Dare I Go

Reference: Judges 7 and 8

Dare I go
Against the Armies of Midian,
The oppressors of our people.
Dare I face an army
That so outmatches mine.
Dare I go,
The least of my family,
The least of my tribe,
The least of my nation.

Too many?
What do you mean
Too many?
Were outnumbered as it is.
Dare I send home the men
With quivering knees,
Dare I send home those
Who stomachs shake.
I have no chance without the fearful,
And no chance with them.

Too many still?
How is that possible?
I have but ten thousand.
My cause is hopeless
As it is.
To send home more
Based on drinking water?
But if God doesn’t go,
There’s no chance.

Okay, so now you’re satisfied.
Now that we have three hundred
Before an army of thousands.
And all you give me is a vision
In the mist,
Of a loaf falling from Heaven,
And a fearful Midianite’s interpretation.
So I’m to run against a trained Army
With lamps and yelling.
Dare I go?


Will I be remembered as an Idiot
Screaming in the woods?
A madman whose life’s lamp was
Extinguished on a cold, bitter night.
A nuisance swatted
By the arm of Midian,
Squashed by a superior foe,
Dare I go?

There’s but one hope
In a darkest hour,
And that is beyond my grasp,
Beyond my power,
When my frail plans fall
To the ground,
I must choose to run
Or stand against the wind.
So against the mighty thousands,
With no earthly chance,
With God, I dare go.

-Adam Graham

Blessing Tour: Why Sorrow Over


Stephen Todd Jones is a writer and poet from Virginia Beach, Virginia.

While a sophomore at Liberty University, he sustained injuries in a car crash that left him in a wheelchair, and this perspective forms the basis for much of his writing. Through his poetry, he gives us a window into his world and his faith.

Why Sorrow Over

by Stephen Todd Jones

Why sorrow over
That had not
For the same is a
Heavy thought?

Why not enumerate
All here had
Rather than accounting
For those bad?

In content, do you
Not strive to
Obtain that reserved,
It seems, for few?

Or is content a state
Where you are
Never seeking that
From way afar?

Is dreaming wrong to
Do here when
You are dissatisfied in the
State you are in?

Are we not to seek to
Improve our lot,
Or as the fatalist here,
Are we not?

God, reveal to me the
Answer to those,
Or is there a definite
As I here suppose?

Posted with author permission.

Andrea’s Comments:

Poetry is a great vehicle for lament. These are questions many have, as the church today has forgotten the art of lament, and when we begin instinctively to lament, we’re often frowned upon, told we should stop whining and practice contentment, rejoice for all the blessings He’s given us instead of sorrowing for all we’ve lost. What we fail to realize is that lament–crying out before the Lord and being totally, brutally honest with God about where we’re at–is a valid form of worship, too. And when we’ve cried until we have no tears left before His throne, we find His grace is there to lift us up, and, in truth, He’s been weeping with us all along. And that’s when we’re ready to rejoice.

My Prayer:

Abba, Father, come along side Stephan in the gift of lament, and may your Church join with him as well. Lord, I don’t know why You allow Your children to experience such pain; I don’t know why some are healed on earth and why some have to wait until Heaven. I thank you for the promise of healing, and I pray you will make your strength perfect in Stephen’s weakness here on earth until the promise is fulfilled.

Father, I’ve never been physically disabled, and I don’t know what that’s like. But I do understand loneliness and the pain of isolation. I know what it’s like to long to walk in the sunshine. I know what it’s like to be surrounded by darkness, to be attacked and accused, made to feel worthless, and to have an account demanded to justify my continued existence. To be told I can’t do it and I’ll never measure up. Lord, surround Stephen now with your loving-kindness, hold him in your everlasting arms, and whisper your love to him. Speak your truth into his heart to swallow up and cast out the accuser’s lies. Fill him with the understanding of how special he is to you, that you still have a plan for his life, and grant him the reassurance that you will empower him to do all you have for him to do. Remind him of the vision You gave him, reaffirm your covenant, and reassure his heart that though the vision tarry, you shall yet bring it to pass. For I know what is impossible for man, is possible for You, Lord. Grant him the courage to pursue the call you have placed upon his life, no matter how many road blocks and taunts the enemy throws at him. Glorify Your Holy Name in his life and mine.

In Jesus’ Name I pray,


Mission Accomplished, Mission Failed

Your job was to change my diapers,
But that part ended about 25 years ago.
Your job was to tell me everything to do,
And make sure I did,
But that part ended a decade ago.
Your job was to make me into a man,
Who could live independently,
Solve problems,
Get things taken care of on my own.
And now I am.

Now your job is to
Enjoy my accomplishments,
Take pride in what I achieve,
And the part you’ve played in it.
Talk to me like a man,
And share wisdom with an equal.

Yet, you don’t get it,
Perhaps you’re confused.
Your job was to never be a geneticist,
God never asked you to make a clone.

The Drummer

  To W.T.S.

The drummer sits
For the first time in forever.
He grabs his sticks,
His faithful servants
And begins to strike the drum,
Boom, clang, boom boom

The drummer’s home
In another world, another place
A perfect picture
Of a man in his element,
Some things may have been forgotten,
But nothing we’d remember
As we listen to the boom of the drums
And the clang of cymbals,
We only see the joy of the drummer.

Then at once the drummer rises,
The moment passes,
The drummer rises
And he stands a leader,
A decider of the fate of our nation.
Washington left his Mount Vernon
As the drummer must leave his drum
To change the tune of our nation’s Capitol.
For nothing is ever accomplished without sacrifice.


By opportunity unsought, we become poor,

By knowledge unapplied, we become fools,

By freedom unexcercised, we become slaves,

By pleasure undisciplined, we become miserable,

By manners unheeded, we become brutes,

By truths untold, we become liars.

The march of the centuries is lost,

The wise are perished and their words

Are but kept as odd witticisms,

As we squander all we have

On riotous living

We smile at each other and say, “My friend!”

As hatred seethes in our heart,

With murder on our mind,

We shake hands.

Americans sit idle transfixed

By America’s idol watching American Idol

While thieves lay waste their house.

Is this the House of the Lord?

Where is He?

To our Master, we shall all give account




no one cares

no one sees


no one wants me

no one loves me

no one embraces me


no one hears

no one understands


no family

no fellowship

no comfort

only mockers

only users

only scorn

only black shadow

where friends and family once were





jerked around

burdened down


spat upon


who would have thought

God could feel

Alone too


Now playing: Sonicflood – Holy One
via FoxyTunes

Heaven’s Tears

 Seems extra appropriate after the latest school shooting.

The Lord bemoans his forsaken Lambs
Long ago a brother killed a brother
Now our children carry on his legacy
Pain, destruction, desolation, revenge
These are the things Cain gave them

A civil war takes place in our streets
Brother against brother our Children fight
For the right to destroy themselves
They mock their mother’s crying heart
And mimic forgotten fathers lost

The rain falls as tears from above
Washing Abel’s blood from the street
Yet the dark legacy lives on still
In our children’s angry hearts
Where even Heaven’s host won’t tread

Their guardian angels stand by helplessly
As the children rage on against their advice
All of Heaven cries out for our children:
When will the bloody streets be cleansed?
When will Cain’s hidden war so end?

– Andrea J. Graham

December 1998