WE'RE PRAYING FOR REVIVAL...

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REVIVE US, DEAREST JESUS ll

My Prayer for Revival in America

The morning sun is streaming in as I prepare to pray

recalling what my pastor said in his word to us one day.

He spoke of the time we live in and of people losing faith,

of disregard for God’s Holy Word, and an increase in hate.

Many churches are closing or the Gospel gets watered down,

there’s disrespect for spiritual things and God is made a clown.

My pastor said he’s burdened; therefore he’s asking us to pray

for a nationwide revival; hope for all who’ve gone astray.

Oh, my dear Lord Jesus, You were born to save us, this I know,

and by Your death upon the Cross, You conquered the evil foe.

I know Your desire is that none be lost, that’s my desire, too,

therefore, I am humbly on my knees and crying out to You,

to reveal to all who know You, Lord, the need to repent.

Point us back to Your Holy Cross and why Your Blood was spent.

America must turn back to You, and live our lives Your way.

Oh! Let there be revival here.  Let us see it in our day!

We must have sorrow for our sins, and confess those sins to You.

We need to call upon Your Name, and then be Born Anew.

Through Your amazing grace and love, there’ll be splendors in store

and by Your Resurrection we will have life forevermore!

May multitudes flock unto You, countless as grains of sand.

May churches fill up with faithful folks all across our land.

May dusty Bibles be opened and hearts abound with love.

Lord, I’m sending my morning prayer, straight to Your throne above.

O Savior, You are worthy to receive our honor and praise.

Draw the backsliders; draw the lost, to walk in all Your ways—

Revive! Revive us, Jesus! I long to see what You will do

in answer to this earnest prayer…all glory belongs to You!

Maude Carolan Pych

METAMORPHOSIS

It's Spring!

I've been noticing the pretty butterflies
and thinking about...

Image credit: martydavisphotos.com

METAMORPHOSIS

Once I was a caterpillar, dwelling upon the earth,

Crawling along day by day, adept at feigning mirth.

I only knew the earthy life, I thought that that was it;

I took what terra firma gave, the pleasures and the grit.

There was no beauty in me.  No one ever looked here twice,

Few cared if I were evil, no one knew if I were nice.

I was only concerned with myself, what the earth could give,

Yet, inside I was sensing a far better way to live.

Instinct led me to spin a thread and weave a neat cocoon;

I became a living mummy, wrapped tight within my tomb.

What was happening to me?  I tried to kick and shout,

“Help me!  Open up this thing!  I want to get right out!”

No one heard and I was powerless, so I went to sleep,

Not knowing what was ahead of me, feeling something deep.

I don’t know how much time went by within my tiny tomb,

But sensed that I was being changed, as one inside a womb.

Finally, instinct worked in me.  There was a sudden urge

To break out of my chrysalis and from the dark emerge.

Somehow, I then received the strength to burst my being free;

Alas, the golden Light broke through and there was a new me!

I took some time to understand, some time to wonder why,

Then I just shook myself a bit and I began to fly!

And `lo, I was so beautiful, and `lo, I saw the sun...

Oh, after living on the earth, soaring was great fun!

A wretched worm was I no more, I knew that that was true,

I was reborn and I became a creation wholly new!

A butterfly!  A butterfly!  I received my wings,

Glorious splendors of the Heavens, all the higher things.

All old things have passed away, they’ll never come again;

I’ve set my mind on things above, on these I will attend.

Now, even when I swoop to earth and walk upon the ground,

I’ll never be a worm again...I’m Butterfly...glory bound!

Praise God for metamorphosis, it’s by His loving grace

That I’m a new creation now, and I shall see His Face.

Maude Carolan

In Memory of My Mother

Happy Mother's Day!

In Loving Memory
of my dear mother...

Frances Longo Walsh--1915-1966

OLD MOTHERS

Never had the opportunity--

missed the privilege

of doting upon my old mother.

Mother died

of a heart attack

at fifty-one

Watch with envy--

sweet old mothers

with rosy rouged cheeks

and charming smiles

carefully navigating

footed canes

or wheeled walkers

Dutiful daughters

accompany them

pleasantly

in doctor’s waiting rooms

taking their tweed coats

making small talk

about the grandchildren

and what Aunt So And So

will be serving

the church ladies for lunch

Blessed daughters

who left beds unmade

dishes in the sink

who listen attentively

to doctor’s instructions

see that Medicare

and supplementary insurances

are processed properly

who assist them

with their coats

and to their cars

stopping at pharmacies

on the way home

Maude Carolan

The above poem won an honorable mention in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest and was originally published in the "Paterson Literary Review."

To All the Busy Moms...

Let's see

if we can give a tired mother a break

this Mother's Day...

ALL THE WOMEN I KNOW ARE TIRED

I see it in their strides

their slumped shoulders

their shuffling feet

as they drag themselves

through their tasks

I see it in their uncovered yawns

their dull expressions

the darkness below

their lusterless eyes

All the women I know

are weary, drained

unfocused

they stare into refrigerators

they stare out windows

they stare at papers

they try to remember

what they intended to do next

All the women I know

shower rather than bathe

drive rather than walk

phone rather than visit

They dream about

what they hope to do

when there's

time

All the women I know

are sleep deprived

up too early

down too late

rest-less

as they try

to get it all done

They can't get it all done

there's not enough time

All the women I know

are tired

Dog tired

especially during the holidays

because they love, they

shop and clean

cook and bake

wrap, decorate

send cards

invite

invite

invite

They're exhausted

especially those who go to work

especially those who go to work

and have children

especially those who go to work

and have old, ailing parents

All the women I know

fall asleep over teacups

in the evening

or over a book

or over the bills

or in front of the TV

All the women I know

believed the lie

drilled into them

in the '70s

that they could do it all

be it all

have it all

all what

all is nothing

when they languish

in their shoes

Maude Carolan

The above poem won an honorable mention in the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Contest and was originally published in the "Paterson Literary Review."