Roses are red
A beard can appear quite unprofessional.
Even neatly trimmed and groomed
Others find your personality hesitational.
The solution is insolvable
Culture takes time to change.
If you’re born in this era
A beard is too strange.
If you want to be seen
With eyes of esteem.
Take a razor to your skin
And try not to bleed.
I slept like a baby
I sleep like a man.
One day I will sleep
And never wake again.
If that day should come
Sooner than I think,
I know that I’ll be ready
For I have seen a shrink.
My shrink has made me happy
Better, I am sure.
I understand my problems
Still I have no cure.
A cure is not important
As long as I feel sane.
I do not need perfection
I don’t need to explain.
It started with my mother
It started with my dad
It started way before
I ever knew that it was bad.
And now that I have been
Through lots of therapy
I understand my sickness
Never started out with me.
So, should I die too early
With nothing to my name,
My conscience will be clear
For I am not to blame.
My worship I bring, but it is my worship I am ashamed of
For my worship reveals what I am made of.
The way I worship reveals where I came from
Who I worship reveals where I am going
My passion may serve as a fuel for my devotion
But it is too fickle to maintain strength for its foundation.So how does one worship; where is it found?
Is it in a home; is it in the streets of the city
Is it whispered in a ear; is it shouted rom the rooftops
Is it sung in a song; is it proclaimed from the pulpit
Is it in the fragile innocence of a young voice
Is it in the humble “yes” as an obedient reply
Is it washing the dishes or making the bed
Is it in bowing your head to pray; is it buying someone’s meal?
In leaving the service of church I heard it said, “worship was good today!”
Is worship to be evaluated, do you hold a scale to measure
The worth of those things offered before Your throne
And if so, is that scale not a cross which redeems all things offered.
Until equal perfection with those things holy…
There once was a man from New York
Who always ate dinner with a spork.
Today when he dined
Opened a bottle of wine
And poked his eye out with the cork.
Surely I was sinful at birth
And I lived in vain
Surely I was clothed in sin
When you were tender to my childlike smile
I was hardened to your touch
Though you reach out Your broad strong arms
I spit on the Potter’s hands
You take my spit and mold me
Take this broken life and break me again
Take Your sacrifice; take my spirit of shame
Hold my hand for I am lame
Hold me like an infant, hold me like a friend
Hold me ’til I can walk again.
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