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BITTER WATER

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By Ken Blue

 

 

Be sure and listen to the great songs to lift your spirit

Moses led them from Egypt; he’d been saved by Pharaoh’s daughter.

They came through the sea, untouched by the fleeting water.

 

He sang a song of deliverance; there he built an altar.

They journeyed next to Marah; the place of bitter water.

 

At Passover night, and the Red Sea; their enemies God did slaughter,

Then led them to a pool; a pool of bitter water.

 

His purpose was clearly a test; would they trust Him or retreat.

A branch was cast in the pool, making the bitter sweet.

 

God’s amazing forgiveness, overlooked their unbelief and sin,

And led to wells of water, of trees, three score, and ten!

 

The test before the victory; the bitter before the sweet,

Remember, bitter waters are not for your defeat.

 

So when you come to bitter waters, with your troubles, and grief,

Applying the BRANCH by faith makes bitter waters sweet.

 

 

 

THE DARK SIDE

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Be sure and listen to the great songs to lift your spirit

By Ken Blue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fall is here and it’s dark.
The sun, it seldom shines.
Is this the way it really is?
Or is it only in my mind?

Looking at things around,
They have lost their appeal.
I ‘m not able to sort these out.
Are the things I see really real?

I’m drifting from it all.
Each day the distance grows.
What is important, I can’t tell.
Every day only comes and goes.

This little span spent here,
We call it a life time.
When the curtain finally falls,
Was it really worth the time?

This sickness is called ALS,
Sometimes it drives me wild.
At one time I laugh like a clown,
The next, I’m crying like a child.

When I see my doctor,
He gives me some new meds.
I know he’s trying to help me.
But, they’re only spinning my head.

What day; does it matter?
The nights; why should I care?
The day’s and nights have no meaning,
Not, when you are going nowhere.

I hold on to one thing,
While on this hectic ride.
God’s love for us never changes,
It was for me Jesus Christ died!

ESTHER KRAUSS

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By Ken Blue

I’ve met some fine ladies in my life time,
Mother was one; another’s that wife of mine.
But you stand out among the most sublime.
I think of heaven when you come to mind.

Your silver gray hair, with its tint of blue,
Your magnetic smile that said, “God loves you,”
You were always ready to serve and do,
Whatever was needed, without asking you.

You entertained strangers, and those in need.
You cared for the poor; without pay or greed.
Your faith might compare to a mustard seed,
But you moved mountains through your love and deeds.

You were always meek; quiet as a church mouse.
Immaculately dressed in your blue silk blouse,
Now with Jesus in your ivory house,
We miss you dear sister; our own Mrs. Krauss.

THE LEGEND OF THE DOGWOOD AND THE ROBIN

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By Ken Blue

There is a legend my mother told me,

About the Robin and the Dogwood tree.

The beautiful flowers for all to see,
Are my gifts to Jesus, who died on me.

You ask why the snarled and the crooked limbs?
So a cross may never be made of them.

To the Red Robin, the question was ask,
You were at the cross, so what was your task?

And how did you come by your breast so red?
By fluttering around to cool His head.

Some of His blood, it dripped down upon me,
And that’s how my red breast happened to be.

Whether a legend, or whether it’s true.
The robin and the  tree  changed; how about you?

DEAD END

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From a window above the street,
With a view that was commanding.
I saw among the simple ones,
A youth void of understanding.

At the corner on a broad street,
I saw her searching for a prey.
She saw him coming to her trap,
She’d snared, perhaps, hundreds this way.

Her scarlet dress, and her painted lips;
The smell of hypnotic perfume,
Along with her shameless kisses,
Would overpower this young man soon.

With voice smooth, that dripped as honey,
She flattered this naive youth.
He was allured into her world,
He had forgotten Wisdoms truth.

With much fair speech, and flattering lips;
He was blinded by hell’s daughter.
And as a fool to correct the stock,
Went as an ox to the slaughter.

Like a bird, captured in a snare,
Or a soldier shot through the heart,
Only the dead are in her house,
And few wounded ever depart.

And as I looked down on her street,
The pathway of simple young men.
I saw a sign there standing tall,
In letter of red, that said, “Dead End.”