Wings of Prayer

Lift me up above the clouds
where Thy sunlight I can see.
Let me rise above my doubts,
for a clearer view of Thee.

Lift me up above the clouds,
though it cannot be for long;
for I know on earth below,
others truly need my song.

Lift me up above the clouds,
I'm so weary of earth's gloom;
I feel cramped and oft distressed,
let me be where there is room.

Lift me up above the clouds,
let me view the heavenly dome
of Your universe so vast--
somewhere out there is my home.

Lift me up above the clouds

for a breath of heavenly air

far above earth's dust and fog,

take me up on wings of prayer.

fpn/1986

Photo by Samuel Zeller on Unsplash

Greatly Talented

Some people seem to shine
with clout and published name;
they’re blessed with grace and skill
which brings them earthly fame.

We call them talented,
and naturally endowed,
and thus the populace
applauds them long and loud.

Begrudging them success,
of course, would be quite wrong;
but there’s another view
that we should take along.

Just take a mother’s lot,
when faithful to her trust,
shouldn't talent be ascribed
when she fights grime and dust?

There are mothers who excel
but even those who don’t 
need talent to survive—
more chores than you can count.

Some days—not long enough,
for all that must be done;
distractions are the norm—
demands from everyone.

Instead of being praised,
too oft she’s criticized;
if she can “keep her cool,”
that’s talent, highly prized!

fpn 11/84



Picture: depositphotos.com #51131877, standard license

Home is Where the Heart Is

This is a tribute to our departed mother, but when Dad first wrote this poem before her death, it was for a brother's passing. He intended that the names or pronouns in the last verse be substituted to give tribute to any loved one who is "promoted to glory." We have included it today since Mom passed away 21 years ago, on Mother's Day, May 12, 1996.









Home is where the heart is,
we sometimes hear it said;
the place where we expect to find
a roof, a meal, a bed.
But there is more—a motel too
or even barracks may
accommodate our body’s needs
and serve quite comfortably.

Our hearts are not content until
some loved ones share our lot
and we commune in deeds and words—
yes, suffering, like as not.
It’s in living for each other
that our souls are gratified
and if we’d have a super home
then Christ must there abide.

How soon things change. Our loved ones go
and leave an empty place.
Then heaven’s attaction on us grows,
that new home beyond space.
Where separations cannot mar
our glad and peaceful state.
Where toil and tears and pain are past
and glorious joys await.

Our mother has gone home and we
will follow her ere long.
She’ll greet us on the other side
where we’ll unite in song
of praise to Him who died, arose,
has gone a place to prepare.
We’re going home, where our heart is,
rich fellowship to share!

fpn / 91

A Mother’s Qualifications

This week features poems in honor of mothers.











There’s more to being a mother
than having a child or two;
it takes a “heap of living”
and doing, to make it so.
In fact, a childless lady
may also qualify,
by care of other’s children
whose fate has gone awry.

One word stands in conjunction
with “mother”—it is “home.”
You cannot separate them—
the point of many a poem.
And mom’s the one who makes it
a sweet and tidy place;
without her touch it could not
reveal such charm and grace.

She doesn’t call it boredom—
those repetitious chores;
the cooking and the laundry
and cleaning of the floors.
The work is not what thrills her
but what she sees beyond:
it’s love for dad and children
that makes her calling fond.

We’re all too quick to grumble
and slow to lend a hand;
and how we take for granted
delicious meals she’s planned.
Though pained, she makes allowance
when her failures we berate;
now, don’t you agree we often
should say, “Hey, Mom, you’re great!”

fpn / undated



Photo Credit: Deposit Photos #71535455, standard license