VOICES - 4 POEMS

I THOUGHT I COULD OUTRUN HIM

I thought I could outrun Him,
But no one ever does.

He put his hands upon my cheeks
And damped my face with blood.
But I was young and oh, so very young,
I must needs stand off from Him, impatient to be gone.

So I spoke to him, let scorn tinge my voice,
"Why are you now,
Upon the sweet and early morn of my beginning;
You’ve waited since your Father
Set the first hot stars and shaped the firmaments,
And you are old, my Lord,
And I have barely tasted life."

So I turned away,
Let His hands fall from my face
And I ran, but ever did I run
I heard the beat of His demanding feet
And felt His breath course warm upon my nape.

And now the race that never was is done;
I turn and see his beckoning arms spread wide;
Penitent, I stand unto His side.
"Oh, I have run my Lord, but I shall run no more,
Lend me Your hand,
It’s dark beyond the door.

George W. Martin

---

THE JUDGMENT

He stared upon Somolia,
That old and ancient land,
And heard the children crying, and watched the children dying,
Where first the Seed began.

His frame was gaunt with sorrow,
Spent and used and frail.
And from His breast there rose a cry
Like mad Golgotha’s wail.

He said, as if He chewed on wormwood,
"For this no absolution! E’en God is not that good.
Bring forth the greatest millstones,
Fling wide the gates of hell,
And bid Satana bellows up his forge.

---

"I TAKE THE CHILDREN!"

And suddenly a shining road, a host, a heavenly choir;
Then the entire sky lit up
As with immortal fire.

I watched with fascination
As the children left their clay,
And rose up bright and clean and loved and fed;
He spread His hands toward me,
I saw the palms had bled -
"Suffer the children-" He said.

George Martin

---

THE VOICES OF GOD

I am the Lord thy God, and I am greatly wroth with thee.
Pray for My silences, implore My silences.

Were I to speak with thee today,
The roar of My voices, the rage of my fiery winds,
Would start’ thine orbs from their sockets
Like grapes expelled from their peel;
Would sear thy towns and thy cities
And make desert thy lands of plenty.

Betimes, thou heardst my voices on the mountains,
And I called to thee in the deserts
And from pillars of fire I spoke to thee.
But those were the days of thy childhood,
And thou hearkened to the words of My voices,
And in thee was I pleased with My making,
And spoke to thee often and often.

And now from thy pulpits and altars,
With vanity of vanities dost implore Me,
And plead for the sound of My voices.
Be silent, O, fools in thy churches,
And silent make prayers that I stay,
For were I to shatter My silence,
And give thee My voices today,
The winds from the fires of My anger
Would smother thy souls in their clay.

Pray for My silences; implore my silences!