True riches

How rich the treasures I received
On father’s knees and mother’s arms,
Where worldly cares are not perceived
And ears are deaf to vain alarms.

Oh sweet, sweet bliss of childhood days,
When Christ was preached by word and deed,
When Scripture guided all our ways
And God supplied our every need!

True riches these, that brighter grow
And far outshine world’s choicest gold!
Please help me, Lord, to always show
That fear of God grows never old!

26/07/07
© W. J. Watterson

More

What is “more”?
    The lack of tears,
    The death of fears,
Or something more?

What is “more”?
    A blissful life
    Devoid of strife,
Or something more?

What is “more”?
    A loving look,
    A gentle brook,
Or something more?

Ah! What is “more”?
    A path well trod,
        A life for God,
            That is “more”!

(06/04/2004)
© W. J. Watterson

Pressing on

I’m swimming swiftly ‘gainst the tide,
And deaf to cries from every side.
My last old fear has had to hide,
And all alone I’m pressing on.

The tide is strong, a hand of steel
Whose grip has caused old foes to kneel.
But not admitting what I feel,
With stubborn will I’m pressing on.

For who can stop my onward flight?
Rock and wind disturb the fight,
But God’s blest home is in my sight…
With prayerful heart, I’m pressing on!

(11/09/1999 — Santarém)
© W. J. Watterson

A still, small voice

I Kings 19:11-18

 The wind swooped down on piercing wings,
Spreading forth its ageless fears,
Grasping rocks as one who clings
To hopeless dreams of bygone years;
    Anguished, screaming wind…
    But God was not in the wind.

And then an angry, swelling roar;
The Earth was trembling, raging
Like a stallion who no more
Can call the winds and take them racing;
    I felt my strength begin to shake,
    But God was not in the earthquake.

A fire next, burning hot,
Strong and proud as one who claims
To know each person’s hope and lot,
Spitting out its stubborn flames,
    Reaching up, higher and higher…
    But God was not in the fire.

And then a still, small voice;
“What doest thou here?” “I, Lord…”
“No, Elijah” (still a gentle voice!)
“Not you — I have kept my faithful word,
    Not by might, nor by power,
    But by My Spirit. That is power!”

Oh, Lord! How often do we scream,
And strain, and burn with human power;
Our lives, at times, would scarcely seem
To be depending on Thy power.
    Teach us, Lord, to cease our noise,
    And hear thy still and gentle voice.

(08/1994)
© W. J. Watterson

Teach us, Lord ...

The path is steep,
The vales are deep,
And rocks and thorns might make us fall;
And yet, dear Lord,
Within Thy Word
We find provision for it all.

No need to fear,
No need to hear
The mocking taunts of worldly pride;
For day by day
In all our way
We know that Thou art by our side.

Oh Lord! but why
Do we still cry?!?
We seem so frail, so weak and small,
So deaf, so blind,
So slow of mind
To grasp Thy power, our All in All!

Teach us, Lord, to trust and wait…

(11/93)
© W. J. Watterson

Born again

The expression "born again" that the Lord used to Nicodemus can mean "born from above".

Born again, from up above,
Not of man, or flesh, or blood;
Born with power from up above,
Cleansed beneath a crimson flood.

Born of water and the Spirit,
Born to live a higher life.
May we follow, then, His Spirit
Till He come to end our strife.

(02/91)
© W. J. Watterson

Is it nothing to you?

“Is it nothing to you?” (Lamentations 1:12)

Think of Christ, the El-Shaddai,
Coming down to earth to die,
To shed His blood for you and I;
    Is it nothing to you?

Hear Him crying on that tree,
Alone, all alone at Calvary:
“My God, why hast thou forsaken me?”
     Is it nothing to you?

Can a heart be so ungrateful,
Still ashamed of such a Lord?
Can a soul be so ungrateful,
Holding back from such a Lord?

“Is it nothing to you?”

(03/02/93)
© W. J. Watterson

Grandma Watterson

Written 29 years ago, after Grandma died.

I dreamt that heaven’s hosts were singing
In a different, special way;
Every voice in rapture ringing
In a different, special way.

I stopped to hear, and wondered why
Their song seemed sweeter, more sublime;
And then I saw a soul draw nigh
And bow before the Lord of Time.

I saw my grandma place her crown
Before His feet in humble praise;
I saw His pierced hand reach down,
And heaven hushed beneath His gaze.

