Update: Site Moved to sermonnotespoem.wordpress.com

Hello all, just wanted to let you know that we have switched to another site. If you like what your reading, take a look at these poems and my new poems at the new site https://sermonnotespoem.wordpress.com/ . Y'all have wonderful day!
God bless,
~Amos Wilson

Psalm 19: When Did We Forget?

Amos Wilson (February 22, 2015)

When did we forget,

Who it was that wrote the Law?

Does our opinion count,

If we refute the word of God?

The Bible is complete.

And perfect in integrity,
It does convert the soul,
Restoring with vivacity.

When God will testify,

You can trust it with your life,
If you would listen well,
It would make the simple wise.

Jehovah visits us,

His precepts hold us to account.
Their straightness gives us joy,
By them our hearts with praise will shout.

Read therefore His commands,

For they are clear, and clean, and pure.
It cleans our foggy eyes,
To walk with God in footsteps sure.

The fear of God is clean,

Enduring then forever more.
His justice too is right,
With truth together to the core.

Amidst the muse of man,

And chaos of our ordered state,
The fantasy of man,
Is but as sewage – putrid, dank.

In all our sagely thoughts,

Did we forget the Mind that made?
Devising brilliant laws,
That we reject, with pride we break.

Read His Word, O man!

Resist the scoffers prideful taunt!
Recommend His Laws!
Reflect it, serve it as you ought!

Psalm 19: The Message of the Sky

Amos Wilson (February 15, 2015)

The heavens – thinnest parchment made –

On them is writ one simple thing:

The handiwork of God of gods,

The glory of Creator King.

“The king of mountains,

Highland fountains,

Who treads the wonders of the earth,

Shaping wind,

What man intends,

And forging dawn in astral flame,

The Lord of Host is called His name.” (Amos 5:13)

The language of the day and night,

And morphemes of the universe,

There is no tongue or ethnic group,

Who can not hear these stars converse.

Their speech is like a plumb-line's guide,

That stretches over all the land,

If one would dare to bend off-plumb,

He'll be destroyed by God's own hand.

The sun, nomadic, from his tent,

Now burst to cast ethereal dawn,

As would a groom from nuptial suite,

An athlete poised, prepared to run.

He rises from the edge of sky,

His tireless race to swiftly speed.

His circuit compasses the earth,

And nothing can escape his heat.

The God who made,

All this displayed,

And burns his law upon our souls,

Must thus deserve –

with no reserve –

All men who live upon earth's face,

To praise Him for eternal grace. 

Psalm 18: For What Purpose Was I Saved?

Amos Wilson (February, 8 2015)

My God you have delivered me,

Yet for what purpose was I saved?

– I surely don't deserve your grace,

I should slave,

Into the grave –

For what purpose, tell?

Listen, listen well.

Against the striving of my kin,

You made me head to reign supreme.

Even the tribes from lands unknown,

Will tribute bring,

To me as king –

Then for what purpose saved?

To rule o'er what You gave.

I will exalt the Lord who saved.

Life is Christ – so I will praise,

Since God destroyed and fought my foes,

To God of days,

I write my lays –

So for what purpose then?

To sing His praise to men.

For years He has delivered me,

And showed me mercy just,

To me and mine forever more,

O Lord of us,

In You I trust –

Then for what purpose, say?

To know where I must stay.

Worship

Amos Wilson (September 21, 2014)

Exalt the God, with praise applaud

He is our Lord Creator,

So let us hear with Godly fear,

For we are all his debtors.

Let hoary ones, and sucklings young,

Let every are and gender,

Be all set free and to God flee,

To worship none to hinder.

Come hear the law, ye weak, ye braw,

With fasting and with weeping,

At this direct do not neglect,

To bring your child seeking.

Sing His praise, a great noise raise,

These babies each know how, and

Don't let them go, for who would know,

But one could feed five thousand?

There is a place to separate,

With decency partition,

But do not bar and risk to mar

the spirit of God's nation.

Would you exclude from heaven's food,

The youth to fools' assembly?

Such raucous groups to mocking stoop,

And bears look on unfriendly

The youthful kind and sober mind,

The blossom and the rose-hip

The toddle's voice with age rejoice,

One symphony of worship.

We

Amos Wilson (February 16, 2014)

It was snowing on that mountain path,

And I was weak and young,

I wandered merry, weary, here and there,

Youthful mind and tongue.

Then I saw her in the road ahead,

That charming, graceful she,

I matured ten years that day, that hour,

I longed to make her we.

