Cheap Grace

We get what we pay for, most of the time.
Yet folks look for bargains, dollars for dimes.
We buy one and get one, wanting things free.
But something for nothing? Too rich for me!

See, I've got a free thing, treasure for sure.
It's God's own forgiveness, Death's final cure.
It came to me freely, Jesus' true Gift,
else I would be hopeless, aimless, adrift.

Beside this, what "free" thing merits the term?
They all carry costs, just hard to discern.
The greatest such cost, though? Cheapening grace,
consigning the Gift to coupon-clip space.

I cherish the free things that truly are free,
like presents I get from those dear to me.
And God's perfect Gift, the ultimate case,
makes retail promotions seem only waste.

No, speak not of free stuff. Sell me your goods
and charge a fair tariff. That's understood.
I've no wish for shortcuts, not for my part.
So give me no free stuff, save from your heart.

 

Copyright ©2020, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.

Commander’s Call

 

Evenings, the egrets return to base,
cruising in squadron formation.
At dawn, they deploy,
each to its own post.
But, early one day,
two dozen convened by our pond,
lighting in adjacent trees,
to hear the day’s ops plan.
From the topmost branch,
the Colonel briefed Alpha Flight,
then swooped to the other tree
to dispatch Bravo.
Orders acknowledged,
all launched, save the Colonel,
who glided gracefully down,
took command of the shallows,
and began solitary patrol.

Copyright ©2020, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.