Saturday, May 27, 2017


I lay mine kiss upon thy brow,
Once smooth but wrinkled now,
And as thy soul takes Heaven’s flight,
I hear your solemn vow.

We’ll meet again in Heaven.

Thy body’s naught but an empty cup
That you no longer fill;
Lids to thy empty eyes raise up
But not by a once-strong will.

They gather round us, all of them,
All your friends and kin.
I brush gray hair from your blind eyes
And cry all o’er again.

No I’m sorry or If you need…
Consoles the wounded heart;
I need you more than ever now.
Oh, why did  you depart?

Until we meet again in Heaven…

                        --Monty Wheeler

Wednesday, August 31, 2016


The preacher spoke of the midnight hour,
The zenith of old Satan’s power,
When things unseen are always mean
And nothing good can thrive.

Satan will cloak the eye and soul
To lead the blind with mal control
Then cackle at the hideous cries
Until the dawn brings light.

But darkness hath another veil,
Exact in each minute detail
To the midnight hour’s fears;
I’ve walked that daylight dark.

In broad daylight, inside the mind,
A dread unease, yet undefined,
Gives in to Satan’s unholy grip
On the struggling soul.

The devil hates to lose control,
Not because he respects man’s role;
He cares naught about the man;
He wars with our God on High.

The preacher spoke of the midnight hour,
That sleepless time to cringe and cower,
When demons taunt the mind,
And they will follow past the dawn.

But the Good Lord says, “I will give you rest.”
And He has answered each request,
When I have—earnest—sought in prayer
Release from the midnight demons’ snare.

                                    --Monty Wheeler

Saturday, August 27, 2016


The dying and the dead
Lay littered o’er the Tribulation’s red
Of poisoned rivers flowing blood of persecution.

Three sixes feed the hungered poor;
“Want” spreads far and wide.
O’er the public intercom,
They mock the cries of the child who died
For its mother’s indiscretion.

But naught is placed on a baby’s life
For countless fall to the surgical knife,
And no one cares, and no one hears…

But God.

 Under the rule of the Unholy Three,
The Great Deceiver, the beast
And the one who paved the way,
Death shall fall to all who oppose,
And those once crying, “Cease oppression!”
Press down the thumb of taut control;
One after another dead martyred roll
Into the pit.

They'd’d promised “Stronger together”
For a world but weak’s the tether
That binds the rule of the Unholy One.

Countless others have already gone!

They’d disappeared, those staunch believers;
The sky had glowed with great white light.
Father, son, sister, brother,
Daughter from her loving mother,
All separated one from the other.

And left to wander in the Rapture’s ash,
They will ponder and they’ll wish;
All those who had doubted and those who’d postponed
Suddenly wish their sins atoned.

 Yet even in the years of terror and trials,
God, the Father, still rules all.
And He has promised…

Then rising from the ashes,
New believers stand against
The evil institution.
With the Gunslinger’s cry,
“Kill if you will but command of me nothing!”
They bow to none, not man nor beast,
And not to the devil, himself.

For it’s been writ…

God will bolster with His hand,
Those who dare to stand
Against the dark Commander in chief
Who comes in the night as killer and thief.

Somewhere in the years of the blood,
Jesus comes for those who stood
And rewards them with redemption.

Though years of needless suffering.

“O, Lamb of God, I come. I come.”

--Monty Wheeler

Thursday, July 28, 2016


Let’s solve the problem of race wars
With a grammar rule.
Now come with me for a moment;
We’re going back to school.

A noun can only be a thing,
A person, or a place;
An adjective that walks with it
Will give the noun its face.

The adjective rules o’er it mate
And identity,
So I put limits on myself
By describing me.

If I say “white” to modify
The Christian as the noun,
I limit and define my God
By some earthly crown.

But I—by the blood He shed for us—
Am my Father’s own.
Thus I put the Christian first
And followed by skin tone.

Let Christian be the adjective
Defining any race,
We would see a new world peace
Sans bigotry’s disgrace.

And think, ye friends of many colors,
We all are equal souls,
And all lives matter in a time
When God holds all controls.

We’ll be the nouns of every color
With a Christian adjective
That well defines and shapes us all
In Grace that’s His to give.

                        --Monty Wheeler

*This piece comes as inspiration from a pastor in Texas and his sermon I happened to hear on the radio while driving. I missed his name and I out-distanced the signal before the end of the sermon but I love his message in its pure simplicity.  I can only hope I got it right.*

Sunday, July 24, 2016


Like waters, nations rise to fall.

As nations answer Satan’s call,
Naught might live in a dried up flow
Of a nation lost
Where politicians, like the buzzard,
Feed on the decay of a nation’s heart,
Telling man that they have a plan
To save
Then set themselves apart.
And foolish man—
Too arrogant to see his fate—
Perchance has waited far too late.

But then perhaps…

One hope still lies—the only one—
In the Holy Ghost revival.

Hope for our eternity’s
In those who find revival.

With hands raised up to God on High,
Those who believe send up the cry,
“Let us know revival!”

In the great out-pouring of the Holy Ghost,
Those who oppose will not stand
Against the Mighty One’s command,
And we shall find revival.

It comes.

Begins, perhaps, with a single voice
And sweeps like a wave or ocean’s tide
O’er a sunbaked shore
Through one church, a town, then nation-wide
And thus begins revival.

Those who heed deceivers’ lies
Cannot ebb a river’s flow,
Cannot stop the winds that blow,
Cannot stem the ocean’s tide
As revival lights the darkest waters.

Dried up rivers rage and oceans swell;
“Hosanna!” rises from the well
Of those who see the tattered veil,

And Jesus says, “I come.”

Lord, I pray, in this dark day,
To be washed in Your Light of revival.

                        --Monty Wheeler

Monday, July 11, 2016


Greater men than I
 Have found dark favor
In temptation’s eye,
And Satan laughs at the fall and folly,
When time and again
Man falls to sin.

Hear that cackle?
Insidious glee.

I’ve heard that laugh in restless slumber,
Where darkness closes in
And seven spirits more add to the number
Feasting on my sin.
And I’ve cried, “Help!  I’ve fallen,
“And I can’t get up!”
But make no mockery
For the fall from grace
Into Satan’s embrace
Is a terrible place to be.
And pride keeps the jailer’s key.

Does not matter where man lives,
In wealth or pauper’s penury,
The fall from grace might well be eternity.

There is no, “Onions, cheese,
“Hold the mayo, please,”
 When time to swallow pride,
And believe, ye, me
It won’t go down smooth as summer’s tea.

But somewhere amidst the tears,
Amidst the fears,
Amidst the seemingly senseless rambles
Of words I never knew,
The Holy Spirit opens the door,
Sweeps out the pride like sweeping the floor
And grace fills its place once more.
Thank you, Jesus.

                        --Monty Wheeler

Wednesday, March 9, 2016


I’d, humble, walk the narrow path
With Jesus, Savior, Lord,
And by His gift, I’ll praise Him with
The pen as my bronze sword.

I cannot sing or carry tunes;
No music can I play,
But God has blessed me with a gift,
A talent, so “they” say.

(And onward, Christian Soldier, write
As going off to war,
For God’s salvation set thee free
To walk His Golden Shore!)

I’d wield a lowly poet’s pen,
Not out of duty’s call,
But out of Love for Jesus Christ;
He is great, and I am small.

So if my pen—His gift—is in
Accordance with His plan,
I want to share my God with His
Salvation for all men.

            --Monty Wheeler