But snow is difficult to till and tend,

A tree can’t make a home,

I must prepare to work – for her, for me,

Or we will never come.

But I must give her more than food and clothes,

The Scripture is food, too,

Can I read, and understand and teach,

Instructions right and true?

Do I have respect, and good companions?

And “favor with man?”

Once I have all of these, I’ll come for her,

I’ll win her – then I can.

One warm hand I hold within my hand,

One heart against my heart,

As we trudge for that far summit high,

We vowed never to part

On our left there dropped a massive ditch,

To our right a quag,

We held each other close in center way,

We could not fall or lag.

Some others made it through this path alone,

But we needed the other,

Or else the rocks and winds that plagued the way,

Would cause we-split to falter.

Once I sprained my wrist to keep her steady,

Once she hurt her arm.

Despite the pain, we traveled on and on,

Keeping our mate from harm.

One night we stopped at a road-side inn to rest,

Then, nine miles later,

She – with pain – birthed us a daughter sweet,

Of course, we’ll never trade her.

That was the first, be sure that we had more,

We formed a little tribe.

Many gawked and said we had too many,

But when we stopped I cried.

Then we found another for our first,

And more, of course, did come,

There was one for every son and daught’,

Which formed a mighty sum.

We could have been an army of our own,

On that trail we walked,

Each of ours had several of their own,

But we were the stalk.

Our influence had reached the far and wide,

When to the mount we came,

It was our Nebo, the rest would follow later,

When they reached the same.

So we climbed, with wrinkled hand in hand,

We reached the heights resolved,

When we reached the resurrected He,

Our needless rings dissolved.

He had joined us both and made us we,

At that our long-past start,

We part to join in Him another we,

Communion with His heart.

The same, but different was our we in him,

In that mountain land,

But if you are not here, I’ll not explain,

I doubt you’ll understand.

Three

Amos Wilson (November 10, 2013)

One holy Trinity,

One killed upon a tree,

Three doomed to hell and death,

The Devil, World, and Flesh.

Three times one did deny,

A rooster rent the sky,

Three questions he was given,

To prove he was forgiven.

The Covenants were three,

The Old, the New, and Yet-To-Be.

Telemachus Or The Power of One Man

Amos Wilson (November 1, 2014)

This cry did echo through the air,

From Colosseum rise.

I stood in morbid fascination,

As did the crows and flies.

Before me stretched a scene of blood,

Where dead and dying groan.

The gladiators greased in gore,

But none would die alone.

The winner only held the field,

The vanquished all around.

Most were dead – and cruelly marred,

But one lived on the ground.

Beneath his foe the wounded lay

He gasping bloody breaths,

The winner looking to the crowd,

Who screamed and wailed for “Death!”

Then as the winner raised his sword,

I gaped in sickened awe.

This evil scene of sin must stop!

It breaks fair Heaven's Law.

But how could this colossal sport,

Come now unto an end?

There must be some one who will stand,

And innocence defend.

Then my conscience pricks me hard,

“Will you not then speak out?”

But can one man stop these great games?

Too insignificant no doubt.

And so I watched in silence as,

This sword made fatal arch.

Too fearful and ashamed was I,

Then one beside me starts.

“Halt these bloody games!” he cries,

“In Jesus name, now stop!”

This monk, then pushing through the crowd,

To the arena drops.

“Halt these bloody games!” he cries,

And raising up his hands,

He thrusts the winner's sword aside,

So, Telemachus stands.

The crowd was silenced by this man –

One man – there in the pit.

In his face the Lord shone forth,

“In Jesus' name, repent!”

There was no violence in his hand,

So holy was his act.

The crowd would not abide his word,

And with one heart attack.

With hands of hate they sized the monk,

And dragged him to the street,

Then they stoned Telemachus there,

No mercy in their heat.

This blameless monk they beat and cursed,

With stones they laid him low.

He did not fight, but only prayed,

The killed him on the road.

The suns set and the vultures came,

To feast upon his bones.

I, weeping, did not know that night,

His words reached to the throne.

Next day the emperor band the games,

No longer did they run.

Forever the arena closed,

So great the power of one.

There is no system then so great,

That never can be band.

One righteous man may throw it down,

Pray, will you be that man?

Sonship

Amos Wilson (October 12, 2014)

Oh feeble words! Unholy lines!

I cannot make you tell,

My rapture you obscure, obtrude.

This love that in me swells.

