**These are shorter poems with no relation to each other whatsoever.... I guess this is kind of like Anna's Nonsense Poets, but I'm not planning on making more of these....**

Only thirteen--how?

How could her lack of grace 

keep her from recognizing Your face?

Pain and shame, with no one to clear the blame.

This fallen little girl has seen the world

now she's hates her very name.

So much for love and respect on earth,

shattered and torn by a broken life,

calling out unconsciously for new birth,

wanting to see the meaning of paradise. 

Only eighteen--why?

Why in his strife with noise

was he able to block out Your voice?

God is greatly to be praised,

For he Christ from death hath raised.

He is the triune and almighty God,

Adam he made from the sod.

He is God almighty throughout the heavens,

Sing to him with joyful hymns.

All things that on the earth do live,

 To him your praise now give.

The mighty trees of cedar high,

They show that he is always nigh.

The tender fern so meek and low,

Murmurs that he made them so.

Chapter Three: That’s Why We’re Free

Veni

“This is the Door of Humility, originally built in the seventh century.” The guide droned on, ignoring the muttered curses of the tall Americans who bumped their heads and the protests of the elderly who were already bent double with age. Among the later was a quiet woman with paper-white hair and gleaming onyx eyes.

She wandered away from the crowd into the Grotto of the Nativity. Underneath the elaborate tiles and plaques, it was still just a cave.

“He was born in a stable, Mara. Just think of it! A stable, like this!”

Dear God,

We haven't spoken since July. I have only spoken to you. Something is wrong with me. I used to be able to talk to you and know with my heart that you heard me. now, I talk and I feel as if I were talking to myself. I still know that you hear. But I know it the way I know that you know my every thought.

Notebook flipped open to an empty page

Pencil in hand, eraser in range

A mess of ideas desperately waiting to be written

But yet I think to myself, "Where is my inspiration?!"

Empty, like a useless vessel, I feel

If I was really blessed with such an incredible gift

Why am I not pouring it out to the world?

Oh what a God-given gift I have blessed with!

The gift to design a world of my own

The gift to sing without a voice

The gift to fly on the wings of the wind