Mild Wild Pinks

How tame and mild are the Wild Pinks,
so-called because they grow in wild places,
because they have so many flower links,
because they grow so free in various spaces.
In upland, marsh, wood, waste, roadside and field,
 we see the Allwood, Indian, Maiden, Moss,
their starlike blossoms' many colored yield
as fifty species' cultivar hundreds cross.
The hardy families Pink, Carnation, Phlox
join Lily, Orchid and Dianthus breeds;
good for ground cover, border, window box,
most show notched petals prettier than weeds.
The Greeks named the Clove Pink the "divine flower"
while God's Pinks brag His versatile beauty power.

                                      -- by Pete Voelz      2002

Irregular Prayer

My regular prayer I pray irregularly,
there’s always something getting in my way,
while my soul prays, “Nearer my God to Thee,”
my prayer life tends to drift from day to day.
I take each prayer and try to nail it down,
attach it to a regular thing I do,
if I just let them loose, I almost drown,
but one Hail Mary goes on with my shoe.
I grab a Morning Offering for my sox,
an Our Father with a shirt to wear,
each floating prayer ends in a little box,
my wardrobe--on and off--becomes a prayer.
If this, Lord, helps make it more regular,
my prayer life is more likely to endure.

                    -- by Pete Voelz      11/25/11

The Car Ballet

(My favorite poem of all)

My son and I were five years old
when we met at a car ballet;
the street we rolled was a carpet gold
for the auto play-by-play.

I had never seen this boy before
when our rendezvous began;
he was crouched on the floor as I stepped in the door,
so I knelt down beside a sedan.

It followed his car as if by design,
and his squealed without surprise,
but he checked the whine when his glance met mine
with a curious look in his eyes.

His car was a little red tin Ford,
mine a green Chevrolet;
his screeched and roared at a high-pitched chord
when my growl warned his car away.

His crashed on the ground and flew through the air
while mine meandered by;
he streaked with flair down a thoroughfare,
as I drove into the sky.

I was forty-six going on five
as my car swooped over a bridge,
but I was young and alive and I sure could drive
in that dim old orphanage.

We had left America far away,
my daughter, my wife and I,
to fly all day to a car ballet
across the bright Asian sky.

As we walked down the Bangkok boulevard
I suddenly just had to run,
and my heart beat hard as I raced through the yard
to see my adopted son.

He climbed atop an old divan
with his tin Ford tightly clutched,
and our two cars ran along man-to-man
'til our bumpers barely touched.

Then sped away to almost hide,
but before I could count to ten,
all mischiefied he pulled up aside,
and we bumped again and again.

His speedy car I could not outchase,
as the sun could not outshine
the grin on his face at the end of the race
when his eyes looked up into mine.

Oh, East is East and West is West
and never the twain shall meet,
except when you're five in overdrive,
two boys on a carpet street.

Yes, my son and I were five years old
when we met at a car ballet,
and that hour of gold has never grown cold
through our years of play-by-play.

                -- by Pete Voelz        1998

Faith Flowers

Our faith, like flowers, leaves us desiring more--
the tulip could not satisfy demand
until the bubble burst with bulbs galore--
so God as we approach withdraws His hand.
Each garden for all our sweat seems incomplete--
perrenial lilies disappoint again
as our unanswered prayers fade in defeat--
so Christ made Easter bloom beyond our ken.
No matter how much flowers may fade away--
more daisies come again as we but gaze
and dandelions swamp in ricochet--
so saturates the Lord our faith malaise.
As we await Impatiens impatiently--
our faith is restless 'til it rests in Thee.*

                      -- by Pete Voelz          2000

(Paraphrasing St. Augustine: “Our hearts
are restless, Lord, until they rest in Thee.”)

God's Promises

God keeps His promises, I keep my prayers,
I ask for bread, He will not give a stone,
I keep awake so not caught unawares
by God’s dear call, nor by the devil’s drone.
God keeps His promises, Our Lady said
in her magnificent Magnificat,
for humble, hungry poor, a lot of bread,
and finally heaven, better than Camelot.
God keeps His promises, believe the psalms,
on Judgment Day, the proud will reap the sword,
but for the humble there will be no qualms,
especially for the ones who fear the Lord.
The God Who keeps them for eternity
will faithfully keep His promises to me.

                        -- by Pete Voelz      11/26/11

Faith Is Not Blind

Faith is not blind,
there is a world to see.
Sorrels and stars,
quasars and gars,
pulsars and knars--
made for us free--
did not just come to be.

