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Spiritual Poetry
Copyrighted poetry by Bernie Parsons
May angels watch over you as you sleep.
From sin and danger may they keep
Your precious soul in heaven's care.
May angels stand beside you there,
To see you safely through the night
And bring you to a new day's light.
May angels guard you through each day,
Walk beside you all along the way,
To direct each footstep that you take,
Protect from harm, for heaven's sake.
May angels walk you through the light
And bring sweet rest at dark of night.
09/14/98 Copyright ©1998 Bernie Parsons Back to the Top
Lofty Sights
The road before seems all uphill,
There is no end in sight.
Just catch your breath, and push ahead,
It’s going to be alright!
Why do you think there is this road
That reaches such great heights?
Others forged along this way,
Eyes set on distant sights.
So catch your breath, and push along,
With gladness in your soul:
The journey soon will reach its end,
And you’ll have reached your goal! ©07/22/98 by Bernie Parsons Back to the Top
Black & White Black clouds of thunder gathered overhead,
Within, my heart was cloaked in heavy dread.
The stormy night was raging on the wind;
A tempest surged, destructive waves within.
Driving rain, like the devil’s herd on the hoof
Rampaged across the burdened, creaking roof.
Violently, the tree limbs thrashed the air,
Relenting to hysterical despair.
A flash of lightning caught me by surprise,
Revealed in window pane dark, woeful eyes.
Outlines electrified, brilliant and stark,
Outside the world was all alight, then dark.
In that moment of the raging rain
My soul let go the devastating pain,
And in that sudden, brilliant flash of light
My soul regained its long-elusive sight.
Cathartic rain brought cleansing to the earth,
While in my heart new insight came to birth:
The teachings of my Lord were always right!
The choices in one’s life are black or white!
With newfound knowledge racing through my head,
I dragged my weary body to the bed.
Rolling thunder followed blinding light
That etched the world in clearcut black and white!
At last I lost myself in depths of slumber,
While overhead rolled wave on wave of thunder.
In forgiving love, God wrapped His hand around me
And hid me from the storm where He had found me! 07/12/98 Copyright © 1998 by Bernie Parsons
What Crime?
The sky is dark, it looks like rain today-
Look at those purple clouds before the sun!
Why such a crowd gathered along this way?
Who is this man, what heinous crime was done?
Who is that woman wailing at his feet?
Who is he to her, how deep will be her loss?
Who is that man, what the crime, I repeat,
Whose bloodied flesh is nailed into the cross?
The stormclouds are turning black as night,
With rolling thunder comes the stinging rain.
"I thirst", he cries, an agonizing sight.
He writhes in tortured body wracked with pain.
To fight the pain no more, he makes the
choice,
And looking skyward cries, "It is finished!"
(In the thunder I distinctly heard a voice:
"This is my Son!" just as the storm diminshed.)
Who is this, thorn-crowned, and side
spear-riven?
Why are so many standing, still and awed?
What was his crime, what judgment was given?
"King of the Jews, begotten Son of God!"
©08/11/98 by Bernie Parsons
My Lord and My God!
I see a man being led to his crucifixion. The Roman soldiers laugh and mock him, thrusting at him with their spears. He stumbles under the heavy load of his cross. I see pain in his eyes, the glazed look of a man who has been whipped, and deprived of sleep. Yet there is a softness, a tenderness that touches my heart as his eyes light upon me. He grimaces as he tries to smile at me through the pain.
Curious, I follow on. A crowd is running alongside, and behind us, and in front. There are angry shouts, accusations and curses hurled at the man. Some laugh, and taunt, while others shake their heads in disgust.
Eventually we come to the place of the execution, a high spot so that all passing by the city can see. I draw close to the man, who finally required assistance in bearing his heavy load. He looks at me with interest, the pain still clouding his eyes. The soldiers stand around him, afraid that some zealot might break through the ranks to deliver the prisoner.
“Nail my hands to the cross,” he says in a low and kind voice. It is not a plea, but a command.
Startled, I step back, repulsed by the thought. “I will not pierce your tender flesh with these ragged nails!” I protest.