These words I use, so ruff and rude,

Cannot express my gratitude.

“What did I ever do for you,

That you should die for me?

And what did I ever give to you,

That you should live in me?”

What future did you see in me,

That you would set me free?

What beauty did you find in me,

That you adopted me?

How did I ever earn the right,

For you to call me son?

Did I not curse and crucify,

And kill you just for fun?

Could I ever earn this grace?

Could I do any good?

Could my dead soul do any right?

Yea, even if I should?

How do I live when I'm your child

And sit before your face?

Make me secure and satisfied,

But simply in your grace.

In my soul I love the pit,

From which you rescued me.

I revel in the sick and vile,

My hearts is putrid, see!

I turn for help and love to You,

I know You will renew.

My God – but more than God is He,

My Father He is, too.

O feeble words! Unholy lines!

I cannot make you tell,

My rapture you obscure, obtrude,

This love that in me swells.

These words I use, so ruff and rude,

Cannot express my gratitude.

Sobriety: 1 Peter 1:13

Amos Wilson (January 11, 2015)

Through the haze of centuries past,

The myriads of angels peered,

And for salvation prophets grasped,

But now Ineffable is here.

So therefore hope! And gird your loins,

And with sobriety of mind,

Harness creative, central points,

Streamline your thoughts to grace and kind.

Let nothing burden now your stand,

So cast away the cumbered weight.

Best meet the Lord with but one hand,

Then never enter Heaven's gate.

Equip yourself for battle then,

The Sword of God do practice well,

Crowd out rebellion born in men,

With love for God your heart will swell.

Control your mind and sober be,

Look not to trans or wine of fear.

Ruled not by reason, ruled by Me,

And I will guide your reason here.

Surrender then to perfect Hope,

Hope in the Lord – not in your life,

Not in your country, church, or home,

But firmly in God's grace through Christ.

Simon of Cyrene

Amos Wilson (December 8, 2013)

He stumbles and tumbles there, in the mud,

His face is bruised and smeared with blood.

His cross lands hard across his back,

I wince to hear his bones thus crack.

A violent hand then seized my arm.

“Come, black dog, or feel some harm,

Lift up that cross and bear a part!”

Thus forced, I do, indignant, start.

But as I stoop, His eyes meet mine,

They’re filled with only love divine.

“Oh, my beloved, please bear my tree,

So I might make on high the Three.

Behind me hide, in judgment’s lee,

For I will take it all for thee.”

Aye, gladly, Lord, when you go home,

I’ll bear your cross from here to Rome.

Shepherd

Amos Wilson (December 7, 2014)

The angels herald news

To certain shepherds – Jews

Why bother with these poor and weak?

But listen and you'll see.

The Christ would be as them,

A shepherd – unto men.

All nations then would be his sheep.

That's who he came to be.

And they were poor in life,

Thus also was the Christ.

He humbly in a manger sleeps.

That's how he came to be.

The needy Christ would aid,

By His own blood to save,

The shepherds then were most in need.

That's why he came to be.

Humility

Amos Wilson (December 7, 2014)

Pride in your country, school, achievement, looks and charm,

We men, rebellious, cannot see in pride the harm.

Humility we scorn, we call it weak and wrong,

But pride is really frail, humility is strong.

Humility trust God and does not doubt His will,

Is overwhelmed by grace and know when he does ill.

He wont exaggerate but listens and will serve,

Is teachable forgives much more than is deserved.

Humility has friends, for he will put them first,

Would you not be like him? Do you then humbly thirst?

For many of our surfaces sins are caused by pride,

Humility will cast our unbelief aside.

With unbelief our pride too dies and stops to be,

Believe the gospel to have true humility.

Not pity of our self for treatments we receive,

Instead we turn to God – to Him we humbly cleave.

Do not compare yourself to mortal, finite men,

In competition pride will thrive, if not it ends.

Why do we worship self, and force that others do,

For praise should not come to you, but should be sent from you.

Humility serves God, for God indeed is God,

And we are naught but dust, and formed of mud and sod.

God resists the proud, so therefore do not boast,

Discord and wars and fights all spring from pride – the host.

So therefore ask and do not trust your own device,

Instead believe and bow before the Lord – the Christ.

In unity the church will humble take her stand,

Repent of all your sins – accept Christ's helping hand.

Resurrection

Amos Wilson (January 19, 2014)

The women came with oils sweet,

The came with steady, mourning feet,

They reached the tomb, and stop and quake,

At seismic strength rocks rend and brake.