Faith does not bind,
but falls on feet fixed firm.
Planted in picotees,
rooted in rosaries,
girded in galaxies,
(or professed in poetries),
no squirming wraith or worm,
faith is a pachyderm.

Faith is not seen,
yet it has eyes to see
love--in the moon above,
gene--in the evergreen,
God--in the goldenrod,
Word, from the Gospel, heard
softly in me.

Faith's not routine,
for it comes with a price--
cost of what has been lost,
doubt that we're missing out,
between unseen and seen,
always some sacrifice,
but, by the best advice,
well worth it--paradise.

-- by Pete Voelz     2000

The Poor Flowers

The poorest flowers are richer than we know,
drenched in a beauty far beyond our yield,
no Solomons arrayed in all their show
can match a little lily in the field.
We dress our homes with blooms we like so much
and plait the purple larkspurs on our clothes,
the violets feel like velvet to our touch,
our perfume is the aroma of the rose.
Like cloistered nuns whose spirituality
lies hidden behind bars and under veils,
the sanctity of sage is hard to see,
God lurks beneath a daffodil's details.
In all our works of beauty we are rich,
but nothing like a daisy in the ditch.

                  -- by Pete Voelz          2000

Fragile Freedom

Fragile Freedom

Each day I go to church because I wish,
my radical autonomy secure,
I could as well go to the lake to fish,
or go online to some website impure.
God made us free with every little thing,
with choices lasting to eternity,
of my own thoughts and aims I am the king,
I can disdain most rulings over me.
I choose to make God master and my Lord,
His gift of freedom I return to Him,
His slave a while, His heaven my reward,
though He fills too my cup here to the brim.
O God, help me to choose You every day,
in case my fragile freedom starts to stray.

                          -- by Pete Voelz       7/08

Painted Fire

The Indian Paintbrush seems to be on fire,
this flashing flower named also Paintedcup,
its green bracts streaking red as they grow higher,
'til all their tips are scarlet highest up.
On hillsides, ledges, prairies, meadows, fields,
the painted blossoms' hundred species glow,
from Maine and Canada on West their yields
on upright stems from one to two feet grow.
The state flower of Wyoming is the Red,
though some are red and yellow or just yellow;
the painted tips all cluster at the head,
like painted feathers on an Indian fellow.
Who paints these bright blooms with such fine finesse
fires us with warm love too--and tenderness.

                                -- by Pete Voelz           2001

Faith and Fact

I love You, Lord, in faith, if not in fact.
How can I love someone I’ve never met?
Though met in faith, God always does attract
our love, for we owe Him so great a debt.
And yet this God, in fact we sometimes meet,
we constantly find Him in history,
when He makes miracles, it’s God we greet,
He intervenes with His theophany.
And when God came from heaven in Jesus Christ,
as much by fact as faith we have believed,
Who lived, then for our sins was sacrificed,
Whose factual, credible story we received.
O God, my love for You has solid ground,
yet fuller felt by faith than fact I’ve found.

                        -- by Pete Voelz      11/21/11

What Does a Flower Say?

What does a dahlia have to say
inside its scented resume?
Do you think horticulturalists
may miss a bit of analysis?

Prune around a rosary,
contemplate a fleur-de-lis,
take a whiff of potpourri,
see there's more than we can see.

From when the lilacs reappear
to when chrysanthemums grow sear,
listen and let the violet volunteer--
"there's more to us than you can hear."

Plant magnolias on the boulevard,
hoe the rhododendrons around the yard,
look for poison foxglove or healthy goldenseal--
"there's more to us than you can feel."

Gather perfume from the spotted touch-me-not,
the Spanish jasmine and blue forget-me-not,
as the bloodroot, bleeding heart, and sumac tell,
"there's more to all of us than you can smell."

Hail the honeybee in his Holland hyacinth,
the hummingbird sipping in her nectar labyrinth,
willing to admit of the sepals they have traced--
there's more to them than the honey you can taste.

Christmas red poinsettias and mistletoe,
and Easter's pure white lilies know,
like Bhuddist lotus and orchid pink,
there's more to them than thieves may think.

Stem and pistil, stigma and style
hiding narratives all the while;
petal and pollen, bud and bloom
speak out loud--though silent as a tomb.

The tiger lily when uncontrolled
gossips silly with the merry marigold.
And everyday dainty daffodils rehearse
the mystic secrets of the universe.