“You must,” he replies tenderly. “Pick up the nail, position it, then strike with the hammer!”
“I will not!” again I declare.
“You will,” he says sadly. “You will.”
Quite distraught, I cry the third time, “No, I will not, I say!”
“You already have,” the man says softly. “When you lie, you put the nail to my flesh. When you envy your neighbor, you pick up the hammer. When you speak God’s name in vain, you strike a solid blow. When you lust in your heart, you drive the nail deep. When money becomes your God, you pin me to the crossbeam. Blow after blow, you secure me. You can not control your tongue, you have malice in your heart, you hold grudges, refusing to forgive. You see people starving, and sick and weak, lost souls, and you do nothing to help. With each sin, the hammer rises and falls, the nails piercing skin and muscle and veins. My back is bloodied with the whip cuts intended for you, and because of you, I die upon this cross.”
I look down and see the bloody nails and the hammer in my hands. Horrified, I fall to my knees in shock and dismay. “My Lord, and my God!”
02 April 1999 Copyright © Bernie Parsons
Altar Of Abortion
Joy of life
Under the knife,
An unheard voice--
A woman's choice.
The baby screams
While mother dreams.
Safety of womb
Becomes silent tomb,
Another life lost--
And at what cost?
Copyright © Bernie Parsons 15 Nov 2000
Angel With A Broken Wing
Angel with a broken wing,
Whose broken spirit can not sing
Until healed by the King--
Set me free to fly again,
Heal me to fly again.
Broken-hearted yet I pine
For heavenly treasure not yet mine
Purify me, and my soul refine--
Help my broken spirit mend
So that I might fly again.
Lord, lift me up on wings of love
To that sweet paradise above,
Snow-white cleansing in the blood
So that I might fly once again,
Heal me to fly again.
I want to fly again!
09 April 1999 Copyright ©1999 Bernie Parsons Back To Top
Who Am I?
Who am I? I ask myself,
What makes me who I am?
How did I get here from there?
Where do I go from here?
The answer leaves me wanting more.
Vivid moments shape our lives,
Heady moments of youth,
Hardy lessons of age.
Compass points for years to come.
Point to point I am guided.
A prayer here, a Bible verse there.
A death. A birth. A crime. A sin.
A kind word, or a harsh one.
A preacher’s sermon, or words of a child.
Redeeming blood of the Lamb of God.
Where am I? I ask myself,
What brought me to this place in life?
Who brought me to where I am?
Who will guide me to where I go?
The answer lies outside myself.29 April 2004 Copyright ©2004 Bernie Parsons
A Pleasant Rest At Home
The pleasant day draws quickly to a close,
The crimson sunset fades into the west,
Long shadows of the evening abide,
A star rides on the night, a lonely quest.
I look back across the day and search my heart—
Have I done well in all that I have done?
Have I achieved my goals, or carelessly
Left some important chore somewhere undone?
The time grows short, the black of night is come,
Tired body soon will sleep in endless rest—
And will my soul go home to whence it came,
To that sweet land reserved for righteous blessed?
O, Mighty God, I lay my burdens down,
I leave these pains, and aching, weary bones,
I leave this riddled flesh and all its woes,
Please take me to my pleasant rest at home.
13 January 2007 Copyright ©2007 Bernie Parsons
Lord, Help Thou My Unbelief!
Would that I could save my family—
Lord knows I thought that I could
When I was young and naïve.
The intervening years have taught me much,
Bringing so much sadness with realization.
Truth hurts, so add that to my rich
Storehouse of pain and grief.
Would that I could save my children—
Baptized in the river of tears that I cry,
Living water that cannot save.
Would that I could save the world—
But One has already died for that.
Largely ignored, misunderstood
Because there is such a shortage of belief.
I believe, but my faith is weak,
Smaller than a mustard seed.
If only I could truly believe…
If only my tears could save my family—
Baptized in the regret, sorrow, and woe
Of wasted years and ignorance.
Lord, help Thou my unbelief!
07 November 2007 Bernie Parsons Copyright ©2007
