Category Archives: G. K. Chesterton

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.

The straw house fell in yesterday’s gale, And I was quick to tell the tale Of others’ beams and others’ flaws—While hiding cracks in my own laws. Ash on brow and dust within, The mask grows thin, the work begins. Not for applause nor trumpet sound—But brick by brick, on hidden ground.

Guard not your loaf while your heart lies bare; The wind outside is less than the wind of prayer. Pharisee pride and Herod’s throne—Leaven spreads where love has not grown. Remember the fragments. Remember the Bread. Guard the soul — or the light goes dead.

Forsythia flames in February air, A yellow whisper against gray despair. No thunder rolls, no trumpet rings—Just quiet bloom of hidden springs. He sighed and left without a sign—Yet still He turns the winter vine. The blossom says what heaven meant: Prepare the soil. The King has sent.

My righteousness once tried to surpass a throne, But Christ surpassed my pride instead. To enter Heaven I must lay it down— And let my “Yes” be simply said.

Seven loaves in a desert wide,
Snow tracks cut where saints abide, An old priest walks—slow, dignified— And hungry hearts are satisfied.