Wild and perrennial, fern and frond,
with whom do they commonly correspond?
weed and garden, seed and sod,
ricochet radiograms from God.

Every blossom is a family even--
black-eyed Susan or purple Steven--
male and female, if not self-mated,
by the birds and the bees are pollinated.

From heather and petunia and sweet William
the winds blow a veritable emporium,
as little children flower seeds go on to become
gardenia, begonia and geranium.

Fields full of poppies and tulips too
sing the seasons' life-death song anew
and in the dawn's breeze genuflect
to all that we of little faith neglect.

Behold all the flowers around the earth
flow up together to heaven's girth--
from buttercup and beautybush to goldenrod--
to grow a majestic robe for God.

If a diamond's hidden, a dandelion's in view,
if diamonds are forever, morning glories are new;
see the dead diamond, its secrets unfold,
while the honeysuckle's stories live untold.

Are we like columbines, our features in view
with real hidden selves inside more true?
Unlike the diamonds that someday disappear,
we will, like the sunflowers, return every year.

If we, like a daisy, remain faithful to
our great Creator and the inner self so true,
then our life, like the larkspurs' brief blossoming,
will be resurrected in a glorious spring.

As forsythia reveal their golden-bell career,
can we unlock our inner selves as clear?
Does the bird-of-paradise give a gentle hint to us
of the need to remember our final terminus?

Once I prayed for St. Therese the Little Flower to bring
as a favor some roses in a melancholy spring;
they appeared as if by magic everywhere I turned
for St. Therese delivers whenever asked, I learned.

The last that arrived as if in a mirage
a dozen giant roses on a bush by the garage;
I picked the largest rose for the mantleplace
to enjoy a while longer in big green vase.

Finally I tested her with a hopeful prayer
to show me some rose petals falling through the air,
and at midnight so gently like evening snows
there floated to my feet half the petals on that rose.

If a zinnia's secrets are mostly inside,
can Christ in the Eucharist also hide?
If God can put so much in a crocus bed,
can He secret Himself in a wafer of bread?

Why are there two hundred fifty thousand kinds?
Why were two-thirds of plants and vines
created as flowers, every color that's seen
in a multi-varied rainbow breaking up the green?

For parades and arrangements, festivals and floats,
for landscaping and leis, dresses, shirts and coats,
for corsages and still life, swains and cavaliers,
fragrances and photos, songs and sonneteers.

For seasoning or a hobby, gardening or a wreath,
or maybe just a lovely rose for Carmen in her teeth;
for holidays and seasons, Valentines and prom,
for secretaries, lovers, religious feasts and mom.

We need them for the wedding, altar, bride and nave,
they salve our grief at funerals and rest upon the grave;
in botanical city gardens and nurseries they are bred,
living in the greenhouse or cut and dried and dead.

We pick a favorite flower for nation, state and self,
for table decoration or just to set upon the shelf;
they symbolize expressions, emotions or respect,
we give them in remembrance or just for an effect.

We hardly know they're coming from such a tiny seed,
and some we kill or just ignore and treat them like a weed;
yet they bring us joy and beauty, the best that we can see,
so we often give to those we love a flower's poetry.

Apple, orange and cherry, peach and elderberry
blossom into food that we pick from a tree;
do we alike bloom on our itinerary
to bear healthy fruit like the broccoli?

So how to say goodbye to a princess Di,
or to children gunned down in a schoolhouse hell?
With bouquets of belladonna at the site to beautify,
with laurel, pansy, peony and canterbury bell.

What does a clover have to say
as a part of His blooming menagerie?
Do you think we all may tend to miss
a bit in our analysis?

                       -- by Pete Voelz         1999

(Dedicated to my sister-in-law, 

Becky, who will likely enjoy

this more than anyone else.)

God Open

I want You, God, but first I must be open,
yet how to have You if my heart is closed?
Your Holy Spirit I will put my hope in
to see true me, not just the one I’ve posed.
To have faith, Lord, I open up my mind,
to gain some knowledge to find some belief,
I want informed faith, not just faith that’s blind,
full faith in You, God Father, yields relief.
O Christ, I’m open to Your charity,
I want my soul to welcome in Your grace,
to give Your hope and faith and love to me,
so I can openly reflect Your face.
Please open, God, my heart, mind, soul to You,
so You, Lord, I may be more open to.

                   -- by Pete Voelz      11/19/11

(Inspired by a friend who opened himself
to God and God came in.)

