"Thy Will" - A Poem by Patsy Futvoye

Many of you know that Patsy Futvoye (the mother of Dr. Matt Futvoye, one of our members here at Pear Orchard Presbyterian Church) passed into the arms of King Jesus last week. At her funeral service Tuesday morning, Mr. Wiley Lowry, Minister of Pastoral Care at First Presbyterian Church in Jackson, mentioned that Patsy had been writing poetry in the months preceding her death. Like so many disciples of Jesus in church history who have suffered long, her piety flowed out in written prayer and praise to the God who had saved her and sustained her by grace.

This past October Patsy penned the following words, read at her funeral and printed here with permission of her family. They beautifully display what I pray will be mine in ever-increasing measure through all my days: a keen awareness of her own fearful, doubting, sinful heart; a faith and confidence in our sovereign God in the midst of suffering; a hope in the gracious gospel of Jesus’ cross; and a Spirit-wrought longing for holiness that was satisfied in every way when she joined the ranks of the “spirits…made perfect” (Hebrews 12:23). May these stanzas be a source of comfort and strength for you as you endure the many tribulations through which we must enter the kingdom of God (Acts 14:22).  

Thy Will

Walking the verge of death’s dark vale,
My doubts and fears do me assail.
Like dawn, your promises are clear 
That you will be forever near.
”Do not fear,” I hear you say.
You guide each minute of the day.
Sovereign are you in every way.
Align me with thy will, I pray. 

I know you have a special plan.
You sent a Savior, the Son of Man,
To bear the sin and take the blame,
Who carried the guilt and bore the shame.
Forgive me, Lord, the pain I brought,
The times my efforts came to naught.
The commandments you gave I did not heed,
Shunned and ignored my brother’s need. 

Thank you, Lord, for your precious Son.
Through faith in Him, my victory’s won.
He has paid my price and made a place
Through His measureless love and grace. 
Holy Spirit, warm my cold heart.
Let me ne’er from thee depart. 
Sovereign are you in every way.
Align me with thy will, I pray.

— Patsy Futvoye, October 2019

John Donne's Holy Sonnets Are A Rich Feast for the Soul

Poetry probably isn’t the first thing we rush to read every morning, and yet we all know the power of a poem. What is a song, but a type of poem set to music? And which of us has not been impacted deeply by the lyrics to some song?

If you’ve never read any of John Donne’s “Holy Sonnets,” you’ve missed out on a rare source of spiritual nourishment and soul-formation. Here are three that set forth Christian truth in such a memorable and vivid way - make sure to read them slowly (even out loud), and more than once, to taste the full sweetness of Donne’s imagery and word choice.

Wilt thou love God as he thee?

Wilt thou love God as he thee? then digest,
My soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on
In heaven, doth make His temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blest,
And still begetting—for he ne'er begun—
Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,
Co-heir to His glory, and Sabbath's endless rest.
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find
His stolen stuff sold, must lose or buy it again,
The Sun of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom He had made, and Satan stolen, to unbind.
'Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more. 

Death, be not proud

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee 
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; 
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow 
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me. 
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, 
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, 
And soonest our best men with thee do go, 
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. 
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, 
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, 
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well 
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? 
One short sleep past, we wake eternally 
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die. 

Batter my heart

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you 
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend; 
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend 
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new. 
I, like an usurped town, to another due, 
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end; 
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend, 
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue. 
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain, 
But am betrothed unto your enemy; 
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again, 
Take me to you, imprison me, for I, 
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free, 
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.