,
Nearly rushed to eternity with broken bones.”

“Spoken moans you then?” “I did, did I.”

Bid I to laugh, then, as this first we’ve met?
We let the moment pass, eternity now covered,
Now hovered we over the present mundane,
One day in the life of me or he or we to job,
We to hobnob of our business and hours.

And ours is too tight a talk to talk tonight.
Walk tonight away from coffee and table
Send, able to say we met; though not likely.
Fraught likely with desire in both to not meet again.

(c) 2000 Leah Randelle

"There is a Sky Beyond the Glass"

THERE IS A SKY BEYOND THE GLASS
for anyone who works all day--no doubt stuffed in an office with few if any windows
~L. Page

There is a sky beyond the glass
Where I by wall am enclosed--
And my hours on the day
Will walk by night the grass;

By human pace so wrecked
While on my time employ,
My spirit longs for the escape
But the bars keep out the day--

I may but gaze upon trees
And green bent by the wind
But venture only when dark
So the sun evades my eyes.

(c) 2000 Leah Randelle

"for a moment's thought on the spur"

"for a moment's thought on the spur"
~L. Page

for a moment's thought on the spur
blocking out the scratching blurring roughing riding screaming crunching maddening ka-bang
so much noise too many decisions
so much running from here to there too many collisions

where is the whispering small voice?
not a morning mercy to be found; are we listening?
not a day's end resting; when are we still?
be still and know that He is God

for a waking wandering worn and weary woman
there is still a still surrender for a small sound of soft splendor
finding here on the edge of chaos a summer sunset in mid-winter

gaze into the sky before our eyes become distracted
by another emergency of our own making
another excuse to abandon the Beloved of our souls

it's not the noise that rules us
it's the cacophony that hides us
so we are safe yet He pursues His own

to make us wake us shake us break us take us
so we will just be still and know that He is God.

(c) 2006 Leah Randelle

"Symmetry"

"Symmetry"
~L. Page

Sitting at my desk benign
Literally minding my own business
Then crawled upon my paperwork
A tiny eight-legged spider

I promptly squished him flat
With the tip of my middle finger
And when I looked at the result
A small, henna-like star was splayed

(c) 2006 Leah Randelle

"Every Tender Yield"

"Every Tender Yield"
for Joe - a poetic rendering of lines from notes he'd written in August, 2007
~L. Page

Last week, I noticed that my grapes were turning blue;
Purple, with seed – In need, as well, of a good pruning –
Not a vineyard; just about ten to fifteen feet of vine.

As long as I can remember; corn, hay, wheat,
We have never been without some kind of garden
(In a small country, every piece of land is valuable.)

Even along the roadsides, more common than maple or oak:
Cherry trees, apple, English walnut….
After all the seeds we have sown these several years,

A few neighbor children sought out our little church this past Sunday;
The Good Father’s timing to water the fruit, after much persevering;
First in as long as I can remember; such a tender yield –

Not a vineyard; they were just about nine to eleven years old
But purple, with seed – In need, as well, of a good pruning –
This week, I’ve noticed that the grapes are turning blue.

(c) 2007 Leah Randelle

"fought for friendship found"

"fought for friendship found"
for anyone who has ever found relationships to be....complicated.
~L. Page

a rhythmic tide of mandate and grace,
at once the blessing and the curse
as one has made demand upon
another, and so true in reverse.

building into every moment
but a solid whispering
beside. the fragile bulwark
breaks the sole, retreating

chime of pulling back, away.
course charted to and fro,
clash or crash or clamor
cast out, two now to oppose.

do not argue with this ledger,
dust and dirt yet diamond still
disclosed in moments tender,
dear to the heart and kept until

every one to which, compared,
each measured against the next,
ending by way of demanding more,
entrapped by desire and perplexed.

forget me not if you should wander
for a better one, if you set me by.
friend and brother gone tomorrow.
frame my sorrow with the high

guilt, left not behind by one, yet
gripping without mercy the other,
given always hope without
guarantee of strength or tether.

how could two be selfless in
hidden agendas so well disguised?
he and she or she and she or he, so
held sway in noble enterprise.

indiscretion breeds contempt
in all by what is too familiar,
idling at an intersection, never
"interest for its own sake" killed here.

jester with his bells worn ringless,
jovial today, death knell tomorrow.
just this once, one wish for real,
join the sweet sound of the swallow.

