My Awesome God 6-3-11

Fanny Crosby 1820-1915

I smell the fragrance of the pines

and hear each nature sound.

Something envelopes my thoughts.

Creation's all around.

I sit for several hours but

I can't a sentence write.

Will I be trying hours more,

to write throughout the night?

You'd have to wear some special shoes

to see my unique view -

yet empty are the words I find

explaining God to you.

So try to close your eyes awhile -

in patience.  It's alright.

I'll pray that angels sprinkle words

to help me say this right...

If you could see His miracles

in all I've been forgiven -

if you could also understand the gifts

to me, that He has given -

I wouldn't need to write one word.

His light, you'd finally see -

and understand my awesome God,

though you aren't blind like me.

©2011 louis gander ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

http:/www.ganderpoems.org/

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Written as I'm reminded of Fanny Crosby (1820-1915), a blind poet who wrote nearly 9,000 poems/hymns such as “Pass me not, O gentle Saviour,” “Sweet hour of prayer,” “Safe in the arms of Jesus,” “All the way my Saviour leads me,” “Jesus is tenderly calling thee home,” “I am thine, O Lord,” “Rescue the perishing,” “Speed away,” “Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine,” and “Jesus keep me near the Cross"..

Once a Scotch minister remarked to her, “I think it is a great pity that the Master, when He showered so many gifts upon you, did not give you sight.”
She answered: “Do you know that, if at birth I had been able to make one petition to my Creator, it would have been that I should be made blind?”
“Why?” asked the surprised preacher.
 “Because, when I get to heaven, the first face that shall ever gladden my sight will be that of my Saviour.”*

 *Moseley H. Williams, The Sunday School World, (Lesson for Aug. 19, 1900 The man born blind, Applications and Illustrations) pg. 302

The Old Model T 8-6-10

Way back when, in nineteen twelve
a Model T was born.
It rolled past a tumble weed
and field of planted corn.

It traveled several old dirt roads.
It traveled very far.
Its horn played every gospel tune,
on strings, with its guitar.

Then one day it fell in love.
The grille turned up a grin.
It found a younger Cadillac -
her horn, a mandolin.

Each week they'd do their gospel sing,
then park in their garage.
And after 'while, five new cars -
their faithful entourage.

It beat me playing horse shoes.
Its 'ringers' made a 'cling'.
It fixed up several houses
and did most everything.

It's need, at times, an oil change,
that slowed it down a bit -
but motor strong, would always purr,
and never, ever quit.

But time did get the best of it -
I think it so unjust -
that this great antique auto
could tarnish, peel and rust.

Suspensions seemed to weaken,
It creaked some here and there.
It'd sometimes blow a gasket
and need one more repair.

Mechanics kept it going
with reasons of 'because'.
It would, at times, need greasin' -
but active, always was.

Many other newer cars
would have an 'accident'.
Disgarded, they were totalled -
and to a junkyard sent.

But this one kept on singing
through every single week -
despite some old parts missing
and battery still weak.

Then slowing to a snails crawl -
for it was not as quick -
I noticed headlights dim a bit.
To 'LOW' it moved the stick.

Oil pools were sometimes found
from places still unknown -
but not a grinding gear you'd hear,
complainings or a groan.

Upholstery did get moldy,
dried and wrinkled, thin -
but gasoline was in its tank.
Some spark was still within.

Sometimes parked in home museums,
folks would gather 'round -
to hear those old, old stories.
I'd hear horns toot the sound.

Then one day this Model T
'tween fenders, under hood -
sputtered some - its engine coughed
with filter plugged up good.

Yet many years, I know not how
it kept on coming back.
I think its little secret was
that big ol' Cadillac.

Ninety eight long years went by,
with memories by the score -
but finally that old motor quit.
It couldn't run no more.

That Cadillac was by his side
'ere since they 'tied the knot',
She never left him in the cold -
she never had forgot.

My memories fade, but never die.
This car, through visions see,
but all great stories have to end -
as with this Model T.

Gaylord K. Gander
May 1, 1912 - Aug. 6, 2010
(my father)

©2010 louis gander - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
http://www.ganderpoems.org/

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