The Woodland Glade, Peder Mork Monsted (1883)
The Woodland Glade, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
In this woodland glade, finest God has made,
Bountiful in color, but yet so staid.
Courteous to the children as they played,
While adults wondering where their minds strayed.
A sense of freedom fills the soften air,
Feelings that no other place can compare.
Providing respite from troubles we bear,
And solace to engage silent prayer.
Come to the woodland glade, spend time with Him.
Open your heart wide, fill it to the brim.
Rejoice with your voice, give thanks with a hymn,
To be accompanied by seraphim.
Come sit in peace, He will be at your side,
For His love you shall never be denied.
Evening Glow, Peder Mork Monsted (1920)
Evening Glow, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
The evening glow upon the winter snow,
A lamp that beckons me down the tree row.
Beaten snow a sign of a place to go,
Assured by people with faces aglow.
Heat of eagerness causes a quick pace,
Huffing and puffing to get to the place.
Wondering what sight my eyes shall embrace,
Will I too have that glow upon my face?
An ache in my lungs reaching the last tree.
Heart pounds of what I am about to see.
Beauty before me had no boundary,
Couldn’t be bought with any sum of money.
Virgin snow on a field big as a sea,
Reminding all what it is to be free.
The Red Umbrella, Peder Mork Monsted (1887)
Summer Walk, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Broken shadows stir the air on my skin,
While resting at a fork along the path.
This day may choose the way I’ve never been,
Could be a pleasure seeing what it hath.
Told my chosen path has many a twist,
With many rocks may cause me to stumble.
Such be a challenge I cannot resist,
To test my belief that I am able.
Much to my delight the absence of fright,
Longer my travel much lighter the load.
Looking to the sky there was a bright light,
The reason of this began to unfold.
Realizing now I am not alone,
As this is the way to my Maker’s throne.
Forest in Winter, Peder Mork Monsted (1915)
Forest in Winter, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
The steady horse and I were nearing home,
When she comes to heel with no touch of rein.
Warning maybe in a place so lonesome,
Or is she stricken with some sort of pain.
Questioning, placed my feet upon the ground.
Patting her softly as I walked around.
Then did become aware, nary a sound,
Giving me a feeling that was profound.
Through visible breath I cast eyes about,
While staining my ears for something to hear.
Did wonder if could be heard if I shout.
Only my echo returned to my ear.
Yet He was here, for I could feel His grace.
Nodding, gave thanks for this heavenly place.
Saint Andrea’s Church in Torbole, Peder Mork Monsted (1909)
Spring in Torbole, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Soon I will be harking to the church’s bell,
Giving me time to sit here for a spell.
To give Him thanks that it is here I dwell,
And pray I forever be in this dell.
It is spring so now I smell the good earth,
Which with the sun shall bring about new birth.
In our many fields there shall be no dearth,
From those hours worked before taking our berth.
If there be any doubt in what I say,
And of given reason for which I pray,
Suggest you linger long, extend your stay,
For sure you will not choose to move away.
Listen to the sweet sound, it calls all now,
To thank Him who this place to us endow.
Scene of deluge, Joseph-Desire Court (1827)
Deluge, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Rising waters come not to their surprise.
Ungodly behaviors antagonize,
He who loves them and who He did advise,
Their very actions He shall penalize.
Within His power did save but a few,
Who faithfully abided by His rule,
So once again we could begin anew.
Now afresh His wishes we overrule.
Once more old behaviors we restore,
Even after He sent His only Son.
Do we dare to ask He do even more?
Do we dare say that the Devil has won?
Can still accept the baby if we choose,
It still remains with us to win or lose.
Recumbent Figure of a Girl, Hans Peter Feddersen (1875)
Answers to Many Whys, Robert A Sieczkiewicz
Here weeping upon this most hallowed ground,
Staring at the body nailed to the tree.
Searching for words, but making not a sound.
He did it to set my wicked soul free.
Horrible pain, as He is not yet dead.
Wearing a crown of thorns upon his head.
His simple garments on the ground are spread.
Many cast lots for them, while others fled.
Lifted His head to heavenly Father,
Slowly bloodied chin fell onto His chest,
Nev’r a single sound of willful anger.
Earth suddenly shook, He is now at rest.
Now three days I must wait for Him to rise,
Then He will give answers to many whys.