The longer on earth a saint remains,
The stronger grows desire for heaven;
The body feels its aging pains,
And more to God’s own side he’s driven.

The heavier load of life directs
The sight of faith to things above;
To Jesus’ cross my trial connects,
To service the Holy Spirit drove.

Oh, Lord Messiah, come for me!
Break open the clouds with angels’ shout!
The humble soul would soon see
The end of Satan’s and saints’ dispute!

Describe how your difficulties have increased your desire for eternal things.

by J. Randal Matheny © 2011

What hurts us most we do not tell.
Instead, we bury it deep and well,
Where none can touch to cause us pain.
We would not feel this hurt again.

The soul is but a bundle of hurt;
He smiles but wears a hairy shirt.
This heavy burden, this hidden weight,
He sees as his predestined fate.

No one must know, or so he thinks;
He guards his pain like the stoic Sphinx,
While all the time he must ignore
That God has seen it all before.