Poem: Brass Garden

Marketplace Christian


Flowers planted carefully in a brass garden,

The blossoms could soften the heart of the hardened.

The colors soothed us and gave us great joy.

But then our lives got busy and they were forgotten as toys.

They were left unattended, flowers in a brass garden.

We took a moment to allow life to catch up,

as we sat in the yard as our tea grew cold in our cups.

The blossoms were no more, but what stood in its space,

was a message from God that put us in our place.

We allowed time to pass and the world caught up.

Where the flowers were, seeds had planted their roots.

Weeds had taken over, more than shoots.

They took over the sod and drained all the life.

No more fighting for space, no more strife.

The garden of brass had no more room for flowery roots.

If we had only weeded the problem at the first breaking of
ground.

We could have saved our blossoms and all the others we've found.


The flowers were there still, wilted and brown.

The blossoms were just a memory, nowhere to be found.

The joy was gone and the birds made no sound.

I silently prayed, "let not my heart be hardened",

The answer was clear, we received our pardon.

Let's pull the weeds together, all the way to the roots.

Removing all signs of even the shoots.

once again we'll have joy and flowers in our brass garden.

by

Wayne Brooks
2/18/99

Holy Hands

He stood in his pew gazing at his hands. He wanted to "Lift Holy Hands" in worship although what he was looking at did not resemble Holiness. His hands were badly marked by years of hard manual labor. How could he raise them to the Lord he loved? He left each Sunday in the same way. He was ashamed of his hands. Neither gloves nor lotion could erase the years of wear. On his job he did his best like a child of God should. And gloves would only get in the way.

Then one Sunday they sung a song of worship saying, "It's all about you, Jesus". He decided he could not hold them down any longer. He started off low, lifting only a little and as his faith grew stronger, they made it up high. He stretched out his work-worn hands as far as they could go. Trying to put away the feelings of shame over how "un-holy" his hands looked. He saw in his spirit two hands coming down to hold his. He felt utterly astonished as he looked up at the hands of a man who had spent many years in a carpenter’s shop working with primitive tools. His hands were badly scared beyond repair from punctures made by wood chisels as he lovingly carved quality wood products for his customers. His hands were badly calloused from swinging an ax to cut down trees to make yokes for oxen. His hands were badly marred from what looked like large nail holes. He thought for-sure these hands were worst looking than his own and still he knew that these were truly Holy Hands reaching down to him.

Then he heard a soft sweet, but stern, voice speaking to him the word "Avodah". Although he felt himself an un-learned common labor and all other tongues sounded like Greek. He somehow knew that the word was speaking of "worship by working".

Well this was more than he could stand and he knew that because of the hands stretching down to him that his hands had truly been made Holy. Now every time he prayed, worshiped, or worked, he knew that through the Blood of Christ, he has been made clean and that he now had "Holy Hands".

3/4/02