The Roman soldiers joked and laughed,

Until the crack – like thunder clashed.

Their weapons fall, light blinds their eyes,

They crash to ground as if they die.

Two angles sped, from heaven sent,

A rich man’s tomb their object bent;

A stone to move, a cohort smite,

And to women to give a message bright,

Then in the path the savior stood,

To see the message understood,

To see the women grasp his feet,

And desperately his grace entreat.

The women run their fear is gone,

They – joyous – hurry, scurry home.

The soldiers stand, their knees like jelly,

Celestial sights knotted their belly,

The women burst into the upper-room,

And bid the disciples come, yea, come!

Good news they spread, “The Christ is risen!”

“His word is true,” Our sins forgiven!

The soldiers tell their guilty lie,

Each cautious, fearful, lest he die.

The priest are also sore perplexed,

They bought this lie, this false pretext.

And where was Jesus? Wonder you,

Walking to Emmaus with other two?

No doubt he cured the weaknesses,

Of His five hundred witnesses.

Repentance

Amos Wilson (October 26, 2014)

Repentance? Easy, all is done,

With outward motions I can act.

My flawless mask with glitter made,

Although my heart repentance lacks.

I still revel in my sin.

Though outward I preform the law.

Like a mummer's petty play,

And yet my soul is one great flaw.

Do I sorrow?Truly yes,

Yet even Judas did the same.

I do not grieve because I sinned,

But for the punishment that came.

Will I ask “What have I done?”

Where will this lawlessness drive me?

Lord, in my grief drive me to You,

With hyssop purge me, make me clean!

Make my way not like the fog,

That burns up in the heat of dawn.

Not like the show-man, wailing loud,

When leaves the crowd, his act is gone.

I know I'm evil! Birthed in sin!

I make excuses, shift the blame.

The superficial's all I fix,

And when I'm done repentance claim.

The foreign cavalry won't save.

But only Christ my advocate.

Let Him baptize my heart and mind,

Through Him I true repentance make.

Sadist?

Amos Wilson (December 15, 2013)

“Rejoice, rejoice! You’re sanctified!

For God on earth was crucified!

He just breathed out his final breath,

Rejoice, rejoice, and fear not death!”

How can I rejoice at the suffering of God?

Such joy seems like Marquis de Sade’s.

Is this news joyous, yes it is!

He took my shame,

He took my pain,

Great for my life, but what for His?

Mine was the guilt, yet He is dead.

My punishment fell on His head.

Can I rejoice at his pain and woe?

Shall I sing while his life-blood flows?

No, not in pain, rejoice at love,

For that is what our hope’s made of.

Not only by blood were we forgiven,

Love bore our shame,

And willingly our pain,

So God’s death for grace was driven.

Thus I rejoice. I’m sanctified!

For love our Lord laid down and died.

And for that truth I’ll joyous be,

because my Lord rejoiced for me.

Orders: From the Returning King

Amos Wilson (February 2, 2014)

The king returned, in power rise,

To don again his earthly guise.

The women took the herald’s call,

And ran to town to tell men all.

Some others saw the King appear,

At first they fell and quaked with fear,

But now they to the rebels fly,

to make quick gains and sell a lie.

The rulers and the soldiers leave,

The King – their King they should receive.

The King instead from local towns,

Raised men from those who would bow down.

Untrained and lay, yet faithful still,

That sword-less army on the hill.

They stood to listen and obey,

The marching-orders He would say.

Zion burned, the priests abased.

Barbarians laid Rome to waist.

The others, lowly, lord-filled, men,

Survived to preach His words again.

Olive Oil

October 27, 2013

A trench yea deep, here, cut in stone,

All set about with trees,

The trees that are with olives grown,

Here in Gethsemane.

And yearly ring those trees with joy,

With olives in the trench,

As feet tread out the olive’s oil,

And squeeze, and press, and pinch.

‘Twas here one night instead of fun,

The garden rang with screams,

As crowds of men came to catch One,

Eleven fled like streams.

So like the olive, squeezed and pressed,

To sweeten life and toil,

The One for all was put to death,

To make sweet olive oil.  

Minute-Man

Amos Wilson (February 9, 2014)

God’s word has put His hope in you,

And Jesus says “Prepare!”

You’re called to speak what’s right and true,

At any time declare.

The enemy is close at hand,

We’re called with little warning,

We’re charged to be a minute-man,

In sixty counts, be warring!