Flower Faith

The flowers show their faith in many ways.
Some, like the Velvetleaves, will hide for years
their seeds within the ground 'til better days,
while Larkspurs thrive despite their Mary Tears.
Some, like the Snow in Summer, mock their date,
to cover sunny ground with their cold white,
as others, like the Dandelion, wait
for dawn to end their covering up at night.
Some, like the Toadflax, wait for hummingbirds
to drink the nectar from their long spur pipe,
as others, like the Pitcher Plant, draw herds
of protein laden bugs of every stripe.
If helping life or as assassinator,
the flowers show their faith in their Creator.

                            -- by Pete Voelz         2000

Dignity and Worth

I am worthwhile, that’s what God says to me,
God don’t make junk, I never should get down
on myself since He gives me dignity,
He’s saving up for me a golden crown.
The troubles that I struggle with down here,
I know God lets them happen as a test,
He helps me pray so He can interfere,
together we can fight, together rest.
I must be worth a lot for Him to share
His mighty Godliness with me so much,
His love, forgiveness, mercy, constant care;
my stubborn heart He reaches out to touch.
Amidst my problems, Lord, I’m still worthwhile,
with dignity from You enough to smile.

                    -- by Pete Voelz        10/18/11

How Does a Flower Pray?

How does a little primrose pray--
better alone or in a bouquet?
Whatever would it have to say
if it's only programmed DNA?

Is a gladiola glad
to make us so instead of sad?
Does it rejoice itself in ways
that only God can see as praise?

And does St. Peterswort somehow
sail its prayers through heaven's gate,
while poor Job's tears, despite its bow
and pearly seedpods, has to wait?

Is there some fragrant mystery
in the hibiscus' history
that telegraphs by roundelay,
a secret God-communique?

Which aspect pleases Him the most--
the scent or shape or color?
Of pink or red that hawthorns boast,
do brighter beat out duller?

Can we with an arrangement make
a hymn more lovely than a mandrake?
Can landscaping or a flower show
worship as well as a tuckahoe?

Would bunches of mock bishop's weed
pray near a drooping devil's bit?
Would a scarlet cardinal flower bleed
if a devil's paintbrush painted it?

Doesn't the Jack in the pulpit preach
as powerful as human speech?
And don't Madonna's songs seem silly
next to a Madonna lily?

Do petals in a cruciform,
like colorful St. Andrew's cross,
raise up their arms throughout the storm
like Moses did to block the loss?

So why do flower prayers not have pull
like that of our prayers, sinners all,
and fade, for all their beauty full,
like freezing frostweed in the fall?

              -- by Pete Voelz     1999

Love and Sin

Though full of sin, I still am loved by God,
my sins hurt Him, yet He loves me a lot,
that I keep sinning anyway seems odd,
my sins should end His love, but they do not.
I am commanded to love God the most,
with all my strength and heart and mind and soul,
yet my obedience I cannot boast,
for don't my sins on His love take their toll?
St. Paul says love is patient, love is kind,
in psalms God's merciful, to anger slow.
How long will He to my sins be resigned?
How far can I presume before I know?
God's love will separate my sins from me,
but first my own free choice must set me free.

                        -- by Pete Voelz        11/10

If All Men Stopped Their Love

If all men stopped their love, would I stop too?
If all would cease to care, would I still care?
If no one loved You still, would I love You
in that same way that even now is rare?
If mankind watered down its love for God,
would I stay faithful to His love for me?
If I felt following Him was truly odd,
would I give up and from His rule break free?
I see our paganing culture drift apart
from all God's loving ways I know are true;
I feel the constant tugging at my heart
to quit unpopular paths and try the new.
O God, if I do drift I pray the more--
take me to loving You the day before.

                  -- by Pete Voelz        2000

God's Care

God cared for me before I cared for Him,
in fact, He had to teach me how to care,
that caring’s real, the opposite of whim,
so when my care began, He put it there.
This God of care gave all our care a name,
and taught me through the family that I knew,
and once I cared, I never was the same,
and being loved, I said, “I love you too.”
It was His love that made them love me so,
I came to love Him by love they showed me,
He teaches love through caring ones I know,
and then to love or not, He made me free.
O God, Your loving care’s both skill and art,
I practice it with loving hand and heart.

                         -- by Pete Voelz     11/13/11

Flower Grams

God strews about His news without a blossom,
though He'd prefer some seedlings were nearby;
it's not He can't without them plant so awesome,
but so His view they grow to beautify.

