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Transformation walking
By Amber Kuhlman

Eight years old then, wisdom confined.
One brother, one sister, one dad left behind.
They took him away and put him in jail
Three children rode to a shelter, no post for bail.
Although tears of sadness on all three would roam,
They each knew in their hearts they would never go back home.
They were all placed in foster homes and have been for years.
Through Jesus Christ they were healed and He clamed all their fears.
His hand remained on each child’s life,
Without Him they would have endured much more strife.
Though many may not see it,
Daddy did something right.
He taught his children about Jesus early in life.
The oldest child’s love for Jesus never ceased to grow
Because He never left her side; He never let her go.
Through all the pain and hardship this twenty year old stands
Wisdom beyond her years, being molded by His hands.
The desire of her heart is to follow Him,
Forever and ever until eternity’s end.
Broken hearts and hurtful pain Jesus will continue to mend.
A voice He gave her before she was born,
A voice predestined to praise Him through sunny weather or violent storm.
She will lead his sheep in worship
And His Holy Spirit will attend and there the healing process will surely begin.
She cries out to her Savior, her Father, her best friend.
Here am I send me!
She is available for His service as long as He allows her to be.
A living transformation she continues to turn
Flesh dies rapidly, as the Holy Spirit burns.
This passion inside her strengthen as the flesh fights,
The darkness fades and turns to light.
The battle is won, the flesh is weakened.
Under construction
Transformation walking.

Adapted from Robert Service

I wish that I could understand
The moving marvel of my hand;
I watch my fingers turn and twist,
The supple bending of my wrist,
The dainty touch of finger-tip,
The steel intensity of grip;
A tool of exquisite design,
With pride I think: “It’s mine! It’s mine!”

Then there’s the wonder of my eyes,
Where hills and houses, seas and skies,
In waves of light converge and pass,
And print themselves as on a glass.
Line, form and color live in me;
I am the Beauty that I see;
Ah! I could write a book of size,
About the wonder of my eyes.

What of the wonder of my heart,
That plays so faithfully its part?
I hear it running sound and sweet;
It does not seem to miss a beat;
Between the cradle and the grave,
It never falters, strong and brave.
Alas! I wish I had the art,
To tell the wonder of my heart.

Then oh! But how can I explain,
The wondrous wonder of my brain?
That marvelous machine that brings,
All consciousness of wonderings;
That lets me from myself leap out,
And watch my body walk about;
It’s hopeless—all my words are vain,
To tell the wonder of my brain.

Come, let us on a seashore stand,
And wonder at a grain of sand;
And then into a meadow pass,
And wonder at a blade of grass;
Or cast our vision high and far,
And thrill with wonder at a star;
A host of stars—night’s holy tent
Huge, glittering with wonderment.

If wonder is in great and small,
Then what of Him who made it all?
In eyes and brain and heart and limb,
Let’s see the wondrous works of Him.
In house and hill and field and sea,
In bird and beast and flower and tree,
In everything from sun to sod,
The wonder and the awe of God.

Dear God,

I never knew purple and orange went well together until I saw your sunset last night. Thanks for a spectacular ending to the day you made.

Your Friend