King of My Heart

Submitted by Damaris Ann on Mon, 12/25/2017 - 22:28

King of my heart, and sweet Savior of my soul
This time of year to me will never grow old
From birth, to death, to resurrection in glory
Our Lord gave to us the most beautiful story
In death brought us life and healing from above
The thorns in His crown were a testament of love
My sins sat upon His shoulders; such heavy load
While in my heart His perfect righteousness abode
Though my telling of salvation is weak at its best
I'm thankful for a King who in love gives us rest
Because of His gift in taking from us our fear

Christmas: What Does It Mean To You?

Submitted by Damaris Ann on Sun, 12/14/2014 - 20:47

As Christmas draws nearer and the weather gets colder, I contemplate on what the season means. To some people it means presents from Santa, reading "T'was the Night Before Christmas", singing "carols" like "Baby it's Cold Outside" "Winter Wonderland" "Jingle Bells" "Grandma Got Ran Over By A Raindeer" "Rocking Around The Christmas Tree" "Have A Holly Jolly Christmas" and many more. To others it means flying to Grandma and Grandpa's place for some homemade pumpkin pie, roasted turkey, stuffing, ham, and mashed potatoes.

Feasts of Yesterday

Submitted by Anna on Thu, 01/26/2012 - 20:07

The cloth sweeps against the floor,
Long ago embroidered with care, fit
For many people to admire while they ate.
Now white is red by drink and brown from gravy,
Grease-stained from spills and careless children. [5]
The plates are crooked on the edge,
Crumbs tumbling on the chairs, 
Which knock each other, knock the table, 
For those who sat in them, having devoured,
Abandon the mess and repose in other places. [10]
Once this barren table sparkled with wineglasses
Under the lamps overhead, electric and piercing.

Please Give

Submitted by Lucia on Mon, 12/31/2007 - 23:51

I accompanied my dad while he went Christmas shopping for my brothers at "Cabela's, the world's foremost hunting outfitter." Hunting is not exactly my cup of tea. It was not fun to spend five hours there.

Dad looks at BB guns. I wait.

Dad looks at air soft guns. I wait some more.

Dad looks at rifles. I wait even more.

Dad looks at pop guns. You guessed it, I'm waiting even some more.

Dad looks at rubber-band guns. I suppress a yawn.


Submitted by Christa on Sat, 07/28/2007 - 16:29

Her brown hair, normally rather mousy, reflected a rainbow of colors in the sunlight as she entered the holy place. She was not of the faith, but respected the idea. Her clothes were riotously vivid colors of orange and yellow and red, gold trim and sweeping folds, her jewelry fake gold, heavy and ornate. Only her bindi truly reflected her personality: small, sophisticated, delicate. Her feet were bare and she felt she looked out of place, pale. She nodded to families as she shyly dipped away to a quiet corner of the temple to stretch and wait.