THE MIDNIGHT HOUR

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 cloaks the eye and soul

To lead the blind with mal control

Then cackles 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's spawn.

                                    --Monty Wheeler

THE TIMES TO COME

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

GRAMMAR TO WIN A WAR

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.*

THE GREAT OUT-POURING

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.

Amen.

                        --Monty Wheeler

TEMPTATION'S EYE

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

A HUMBLE POET'S PEN

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

A PRAYER LIES THERE

There waits a prayer everywhere;
there waits a talk with God,
and ask me why I'd pass it by
with just a cursory nod.

There waits a prayer; it's lying there
like a fresh picked rose.
And would I pause my busy day?
to bring it to my nose?

There waits a prayer and all God's care
like a heads-up penny,
and how much richer I shall be
with prayers that count to many.

                        --Monty Wheeler

UPON THE SHORE

Of lovers’ fights she thinks at night

And ponders on her own sad plight;

She walks the way shunned lovers will

When given naught to love but still

From loving him, her heart shan’t sway,

But lonely lives both night and day.

In love or lust the swoon’s the same,

The flutter’d heart, the whispered name,

But one shall die when passion’s fire

Would rage to ash, leave naught but ire

In lovers’ fights and wants to stray,

Then lonely lives both night and day.

She walks along the shore and sand,

Wondering why he cheated and

What’s a jilted lover do?

An angry sea of storm-tossed blue

Invites her but she stops to pray

For lonely living night and day.

                        --Monty Wheeler

*a varied refrain in the Stave Stanza where sestets built of couplets use the last line for refrain.

LET MERCY RAIN

Now I lay me down to weep;

I pray, perchance, for rest in sleep,

Where demons lurk beyond the dreams,

And stark reality's thin, it seems,

Where fears seem sure to win the fight.

How glad I am for cloak of night

Where no one sees the salted tears

Born of way too many years,

But then I think of Calvary,

The place of skulls where tears flowed free,

As Jesus died. Yet he would rise

And come to stand before their eyes.

While nightmares of my toil and tares

Play in midnight’s wide-eyed stares

Sleep would linger as a tease,

But granting no repose or ease.

Until I pray. “My God,” I say,
“Let Your mercy rain today

“And peace come unto me. Amen”

In faith, I close my eyes again.

                        --Monty Wheeler