kindling for a friendship passion;
keep devotion, give me rather
kites and children, princes and
kingdoms, but they betray the matter,

leaving in their wake, distrust and
lust for revenge (if we have our way),
lest the offender go unpunished
let's be wiser next time, beware!

man's inhumanity to man began at
most with such innocent intent,
made the more repulsive by
"mere human" malicious accident.

not today, dear, haven't you heard?
never cross a princess with a dragon;
nine of ten you'll not get her back!
need to set the moat with flotsam

or some other vain distraction
on the whim of the one inside, whose
ornamental movements rarely resemble
objective, reasoned self-defense.

parade my minstrels, oh so clever,
pouncing on each opportunity to
play act, though it tells their own
particular secret weapon: Vicissitude.

query the dawn of our new day,
quell the uncertainty we've expressed,
quaint though our friendships be,
quenched as fire by water's thrust....

Rest now. haven't we done enough, our
rhythmic tide of mandate and grace?
rushing in and again upon each other,
rutting as without faith or face!

Still. reconsider our options
so we do not run aground for waste,
stuck through as if hoisted on our own
swords for lack of selflessness

Tranquil. remember what was
then our goal and ambition,
trusting one another before such
trepedation aggressively crept in.

until we have faces, my friend -- or
unity of mutual purpose sought --
undeniable hope remains!
upward the charge of oneness caught,

vanity defeated, drowned, deceased,
vacant stares look up from graves of
Victory! isolation thwarted and
verily, we have - this time - saved love.

with but one glancing blow, how easy
was the realization, once discovered?
we must die daily to self and consider,
with care, better than ourselves all others....

yesterday's battles belong behind. so,
yet a solid whispering
yielding tender kindnesses; thus!
you may be not a jester but a King,

zealous for the blessing and wonder of forever.

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle

"don't you cry, my little ones"

"don't you cry, my little ones"
~L. Page

don't you cry, my little ones
this is just a story
and though you've not yet heard the end
I have seen the glory

of the slaying of the Dragon
and the Prince's shining sword
so don't you cry, my little ones
for there will be reward

the Princess will be rescued
from her current prison
and she and her Beloved will
reunite again

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle

"there'll always be the love of God"

"there'll always be the love of God"

for Mom

~L. Page

fragile and wheelchair bound/this man who once carried his daughter/over his shoulders walking home through flood waters/now ravaged by aging, run aground/himself falling victim to the slaughter/of sin’s wages which claim every one of its authors/

he coughs, and some substance/from his lungs accumulated, he is now/by his shaking hand too weak to remove from his mouth/this once hunter and fisherman/unable to venture outside and enjoy/the changing of these autumn leaves in the winter of his life/

his worldly possessions have been/whittled down to only a few pictures hung/of his wife, and each child, a daughter and son/standing with their spouses when/their own children’s pictures are in boxes hidden/and the one he most recalls is his own mother, eighty years gone/

once robust and strong, his body/has failed, from health to a daily decline,/and on nurses and a staff of strangers he is dependent/his ears and eyes and memory cloudy/though he’ll still tell the story of the time/he’d earned five dollars cutting the hair of a fellow serviceman/

made him find the barracks bag/down below on their ship amongst a host/and the fellow had proved to be more stubborn than most./but today he didn't remember that/he'd received, himself, a fresh trim, his boast/reduced to being grateful for the tissue in the breast/

pocket of his plaid patterned shirt,/too weak to continue to faithfully attend/the Friday night hymnsing, nevertheless he can oft be found/humming a few lines to an old church/song, the words recalling his Savior's hands/and brow, and the blood spilled for his soul, now more grand/

his railroading days so long past/and coffee and gab with his good ol' boys/with every fading day more lost are the stories/of his service for country, and at last/then coming home to the wife of his youth, the joy/of his life, who by many years went on before him to Glory/

his memory shaken and dislodged/more severely than the tremors that plague his hands/unable to lift himself out of bed or a chair to stand/trying to identify the time on his watch/which is forever twisted around, the wristband/too loose to fit snugly around his wasting frame/

where others aging might succumb/to a darkening countenance or a spirit/that is forever complaining and filled with fear,/lives defined, in passing, by one/grand collection of amassed frontier/prizes and possessions accumulated over the years/

to reach this point where all gain/has been lost and the body is preparing/to meet its Maker as naked as the day it came/this old railroader, dad, husband,/as his body is bit by bit stripped, being/returned to dust in invisible ways of death's claim/

it is as though he is already/passing through his Lord's purifying fire/as the wood, hay, and stubble of his feeble body expire/and the gold of a refined beauty/of a soul once subject to sin's dire/destruction, reborn in Christ and taking on His character/

so the last refrain he'll be singing/is that of the love of God which will never/fade or end, nor from which can his soul be severed/his last years bathed in mercy/this dear man of whom it will be remembered/becoming, in dying, more like his Lord to whom he'll soon fly heavenward.

