Category Archives: Diocese of Amarillo

Perfect is not polished stone,
But mercy fully grown.
The Father’s sun on foe and friend—
Love without an end.

I built my throne of indignation,
called it zeal and called it fire—
but Christ stood at my altar
and asked for something higher.

Not louder truth nor sharper word,
nor one more righteous claim—
but hands unclenched, a heart released,
and love that burns without a name.

The law is not a gavel
but a mirror in disguise—
I see in every neighbor
the shape of my own cries.

If I would knock on heaven’s door
and find it open wide,
I must unlock another’s first
and let Love be my guide.

I feared my kneeling might condemn me,
As though silence were a verdict.
But Mercy waits in the monstrance,
Not to prosecute —
But to pierce.

Something greater than Jonah is here.

At sunset the barnyard cries,
Each creature sure it will be forgotten.
I walk out with grain in hand —
And they doubt my mercy.

Lord,
Make me less a squeal
And more a son.

I test the fence, I strain the line,
Declare the pasture’s edge as mine.
Yet mercy waits where flocks convene —
In simple acts, in love unseen.

The Shepherd calls — I must decide:
Stand proud alone, or walk beside?
For heaven’s gate swings wide and deep
For those who loved — and stayed as sheep.

Tempted at edge of unseen line,
I graze too near what is not mine.
The static stings, I bow my head —
Yet mercy calls, not wrath nor dread.

Return, He says — the gate stands wide,
Within My will your joys abide.
For desert trials the soul refine —
And angels wait past every line.

He dines with those who know they fall,
Not those who claim they stand up tall.
The cure begins where pride resigns —
A sinner healed by Love’s designs.

If I confess my need today,
The Physician will not turn away.
For grace is poured where hearts grow thin —
And saints are born from humbled sin.

I pass the steak, I take the fry,
And call it fast — yet still ask why.
If hunger stirs no deeper ache,
Have I denied, or merely swapped a plate?

The Bridegroom waits beyond the feast,
Beyond the oil, beyond the yeast.
Fast, my soul, from more than fare —
From waste, from pride, from shallow care.

Not once in fire, not once in fame, But daily in the common game; A quiet cross beside the door, A love that chooses less, not more. The wind may howl, the markets sway, But Christ still whispers, “Come — today.” Lose your life in small decree — And find it, daily, following Me.