All flowers hold His powers told anew
with prayer the eye can barely spy at first;
some botany, theology and too
some art we need to chart His seed dispersed.

The goldenrod has told us God exists,
in thirty kinds of flowers our minds behold
its big invasive vigor--O atheists,
you might as well deny the spell of gold.

A bud's color shows God's eternity,
the hue within is true infinity,
its own undying tones' variety
quite is akin to His divinity.

The Triune God shown by the nodding trillium,
that sigh to set their triune petals low
with stunning heads so unlike red sweet William,
draws honor three in one, a free tableau.

Clearcut the bachelor's buttons match the tincture
of Incarnation's male display of blue,
His belly button tells they cut the cincture
all we attach, and He was bachelor too.

Few strive so fleet and thrive--like sweet daylily,
which stay for just a day then must be gone,
to grin a lot again though not look silly,
so He the Light might re-ignite the dawn.

The butterfly bud is but a dud at first,
Christ's natural home a catecomb of power,
the larva's hewn cigar cacoon will burst,
display Transfiguration's bigger flower.

The bird of paradise is there like heaven,
racemes aglow, it gleams corolla bright,
red stamen sticks are rayed to six or seven,
with plumes that shine in blooms enshrining light.

                             -- by Pete Voelz       1999

The There God

It does not matter where, You are with me,
it does not matter where, I am with You,
You are, O God, where You’re supposed to be,
when I’m with You, that’s where I should be too.
If we’re not close like we were, guess who moved,
sometimes I want to run away and hide,
by distancing myself, what have I proved?
Can I escape a God Who lives inside?
From Your love I can never get away,
impossible! I shouldn’t even try,
it’s only good You give me every day,
You guard my sorry soul until I die.
O God, You strengthen me no matter where,
I know without You I don’t have a prayer.

                        -- by Pete Voelz      11/11/11

Flowering Freedom

Do daffodils love God more so than I,
locked as they are into obedience,
their golden trumpets blaring to the sky,
their lovely petals drenched in innocence?

Does God enjoy the dainty dittany
that bows its blossoming buds in pure respect,
as much as my prayed cadenced litany,
as each adores our common architect?

Does He love more than me the butterfly flower,
its golden-red leaves faithful unto death,
a fragrant corolla crowned with worshiping power,
while I awry sin nigh to my last breath?

Why can't the little creeping St. John's wort
sneak humbly, gently into heaven's court,
or large and golden St. John's chamomile
make brighter old St. Peter's generous smile?

Yet coneflowers can't compare in innocence
to my soul freed from disobedience;
the unfree rose knows no eternity,
while I win heaven with one faithed deed done free.

Such power to grant so great a gift to me,
O freedom, seems a mighty mystery;
could it be when God put His spark in me,
the major part was His own liberty?

Why can I raise my eyes to heaven's gate,
while birds of paradise just vegetate?
O freedom, why must I give God His due?
His merciful love is mightier than you.

                         -- by Pete Voelz    2000

Fierce Love

Love’s wimpy, Lord, so that’s how I love You,
yet it’s fierce when I love someone for real,
so if I want to really love You true,
Your sword of love I need my soul to feel.
For love means sacrifice, and love means pain,
there is no lover does not suffer love;
fierce love’s a blessing, wimpy love’s a bane,
the sacrifice makes love I’m worthy of.
Wimpy’s the love that puts my self out front,
the love that’s just romantic or just lust;
fierce is the love that makes me take the brunt,
that puts the loved one first and’s full of trust.
God, I must love You first by Your command,
fiercely I place my soul’s love in Your hand.

                            -- by Pete Voelz      11/8/11

Sincere Prayer

How can You tell when my prayer's most sincere?
Is it, Lord, when I look You in the eye,
when with my heart I shout so You will hear,
or am I more sincere because I try?
Am I more real when I want something bad,
or I shed tears because I want it more,
or make demands, pray like I'm almost mad,
or pray more prayers than I have prayed before?
I add a sacrifice for quality,
I do persistant prayer stretched over time,
I pray with trust to have humility,
I work to put some praying into rhyme.
O God, so that my praying will be true,
I focus less on me and more on You.

                     -- by Pete Voelz        10/10

Morning Glory God

Our God of glory is a morning God,
at dawn He rises, hasn't been to bed,
to work so early on His morning flowers,
and make sure that His glory has been spread.

God puts a lot into His blooming blossoms
for those that briefly last only a day,
but it's worth all the beauty that He gives it,
for all the glory that won't go away.

