Ken Blue Ministries

By Ken Blue

(THREE NEW SONGS)

 

 

 

 

Oh, wicked heart, buried deep inside;

Why are you still beating, although crucified?

 

I awake; you are planning my day.

When I talk with God, you influence what I say.

 

Every thought is filled with vanity.

Every intent; I find, focused on me.

 

When I would do good, you’re always there.

My heart’s so wicked, I cry in despair.

 

You were defeated at Calvary.

Failing to remember, you defeat me.

 

The answer to your power inside;

Is reckoning with Jesus Christ I died.

 

 

 

 

“TWO NEW AUDIO SONGS ADDED!”

 

 

 

 

I go to fellowship meetings to see who I can see.

I ask about attendance; did they have more than me?

 

With a little politics, firm handshakes and greetings,

I can book engagements for future preaching meetings.

 

I enjoy the fried chicken, and pie they call key lime.

I endure the preaching also for a good outline.

 

I visit the book tables searching for some new themes.

I check through the t-shirts and the jars of jellybeans.

 

Afterwards we gather, in groups of approving peers.

We huddle a little closer, having itching ears.

 

What is the latest scandal on someone we can scorn?

Is it about Paul Chappel, Dr. Ruckman, or Rick Warren?

 

I hear they are so desperate; they’ve censored old Ken Blue.

And if you don’t walk the line, next it may be you.

 

I no longer steal outlines; I’ve learned to use my own,

But I miss “important news” about what’s going on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Ken Blue

From my roof I could clearly see,

What was not intended for me.

So I took the fruit that wasn’t mine,

My eyes opened and I was blind.

 

The news that came was bitter gall;

Nine months would announce it to all.

A plan was made to hide my plight,

Joab would send home the Hittite.

 

Uriah came home, per my plan.

He was a good and simple man.

I welcomed him, go home, I said.

Certain he’d sleep in his own bed.

 

He didn’t go but slept at my door.

What was wrong with the leaves I wore?

Wine’s the key he’s only a man.

But nothing went just like the plan.

 

A note was sent by the Hittite.

Move Uriah up front in the fight.

Joab knew what the message said.

His reply; the Hittite is dead.

 

I finally slept the whole night through.

There’s nothing left I need to do.

Early morning came my next of kin.

Was the Prophet; I let him in.

 

I offered a drink and a chair.

I’ll stand, I’ve a story to share

About a poor man and a sheep,

Each night at his bosom did sleep.

 

A rich man took it to feed his guest.

Your judgment’s right, you know what’s best.

The king stood, with fire in his eye.

He who did this will surly die.

 

Nathan paused, then lifted his hand,

And said, as God lives, you’re the man.

God gave Thee every tree in sight,

You stole the one from the Hittite.

 

Stolen waters are sweet; they say,

But you will always curse this day.

Your kingdom will crumble away.

And thousands for your sin will pay.

 

CHECK OUT AUDIO SERMONS AND SONGS

 

By Ken Blue

“But there was none like unto Ahab, which did sell himself to work wickedness in the sight of the LORD, whom Jezebel his wife stirred up.” 1 Kings 21:25.

The woman that I’m married to

Is making life a living hell.

My name is Ahab the King, and hers, Wicked Jezebel.

 

We have coveted positions,

As King and queen of Israel.

But the glory’s overshadowed by Wicked Jezebel.

 

She killed Jehovah’s prophets.

She worshipped the god Baal.

No one was ever so wicked, as Wicked Jezebel.

 

I coveted Naboth’s vineyard.

He told me it was not for sale.

Witnesses lied, now it’s mine, thanks to Wicked Jezebel.

 

She combed her hair, painted her face,

But cast down to the ground, she fell.

Dogs refused to eat hands or feet of Wicked Jezebel.

 

You cannot hear me in his place.

You’ll understand why it’s called hell.

I’m destined  to spend forever with my Wicked Jezebel.

 

Young man, if you’re seeking a wife,

Take time before lifting the veil.

Or you may end like old Ahab, with Wicked Jezebel.

 

By Ken Blue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Loneliness enshrouds me, as I sit all alone.
I’m one of the forgotten, in what’s called a rest home.

There are others around me in this den of gloom.
It’s called a rest home where the living are entomb.

We never receive a card, a pictures, or flowers.
A television plays to while away the hours.

It’s a bedpan, a bath, and pills to make us sleep.
We turn to the wall so no one will see us weep.

Every day’s the same, with no family or friends.
We are the forgotten ones, waiting for the end.

Jesus calls you to visit in their rest home den.
Take a card or flowers, and listen as a friend.

You are the sunshine, for those who are alone.
Pray for the forgotten, confined to a rest home.