The Gift of Music

O Music, breath of the soul unseen,

A whisper draped in golden sheen.

You came before the birth of word,

And in your silence, God was heard.

You are the pulse of every race,

The echo time cannot erase.

No tongue divides your sacred art

You speak in chords that reach the heart.

A cradle’s hum, a battle’s cry,

A lull beneath the stormy sky.

You are the weeping of the bowed,

The rising hope within the crowd.

How holy is the gift to sing,

To shape the air with trembling wing,

To lift a tune and let it fly,

And feel it catch eternity’s eye.

I thank You, Music living flame,

That burns in every voice and name.

You turn our grief to woven grace,

And kiss each tear on sorrow’s face.

In hands, in breath, in heart you dwell,

With every note, a tale to tell.

In choir, in cello, in whispered flute,

In laughter loud, in silence mute.

To sing is not just sound and breath

It’s life outshouting even death.

To write a phrase, to play a part,

Is heaven pulsing in the heart.

O gift divine, O sacred art,

You bridge the soul, you mend the heart.

Let all who’ve tasted your embrace,

Be messengers of light and grace.

Let me ever play and sing,

And help the joy of music ring.

Through me, through others, far and wide,

Let beauty be the truest guide.

For in your arms, we all belong

One world, one spirit, one great song.

Whispers of Sleep

Sleep, the hush in a hurried mind,

A velvet thread where dreams unwind.

You tiptoe in on silver wings,

Soft as lullabies silence sings.

You smooth the furrowed brow of care,

And lift the weight we didn’t know was there.

In folds of dusk, you gently sway,

The soul from noise to night’s ballet.

You’re the secret breath the stars exhale,

The poet’s ink, the traveler’s sail.

You cradle hearts in quiet grace,

And paint lost hopes on midnight’s face.

In your arms, the old grow young,

Regrets unspoken become unsung.

And lovers meet where clocks can’t tick,

In gardens grown from hours thick.

Yet you're a mystery cloaked in mist,

A fleeting dream the sun has kissed.

No promise made, no promise kept,

Still we return to where you’ve slept.

O gentle sleep, sweet thief of light,

Restore our bones, renew our sight.

For in your realm, both fierce and deep,

The soul remembers how to weep

Then wakes again, with strength to keep.

The Boy is the Father of the Man

In the cradle of life, a boy takes his place,  

A seed of strength in time's vast embrace.  

Eyes filled with wonder, dreams reaching high,  

An unshaped force beneath the sky.  

He stumbles, he rises, through trials unknown,  

Each lesson a brick where wisdom is sown.  

The laughter of youth, the courage to dare,  

The boy builds the man with loving care.  

Like the lion, he learns to lead with might,  

Guiding his pride through the darkest night.  

Yet gentle he stands, a pillar of grace,  

Guarding his home, his sacred space.  

In the home, he wears many a crown,  

Provider, protector, never backing down.  

Through storms and sunlight, he forges a way,  

Teaching his kin to hope and to pray.  

The boy grows to a man, steadfast and true,  

A beacon of strength in all that he’ll do.  

Yet the boy within never fades or wanes,  

For in his innocence, wisdom remains.  

Oh, father of the man, O child divine,  

Through you, God's image does brightly shine.  

Leader in society, a voice for the weak,  

The man reflects what the boy did seek.  

So honor the boy, for within lies the plan

A journey to become the father of the man.

The Cup of Shadows

Beneath the olive trees, a trembling plea 

“Let this cup pass…” yet blood, not tears, fell free.  

The ground drank deep His sorrow’s bitter stain,  

As stars recoiled from unrelenting pain.  

A kiss betrayed the torchlight’s jagged glare,  

Cold chains embraced the Hands that fashioned air.  

The Sanhedrin’s scorn, like serpents, hissed lies,  

While mercy pooled in His undaunted eyes.  

They dressed Him in robes of mock-royal jest,  

A crown of thorns to bruise His holy brow.  

“Hail, King of Jews!” they laughed, and struck His chest 

The God who breathed their souls bore their malice now.  

No friend stood near when Pilate washed his hands;  

The mob’s roar swelled “Crucify!” demands.  

The lash’s teeth tore flesh to scarlet streams,  

Each stripe a dirge for souls He’d die to redeem.  

He climbed the hill, the crossbeam gouging deep,  

Each splintered step a vow He chose to keep.  

The nails screamed home His wrists, His feet to wood  

That groaned beneath the weight of sin’s dark flood.  

“Save Yourself!” they jeered, as heaven held its breath,  

While thieves reviled Him, bargaining with death.  

Vinegar raised, His parched lips met the sting,  

Yet still He whispered love to those who swung the sting.  

No sun dared watch the sky wept black and wild,  

As earth convulsed for her Creator, reviled.  

“It is finished…” the cry that split the night

A shattered heart, the cost of mercy’s fight.  

They pierced His side, drew blood and water’s toll,  

Then cast dark lots to claim His seamless robe.  

No stone-carved dirge could mourn this depth of loss 

The Lamb, once slain, bore every wound, every cross.