God paints the bud blood brightly in the morning,
but then a purplish-blue bloom after noon,
and finally it fades to a lighter hue
before there comes the glory of the moon.

God gives this brightest flower lots of glory,
so much it is part of its bright name,
and as perennial it climbs up a story
to add more to its glory and its fame.

God has more plans to flower its sweet glory,
to charm, amuse and delight humankind
and then to show if blossoms can reveal Him,
and how much He can glorify the blind.

God showers lots of glory on His flowers
and shows His morning glories now to us,
but most of all God spreads only His glory
to here express His own gloriousness.

                        -- by Pete Voelz       2000

Love Mystery

Love is a mystery so it is of God,
true love's a gift from God and thus is given,
as mystery, love's still normal, not so odd,
as gift, love's natural and other-driven.
God does not take, so mostly love's not taken,
love's not just for a part, but for us whole,
love does not leave and leave loved one forsaken,
love leaves a heart and leaves behind a soul.
Eternal God does not just come and go,
true love's from God and so will last the same,
true love must be for real, not just for show,
love cannot go by any other name.
Though mystery, God tells us enough of love,
that love’s from God so must end up above.

                              -- by Pete Voelz        12/10

Flowers Tell Us

Take my hand and then let us not dally
on the moisture, the roots, and the sod,
as we see how each lily of the valley
sings out to the glory of God.

Let us look close here at the hibiscus,
that is so much more pretty than we;
so why does God make such a big fuss
 over little old you and me?

The tulips so rich in their color
give off a most beautiful shine;
though your two lips often look duller,
they're the ones I want closest to mine.

A rose is a rose is a rose,
somebody once pompously said,
but heaven will still fill your own smelly nose
when all the sweet roses are dead.

The showy red live-for-ever flower,
that's loved by the butterflies and bees,
reminds us who see it of our power
to live just as long as we please.

                     -- by Pete Voelz     2001

I Love

I love, a love that comes from God Who placed
His love within my heart so it is good
because it comes from God Who loved and graced
me with His love and showed me that I could.
I pray, the kind of prayer from Him Who planted
it in me by One Who saw my need
to know and love His love and took for granted
I would see His love become a seed.
I see, a seeing made by Him so clear
that if I love the love He gave to me,
my seed of love would bring His love down here
and spread it to the unloved ones I see.
I want, O God of love, to love You more
so I on those You love Your love outpour.

(Dedicated to St. Theresa the Little Flower of
Jesus, who said, “My vocation is to love.”)

                        -- by Pete Voelz      11/4/11

No God Words

One of the defects of the Fall--
we don’t have words to tell it all,
sometimes without the words to use,
mysterious meanings we can lose.

What is the mix of love and fears,
when loving mighty God appears?
And how does He appear to me
with only eyes of faith to see?

How tell the sorrow that we feel
when we can see our sins so real?
How tell the mix of joy and shame
when we’re forgiven for the blame?

And how describe the sense of peace
when all the grief and sorrow cease?
And the affection that we share
when God’s love covers every care?

The limits of our language show
when God lets us His presence know,
and so we’re forced by faith to pray
without discovering the way.

And if no eye has heaven seen,
its happiness no words will glean,
in hope we place our wordless goal,
and in His hands our silent soul.

      -- by Pete Voelz     11/3/11

Adventure God

God’s an adventure like none other here,
one we are barely able to control;
our fearless God tells us to have no fear,
as His adventure role excites the soul.
God takes us by the hand to the unknown,
we follow Him wherever He might lead;
we may feel lost though never left alone,
as He Who feeds the birds fills every need.
He gives us strength where we are mostly weak,
from all the dark, He leads us into light;
out of our silence, teaches us to speak,
our heavy soul raised up, we take to flight.
Far to Your west and east, Your south and north,
with You, Adventure God, we venture forth.

                      -- by Pete Voelz     11/2/11

To Love Christ

O Christ, if I don’t love You with my heart,
then maybe I can love You with my deeds;
to feel affection flow at least in part,
then let me try to follow where love leads.
John writes we only love if we obey
God’s loving laws that He commands us to,
so let my acts speak more than what I say,
for I, like love, am mostly what I do.
Love’s not in only what we sense or feel,
love comes to life and thrives most in our will,
that strong, brave part of heart we must reveal,
that marks our destiny for good or ill.
If I, Lord, want to love You more today,
both heartfelt and true love are on the way.

                             -- by Pete Voelz     11/1/11