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Best Poems Written by Jeryd Gordon

Below are the all-time best Jeryd Gordon poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Cost of Christ

If I count the cost, I must first look to the cross, carried to a hill of death so that a life anew may begin. 
I must look at His feet, the spikes driven deep, his hands bearing the weight of our brokenness and his broken body.
I must look at his thorny crown, blood streaming down, staining the temple of the cornerstone whom we rejected.
I must look to his back, staining rough hewn  wood black, flayed and betrayed by those whom he came to save.  
I must look to his side, the gaping hole spread wide, blood and living water flowing in rivulets for an unworthy world 
I must look to his words, grace in the face of hate, love in spite of scorn, and forgiveness that tore the temple curtain and the victory away from death. 
He paid my debts, but this path is not without cost. For if I truly follow Him, I must take up my cross.

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As the Lily

Oh, to be yellow, joy wrought in petal,
Golden sun and twinkling rain.
To dance in breeze, bloom soft and unsettled,
To never weep, to know no pain.

Yet flowers fade as seasons change,
And erring foot may trample range.
But deeper roots no storm can shake,
In God’s own hand, no heart can break.

For tears we shed are cleansing rain,
That sharpens sight to see again.
Though fleeting, pain refines the heart,
In our Sculptor’s hand, a healing art.

Better human than lily’s white,
Better heart and flesh than fragile stem.
Better still, a child in God’s light
Who will not fade but rise again.

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Wondrous Things

Some say the dawn, all rosy and gold,
Is the most wondrous sight to behold.
Some say the stars that brighten the night
Bring the soul peace and quiet delight.
Some say a brook, so bubbling and cool,
Brings calm renewal by its eddying pool.
But I say to hold and gaze on my son
Is the most wondrous thing I ever have done.

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The Wild

Black is the night; no stars shine down with heaven’s light.
Red embers dance in the fire’s warm glow,
mocking the cold white depth of ice and snow.

A song drifts softly on the winter breeze,
echoing through the waiting boughs and leaves
the owl’s call from the mighty tree.
“Who?” it asks.
Does it speak of me?

Does it wish to know my name, my home;
why through its quiet lands I freely roam?
Does it seek the longing of my heart’s desire,
why I sit and ponder by the crackling fire?

For I seek more in this still, quiet place
than a warm hearth or winter’s icy embrace.
I dream of times the world has left behind
simple joys beneath a blackened sky,
embers swirling before my eyes,
the lantern’s soft gold spilling through the night,
timbers stout and soaring tall in firelight.

So fetter not my heart nor hands;
for a little while I’ll roam these wild lands.
Yet soon I’ll return on a sunlit morn,
for between two worlds my heart is torn.

To live the dreams of days long past is sweet,
but home still calls my wandering feet.
Back to daily toil I shall abide
these memories my treasure and my pride
and cage again my restless, wilder side,
until once more in the wild I can reside.

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The Woodsmans Pause

Shall I go and hew a tree,
in all its splendour, finery?
Shall I lay low what stands so high,
its yearning branches seeking sky?

Shall I take blade to trunk, axe to stem,
with mighty blows come to condemn?
Shall gnarled old yew or lofty ash
Be hurled to earth with wrathful crash?

Shall golden leaf’s bright hue then fade,
and drift to ground like windswept rain?
Mark me not monster, nor hateful man -
I may need warmth for frosty hands.

I may need hearth and home made strong,
a wagon, plow, or means of song.
So one day I might, if need arise,
bring a great tree to its demise.

But the sun shines warm, the day is light,
no living thing need die this night.
So I’ll bend low my weary knees,
and rest my back beneath these trees.

I’ll feel the breeze, breathe pine-sweet air,
and dwell on things still bright and fair.
I’ll rest in shade, flee summer’s heat,
and dream of bygone days - some bitter, some sweet.

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To Wait

For years and four days, 
I await a knock, a stark reply, 
The unknown a wretched price to pay, 
And it burns me alive. 
They say fire is but cleansing, if so my soul is burnished bright, 
Yet it does not warm the morning, nor brighten black night. 
But mourning the past, what has been and could be, brings a heart only sorrow, and threatens ill deed.
So I'll turn red rimmed eyes, from smoke and weary tears, to the God who is wise, to whom prayers never fall on deaf ears.  
For the years I have waited, a lifetime of trial, 
He never wavered, my heart never reviled.
For His goodness and mercy, are neither bound nor abated,
Through the waiting and fire, 
I see it is in Him, I've truly waited.

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Humanity

Would that I had eyes to see my brother's humanity. 
Would that I had ears to hear the beating of his heart, not just the expression of his thought. 
Would that I had hands that held him up, not desire to see him fall.
Would that my feet would walk hard paths, and not shirk from helpless calls. 
Would that I had a tongue that spoke truth and love, even when I felt the hate. 
Would that I had a new heart, one that broke for my brother's fate. 
Would that I could see past the divide of you and me, 
Would that I could show, a little humanity.

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A Mother's Praise

Through weary eyes she greets the dawn,
The traces on her face of a night gone wrong.
To tend new life is no simple task,
And each sleepless night stacks upon the last.

She shall receive neither laurel nor laud
For the tears she’s shed and the trials she’s fought.
But no good thing is easily done, 
Enduring with love is the weight of her endearing work beneath the sun.

And courage she carries in no small supply;
Each day she shoulders her calling, be it gentle or awry.
No monument will bear her form or name;
She'll receive no grand acclaim nor fame 
Yet to one small life she stands above it all
A mother, a hero, deserving of every honor I can call.

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Oh For Spring

Not a sliver of green to be seen on the land,
The damp heathered slopes portray the dull shades of tan.
"Oh, it’s not so bad," my friends do proclaim,
"At least the day’s sunny, we could be drowning in rain."
But the jest falls short, as we look to the sky,
White flakes are descending, and the wind whips on high.
"I could live with the rain," I exasperatedly bemoan, “but at this time of year, do we have to have snow?!”
So I’ll bundle up warmer, for a few days longer yet, and grumble about the tan grass, and the muck and the wet.
For spring is patient, it comes not at my behest,
And my hope for green things will someday manifest.

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A Life of Worth

What shall I say of a life well lived?
Is it glory and riches, or to be praised by all lips?
Is it enduring through time, hoping for a swift end to pain?
Is it seeking to rise above all others to reign?

I say it's seeking the truth over worship of self.
I say it's serving another, even as you go without.
I say it's to value each second, and not waste them away.
I say it's choosing joy over anger each dawn-renewed day.

I say it's to dwell in awe that a soul can simply breathe.
I say it's to ponder the breadth of love's capability.
I say it's loving those around you for who they are, not what they give.
I say it's to endure reckless hate, and still choose to forgive.

So when my last dawn arises, last breath in my lungs swell,
I hope those who knew me can choose joy and say,
"It’s a life he lived well."

Best Poems Written by Jeryd Gordon

The Cost of Christ

As the Lily

Wondrous Things

The Wild

The Woodsmans Pause

To Wait

Humanity

A Mother's Praise

Oh For Spring

A Life of Worth

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