A More Excellent Way

The preacher preaches,
and the teacher teaches,
The leader leads,
and the choir sings.
The doors are all open,
shall we begin?
All of God’s gifts,
now sitting therein,
Straight and real nice,
an orderly row.
A more excellent way,
does anyone know?
Earnestly desire and somebody say,
there must be still a more excellent way.
Though I speak in the tongues,
of angels on high,
prophecy grand things,
and the church says “Oh my!”
Even the mountains,
move at my word.
Just ask and I’ll tell you an encouraging word.
I give all away,
and my body is burned.
One thing is yet lacking,
left out I’m just smacking,
I really am nothing,
without I have love.
Without I should love,
with all of my might.
All comes to naught,
in heaven’s account.
But, if I should love with all of my might,
my simplest act,
becomes grand in His sight.
He gave His love so I could be one,
that loves at the worst times,
the good with the bad.
Love without cause,
is His love for me.
Glorious love,
please let it be me.

-M. Matheson 2010

At What Cost?

At what cost can I pray,
       and stand before Grace?
At what cost am I heard,
       in splendor above?
At what cost can I bow,
       and in worship adore,
              Majesties Self in Glory unknown?
At what cost can I live,
       my own life as I wish?
At what cost am I free,
       to live a life that is real?
At what cost is there joy,
       in the midst of hard trial?
At what cost am I fed,
       as the birds of the air?
At what cost will this world,
       be made fresh and new?
At what cost am I destined,
       to the wide gates of heaven?
The cost let me tell you,
       is not yours to pay.
With the blood of His Son,
       the price has been paid.
The price wasn’t paid,
       for stained glass and four walls.
The price wasn’t paid,
       for our possessions so dear.
But by the blood of His own Son,
        Our destiny is sure,
       Everlasting splendors,
              as someone once said.
We are being transformed,
       from glory to glory,
              just like the Son.
Next time that we think,
       a price must be paid,
              or count our own cost, so very dear.
Let us ponder and think,
       At what cost am I here,
              to spell out these words?
Every last drop of His very Own Son.
-M. Matheson 2010