Her praise was silent, pure and fervent,
As I heard Him gently say:
“Well done, good and faithful servant”.
Then I saw Him turn my way.

“Would you rather take her back”, He said,
“To face the pains and tears of life?
Dry your tears, My son, and think instead
Of all the joys of her new life”.

I awoke, then, and understood
That she is resting now in peace.
Oh Lord! Hasten, please, the glorious day
When all these partings shall have ceased.

(1990)
© W. J. Watterson

Thy ways, Lord

Let me see, dear Lord,
The way that Thou hast planned for me;
Let me tread, dear Lord
 The path that leads me nearer Thee.

A heartfelt cry invades the night,
And splits the stars in countless parts;
I tried to stop it’s rushing flight,
But echoes poured from broken hearts.

My hopes are drenched with bitter tears,
As dark despair surrounds my dreams;
My spirit seem a slave of fears,
My eyes keep shedding lava-streams.

I only see the present day,
But give me, Lord, the strength to stand
And watch my troubles pass away,
Until I reach Thy golden strand.

I’d rather bear these dreary days
And know that Thou art by my side,
Than walk in peace in my own ways
And sense the emptiness inside.

Let me see, dear Lord,
The way that Thou hast planned for me;
Let me tread, dear Lord,
The path that leads me nearer Thee.

(22/07/90)
© W. J. Watterson

Grandma Maxwell

Written over 30 years ago, after Grandma died.

Oh Lord, how happy Thou must be
To have her now so close to Thee;
To see her bow before Thy throne
And give Thee fruits of all she’s sown.

Oh Lord, how happy she must be
To know Thee in Thy majesty,
To praise Thy name with rapturous song,
A special voice amidst that throng.

Oh Lord, how happy we should be
To see her leave, but not to flee;
We know she’s waiting for that day
When Thou shalt bring us home to stay.

Oh Lord, how happy then we’ll be,
United with herself and Thee;
We long to praise Thy name so blest,
 And join her in her blissful rest.

(19/12/88)
© W. J. Watterson

Creator

(Can be sung to the tune of “Some day the silver chord will break”)

I see the power of God revealed
In Nature’s great, mysterious ways;
Its boundless hoards will always yield
To their Creator precious praise.
    And Heaven and Earth, and land and sea,
    Declare to all Thy majesty.

I see again the graceful sweep
Of mountains willing to remain
In touch with Earth, though high and steep
They raise their heads above the rain;
    While Heaven and Earth, and land and sea,
    Are singing hymns of praise to Thee.

I see the proud, unheeding rush
Of mighty rivers through the land;
I see the waves rear up and crush
Their powerful rage upon the sand;
    While Heaven and Earth, and land and sea,
    Are praising still Thy majesty.

A tree lifts up its leafy boughs
As if in blessing o’er the flowers;
While close at hand another bows
To feel the scent of those same flowers;
    While Heaven and Earth, and land and sea,
    Ring out their joyful songs to Thee.

Oh Lord, how little do we see,
How poor our estimate of Thee;
Let Nature’s voice our teacher be;
Lord, let us grasp Thy majesty;
    While Heaven and Earth, and land and sea,
    Still praise Thee for Thy majesty.

Our praise, so weak, now thrills our ear,
We stutter on, in song and verse;
But, oh! The joy when we shall hear
The voice that made the Universe!
    Then Heaven and Earth, and land and sea,
    Shall join us as we sing to Thee!
    And angel throngs, in harmony,
    Shall join us as we sing to Thee!

(05/07/88; revised in 31/10/2015)
© W. J. Watterson

I gaze in wonder

(Can be sung to the tune of “When I survey the wondrous cross”)


I gaze in wonder, oh my God,
Upon Thy Son, and feel so small;
I think of how the awful rod
Of Thy just wrath on Him did fall.

His sweat ran down, as drops of blood,
While those He loved were fast asleep;
He poured His heart in one great flood
(He knew that He with death must meet).

His friends all turned and ran away,
And even Thou didst let Him die.
He cried to Thee from darkest day,
But only pain answered His cry.

Dark tears were shed, but all in vain,
For no one saw that He did cry;
There was no one to share His pain,
But all alone my Lord must die.

They tore His flesh, His hands, His feet;
What pain those nails to Him did bring;
But see in every sore heart-beat
The love that from these wounds does spring.

How can I understand the pain
That He did bear upon the tree?
But lest my life be all in vain,
Please let His love be found in me.

(07/09/87)
© W. J. Watterson