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle

"for the joy of a fire-crackled crust"

"for the joy of a fire-crackled crust"
for Jenn
~L. Page

fraught with all the wild extremes/of tango and of tribal rush/to borrow from such frantic dreams/as of death's violence robbing blush/

nursing hands and healing touch/she poured her soul into their lives/giving grace when they could not/and thirty years went coursing by/

after a while, her daily pace/had taken an unforgiving turn/as the dancing from bed and face/brought grief and a crushing yearning/

for something soft, without demand/as restoration for the years/of dying children, and blood-stained/gauze, and wives' and mothers' tears/

her deliverance didn't come from/an expected source, as such,/just a need for solitude, some/might criticize the redeeming batch/

of bread when first she built with brick/her own oven, and began to mix/recipes to steal the senses, quick/aromas to fill the dimly lit kitchen/

at first each loaf became a story/as the luscious, tender flavors/melted away people's horrors/bringing nearly divine pleasure/

then, increasingly, as her own heart/was being healed by hours/left alone with grains and starch/and spices rich with yesteryear/

she found a patron here, then there/and bit by bit she came to see/as local farmers supplied their wares/she'd started her own bakery/

a new pace set from rush to waltz/forsaking wealth for just enough/she left behind her three decades/for the joy of a fire-crackled crust

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle

"body ache and soul surrender"

"body ache and soul surrender"
for anyone who physically or emotionally suffers
~L. Page

body ache and soul surrender
having waked with shortened breath
and head again against the wall
just leaning cuz i can't stand tall

the cycle of a healthy life
subsisting from day to day
with self's demands that all be well
as if i deserve anything else but hell

so tempted with a weakened countenance
to complain in suffering
even though i know so many
who of heavy loads are wearied
and heavier than mine and yet
my soul seems quickened to forget

and there in view before my face
a glowing orb, tempting and taunting
me to rail against God's grace
because it isn't what i'm wanting

the stamina of my limbs has failed me
but this day despite my crying
if nothing else i can still pray Thee
take my soul by ache and dying
so i'll not be found to stray from Thee,
my Beloved, steal away my whying

put Thee before my straining eyes
as my cheeks into them press
and my lips are parched and drying
and my cough from my lungs robs breath

put Thee before my longing heart
as my body aches and tosses
and my mind is lost in drosses
and my soul surrenders losses

fix my eyes on my Beloved
to hold by gaze in all timing
give me pause so i'll not falter
into droning selfish whining

for i have tasted and savored
of the goodness of my Savior
and i can feel when i am weak
that my sin still abides in me
and rears its ugly head to speak
even when my soul's enemy
is far away, i've yet this betrayer
in my own heart, for i'm not meek

this body owes me no pleasures
so if each cell must be consumed
i pray Thee, make my heart Thy treasure
having all my mind subsumed
make Thy grace in me to bloom

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle

"We cannot stay asleep"

"We cannot stay asleep"
for Angela
~L. Page

Five more minutes, mama
we cried as you would shake us
sweet darkness and soft slumber
our dreams the stuff of childhood wonder

No desire of morning
could surpass the caress
of our eyes closed and blankets
pulled up around our necks

Five more minutes, mama
but you would yank the curtains
so bursting through the windows
sunlight raced in and through eyes closed

We could not stay asleep
for we would always wake so easily
to the light

Some years later, mama
I was racing in and through a life,
with my eyes closed and dreaming
full of darkness and selfish scheming

And it was not enough for me
to just be shaken by some hand
instead the curtains were yanked back
and sunlight raced in through the black

By the grace of God, mama
He found me when I was lost
I would have sold my soul asunder
for the stuff of sinful wonder

But I could not stay asleep
for I was always waked so easily
by the light

Five more minutes, mama
I know the day is coming when
my own two girls will moan and squirm
until then, I'll let them learn

I will be forever grateful, mama
that you showed us morning Glory
that to be in the Light is sweeter than
any promise of slumberland

You'd be proud of papa
for he's taught my girls the song
like a parable of God's grace
"Let the sun shine in" and wake,

And now we cannot stay asleep.

(c) 2008 Leah Randelle