Can I Call You Daddy Can I call you daddy? Can I climb up on your knee? And throw my arms around you, And kiss you on the cheek, As you soothe away my emptiness and fear? Will you be there when I need you? Are you the love I seek? Just what does Father God mean to me? I grew up with a father--who shared the house I lived in, But a father's love I never really knew. He never said, "I love you." He never hugged or kissed me, And this emptiness within just grew and grew. I used to sit and wonder just what was wrong with me. I'd tell myself his love I didn't need. But the emptiness was real--the wounds inside were deep-- And at nighttime I would cry myself to sleep. Can I call you daddy? Can I climb up on your knee? And throw my arms around you, And kiss you on the cheek, As you soothe away my emptiness and fear? Will you be there when I need you? Are you the love I seek? Just what does Father God mean to me? I thought I was the only one who bore this hidden pain, But soon I found that I was not alone. Many of my friends have taken to the streets To try and find this love they've never known. I look into their haunted eyes and see the hurt within, And I know they haven't found the love they need. They've tried to put a bandaid on a hurt that cuts too deep. A father's love is really what they seek. Can I call you daddy? Can I climb up on your knee? And throw my arms around you, And kiss you on the cheek, As you soothe away my emptiness and fear? Will you be there when I need you? Are you the love I seek? Just what does Father God mean to me? Angelica (Lynda)
Through The Artist's Eyes As I'm driving down the highway, I marvel at the sky, And I see just a portion of the beauty in God's eyes. I can almost see Him posed with a paintbrush in His hands. As He draws in the Ocean waves and paints them o'er the sands. Then He sketches in a perfect cloud--billowy and white, And highlights all the edges with His Son's glorious light, Then He sets a snow-white dove in a blue sky up above, As a token of His freedom--a symbol of His love. Yes my God's creative--there's beauty in His eyes! Each day's a new creation--a wonderful surprise. My God's a Master Artist--without pallet brush or pen, And we're a part of His creation--His love that nevr ends! Just think how hard it must have been, How God's heart was torn-- The day He painted Calvary, and a crown of thorns, And How He must have wept as He dipped the brush in red, And painted scars upon his Son, and upon His head. He painted three old rusty spikes, and a cross of wood, The price that He was paying--noone understood. But He kept on painting out of love--love for you and me-- He let them crucify His Son--He could have set Him free! He watched them crucify His Son--then had to paint the tomb, And paint tears on the mother's cheeks, who'd held Him in her womb. He could have scribbled out the image--and thrown it all away-- But He kept right on painting--what a price to pay! But, oh the joy that filled His heart--as He painted on-- And raised His Son up from the grave--the battle had been won! Mary's startled look--when she beheld an empty tomb-- And His Spirit came with tongues of flame, in an upper room. And the beauty of the picture, when Christ rose into the sky, Brought tears of joy--a look of pride--to the Artist's eyes, But there's a picture yet to come--it's beauty not yet known-- When Jesus comes upon the clouds, to take His people home. That picture's almost finished. Christ could come at any time. I hope that you are ready. Please, don't be left behind! Jesus paid that price out of love for you and me, And God's offering you His love--for all eternity. Won't you accept God's love--for all eternity? Angelica (Lynda)
No Tears Left To Cry A little boy sits--alone by a stream, Sailing a ship--filled with little boy dreams, Not a care in his world, not a cloud in his sky, But those years will all too soon pass him by. Take an six--multiply it by three, Add a draft card, a gun, and a ticket to sea. Teach him to fight, teach him to , Make him learn how to kill--then use him as bait. On a cold winter's eve--in a foxhole alone, Sits a young man--trembling with fear, A in his hand, a gun by his side, As the front line draws frighteningly near. O'er the sound of the guns comes a deafening roar. Night flashes bright as day. And the angels come down--rock him to sleep, Then carry his soul away. In the morning when the telegram comes, A mother sits torn with grief. And a father--in shock--holds his wife in his arms, Refusing to believe. He became a statistic on the national news. The president expressed his grief. The community mourned for two weeks--maybe three, Then went back to their normal routines. Stop using your children as patriotic toys, In y useless battles--as political ploys, Can't you see you're corrupting their hearts and their minds, And wounds made of war--leave scars for all time! He became a statistic on the national news. The president expressed his grief. The community mourned for two weeks--maybe three, Then went back to their normal routines. On a park bench alone--sits an old grey-haired man, Dwelling on memories from an eighty year span. He stares at the world--through sad tired eyes-- But he can't shed a tear--'cause there's none left to cry.Angelica (Lynda)
Comments about the poetry you see on this page? Mail Lynda.