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Come hear my voice, O God, in my complaint; And guard my life from dreaded enemies, To hide me from the schemes of evil men, From all the tumult of iniquities, From those whose sharpened tongue, a slashing sword, Sends bitter speech, an arrow strung and aimed To take my life, to shoot the blameless; they Have no regard for fearing God, but strained In secrecy to set a snare for me, And think that they can get away with sin; But You will shoot them with an arrow straight And wound and pierce them through; they curse again Themselves–not me or You–caught in the snare They set; and showing folly of their aim, They make all shake their heads in right reproach And turn to You from every lesser name, Considering the deeds of Your right hand, The mighty works through ages You have wrought, The righteous to preserve in refuge glad But all Your enemies to bring to naught. Based on Psalm 64
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Oh, the joy of the trial--
Not the fact of nor the while-- Is the forging by the fire Of a faith that will not tire, Of a life with dross removed, By the trial tested, proved. My Savior and Judge, to you I commit
My spirit, my life, the judgment I fear-- To you, who the righteous by faith will acquit; To you, who the guilty by no means will clear. Come quickly in judgment, give ear to my plea: Yes, mercy for thousands, but mercy for me. Free us, O Lord, from all trials looming
Over our lives and, like cloudier day, Blocking the light that seeks to illumine By casting a shadow, obscuring the way. Save us, O Lord, from darkness foreboding, Impending, depressing; and dimming the eye, Straining by faith to see what is written In Script of cloudier ink from the Sky. Consider me in my affliction;
Come, my troubled heart relieve; Do not tarry, nor be absent, From my anguish give reprieve; Consider all the sorrow swelling; From the depths of woe, receive My voice of lamentation raised; Turn a gracious ear to me; Consider all the trials pressing ‘Round, my wearied heart to grieve; Come, O Lord, the promised Savior, Let me to your promise cleave; Come, afflicted, gentle Savior, Lowly, come abide with me. Console me, O Great Comforter,
The paraklete my pain who bears, Who makes acquaintance with my grief And all my stinging sorrow shares. Console me, O Great Counselor, My helper all my cries who hears, Who meets me in the searing loss And wipes away my troubled tears. Console me, O Great Spirit God, Pneumatic breath new life who gives, Who hovers o'er the graven ground And breathes the final word: "He lives." We buried Dad today--
The sky was darkened grey And cloudy, as my mind And eyes, with rain behind Held back like buried grief, A torrent underneath The guise of grey and gloom, Not seeing past the tomb: The body freed from toil, A Sabbath in the soil. In memoriam Carl Price
One day our God will breathe upon your graven ground again And bring to life מן־האדמה a new אדם therein; Corporeal dust transfigured, formed to breathe the Spirit’s breath, You’ll sing the Savior’s providence in victory over death. |
writer
Michael Price - I am a husband, father of three, poet, and science teacher at a classical Christian school in Memphis, TN. I have four volumes of poetry. My latest volume The Shadowed Night can be purchased by clicking on the button below. 
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