A Stone Hill

On a distant stone hill I can see,

The hatred of mankind hanging on a tree.

Won't you please come close to His cross,

The scene, His life, His touch, seem as dross.

I will cherish the old rugged cross,

The wood, the iron, the wine, and blood,

Attack my soul, my sight, like a flood.

I want to run away and flee,

For in His visage, it ought to be me.

I will cling to the old rugged cross,

I know, I cry, He hangs in my place,

He is clothed in naught but disgrace.

His head, O bloodied head, bowed low,

From wounds, brokenness, life does flow.

I will cherish the old rugged cross,

His eyes, gentle, loving, upon me gaze,

My heartache, tears, cause my vision to haze.

The death post, again I come near,

For my need, now I see clear.

I will cling to the old rugged cross,

My soul by my hands, do grip His feet,

Soul rejoice! For salvation so sweet.

The post, the beam, that raised Him high,

Can, will, transport all beyond the sky.

G. Benard- I will cling- I will cherish

tg cpy 4-5-2012

A Sophisticated Man

He is a sophisticated man. Every morning his mirror smiles at him. His white hair and beard are perfectly coiffed. Each hair is examined, snipped, combed, and smiled upon. His custom tailored white shirt fits as demanded and every onyx button is stitched securely in place. The lime and blue woven iridescent silk tie from Italy is the perfect accompaniment to shirt and suit.   

He is a sophisticated man. His library is the envy of friends. The patina on the one hundred fifty year old wood is an intoxicant to the eye. Soft light is cast by Tiffany lamps and solid brass wall sconces. His books line one wall. He looks upon them often and smiles. His face instantly reacts as his eyes fall upon his first editions of Hawthorne and Webster. The smile, ignited by the gaze, reminds him of his status and lucrative mind.  The great works of literature speak softly to visitors that here lives a sophisticated man.

He is a sophisticated man. His leather chair is one of the finest. Hand crafted and covered in Romanza Leather, it is exquisite in every detail. The brass buttons at the top of each arm bear the marks of his fingers over long years. The trained eye can see the faint color change in the leather where his elbows have rested as he enjoyed his pipe and brandy.

He is a sophisticated man. To the left of his chair, his Gillow’s Pembroke Table is within easy reach. His pipe and pouch rest within an Ebony bowl, placed exactly at the far left end of the table, though still in reach. The decanter of Courvoisier brandy rests upon its 16^th century silver server. The snifter sits next to the decanter, with her opening covered with appropriate sized linen. 

He is a sophisticated man. But, every morning his mirror is deceived. The visage of the perfectly groomed man fails to reveal his uninhabited soul and empty heart. He rests within the safety and luxury of the finest leather on his chair. His lips enjoy his fine brandy. The scent of expensive pipe tobacco lingers long. At the setting of the sun he closes himself shut within the safety of the beauty of wood, leather, brandy and tobacco. The soft leather surrounds him and the curling tobacco smoke hides the solitary tear in his right eye. 

He is a sophisticated man.  The warmth of the pipe bowl comforts the fingers of his right hand. With the warmth of his brandy still smooth on his lips he pulls on the brass knob of his exquisite Pembroke table. With his fine tobacco smoke curling upwards towards the hammered tin ceiling the manicured fingers of his left hand react to the cold stainless steel barrel. The pendulum from the Windsor Cherry floor clock declare the passing of seconds as the manicured fingers from the sophisticated man find and rest upon the cold steel.

He Was a Sophisticated Man.