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Rick Mcgrath Poem
A retelling of Longfellow’s The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride too long unclear,
Not one lone horseman through April’s gloom,
But three who galloped with freedom’s doom.
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-Five,
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers well that fateful quest,
When liberty’s riders rode out to the west.
He said to his friends, “The signal’s near,
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the road will be ready to ride,
To wake the towns through the countryside.”
Then Dawes took saddle, a westward track,
While Revere turned north and didn’t look back;
And Prescott, waiting, would join before dawn,
When the British patrols pressed fierce and strong.
A friend in the belfry, tall and still,
Hung the lanterns high on the hill.
Two lights gleamed from the church’s tower,
And the riders were off in that midnight hour.
Through Charlestown streets the hoofbeats rang,
Past Medford farmsteads the summons sang,
Till window and door flew open wide.
“Up, ye farmers, awake!” they cried.
“Arm and gather, for war draws near!
The Regulars march with sword and spear!”
And the country folk, startled from bed,
Seized their muskets with faces red.
But lurking in darkness, the redcoats came,
A mounted patrol to end the flame;
And Revere was taken, his journey stayed,
Though bravely and loudly, the call he made.
Yet Dawes broke free with his steed still fast,
By wood and meadow the night he passed;
While Prescott vaulted the orchard wall,
His horse leapt high and out sped them all.
Onward he sped through Concord’s gate,
Shouting the word before ’twas too late:
“The soldiers are marching, the foe is near!
To arms! To arms! The time is here!”
From lantern’s glow to the farmyard’s cry,
The news went racing, mile on mile;
And farmers gathered with powder dry,
Their hearts aflame, their spirits high.
So when at the bridge the dawn was red,
And the first shots of the war were sped,
’It was Dawes and Prescott, whose midnight quest
Had summoned the people from east to west.
Therefore, my children, remember well,
The truth of the tale that history tells:
Not Revere alone through the dark he rode,
But Dawes and Prescott, who bore the load.
By Rick McGrath, Ph.D.
Copyright © Rick McGrath | Year Posted 2026
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Rick Mcgrath Poem
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the Lord
As I stand here in worship, hands held high
Angels above singing, a standing ovation
A testament before all of creation.
I enter his court with thanksgiving
Unworthy, yet here I stand before him
He is Lord of Lords, King of Kings
Hosanna in the highest, creation sings
This night here in wondrous Yosemite,
I sing praises to my God and Savior
In glory the stars rejoice, so profound
And upon the rock, his hallowed ground
For this is the day that the Lord has made,
I will rejoice and be glad in it
Let the moon and heavens above cry out
Until his return with trumpet’s shout!
By Rick McGrath, Ph.D.
Copyright © Rick McGrath | Year Posted 2026
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Rick Mcgrath Poem
The watchman wakes to the drone of the swarm,
The falconer’s voice lost in the engine’s scream;
Damascan sands shift beneath the iron tread,
And ancient Elam stirs from its long-held dream.
The midnight hour is bruised by crimson flare,
The innocent bartered for a desert throne;
Diplomats falter, hollowed of their prayer,
While zealots reap the whirlwind they have sown.
A sign, the temple veil is torn once more;
The end draws near; the King stands at the gate.
Prepare the way through smoke of Eastern shore,
Behold the Lord who masters time and fate.
The martyrs rise when His command is heard;
The Kingdom comes—fulfilled in Christ the Word.
By Rick McGrath, Ph.D.
Copyright © Rick McGrath | Year Posted 2026
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Rick Mcgrath Poem
(Inspired by Fortunate Son)
Some folks wave the flag on high,
And shout the reason soldiers die.
They speak of duty, proud and loud,
From marble halls above the crowd.
Some folks dine where power stays,
And praise the war on cable days.
They toast the troops with polished tone,
While none they love will ever go.
They call for courage from the land,
They talk of glory close at hand.
But when the papers list the names,
Their families never join the flames.
I hear the drums across the sand,
Another convoy leaves the land.
Another mother waits alone,
Beside a silent telephone.
The wealthy heirs sleep safe at night,
Their wars are fought on screens of light.
Their boots stay clean, their hands stay dry,
While poorer sons must march and die.
So when they ask who answers call,
Who walks the desert, dust and all,
Look past the mansions standing tall,
You will not find their sons at all.
By Rick McGrath, Ph.D.
March 2026~
Copyright © Rick McGrath | Year Posted 2026
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Rick Mcgrath Poem
The room was never emptied.
We only learned to forget how to see it.
The bread is not quiet.
It remembers hands that broke it
and a voice that gave thanks
with the weight of the world pressing in.
It remembers love strong enough
to call betrayal by name
and still offer itself.
We come with polished language
and distant thoughts,
calling it remembrance
as if memory could hold what heaven pours out.
But something stirs
when the cup is lifted.
Not metaphor.
Not a shadow.
Not a careful reenactment
of something long finished.
There is a nearness
that unsettles the soul.
The kind that exposes
how lightly we have carried sin,
how quickly we excuse
what nailed Him there.
The table does not flatter us.
It reveals us.
Here, pride tastes bitter.
Here, hidden things rise to the surface
like leaven we thought was gone.
And yet
we are not turned away.
The bread is given, not earned.
The cup is extended, not withheld.
This is the mystery
that humbles angels
and calls sinners to their knees.
That He would not only die for us
but give Himself to us
again and again
in a way that is more than thought,
more than symbol,
more than memory.
We do not consume an idea.
We receive a Person.
And in receiving
we are undone.
The heart softens.
The will bends.
The soul, once scattered,
is gathered back into Him.
There is life here.
Not imagined
but imparted.
Strength for the weak.
Mercy for the guilty.
Fire for the cold places
we have left untouched.
The table becomes an altar
where we lay down what we have defended
and rise with what we could never create.
This is where repentance feels like breathing.
Not forced
but necessary.
Because how can we hold the cup
and cling to what killed Him?
How can we taste His goodness
and remain unchanged?
So we come trembling
not in fear of rejection
but in awe of welcome.
We come empty
that we might be filled.
We come broken
that we might be made whole.
And as the bread is placed in our hands
and the cup meets our lips
we remember
and we receive
and we are remade.
The room was never emptied.
The invitation never faded.
The table still stands
set before us
with a holiness that calls our name.
Come and partake.
Copyright © Rick McGrath | Year Posted 2026
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