Poetry by Megan

But Somehow…
–To Corrie Ten Boom and the Jewesses of the Holocaust

Beaten, bruised, battered.
Treated worse than dead cattle.
But somehow, she lost not the battle.

Scarred beyond recognition.
Hated by an evil volition.
But somehow, she made them her petition.

Weaker than weevils in winter.
Calloused to work ‘til she’d splinter.
But somehow loved Nazis that murdered her sister.

Infiltrated, concentrated
For submissive help she demonstrated.
But somehow, her obedience never all faded.

Tortured and barefoot in cold snow for hours.
If she ran, she’d be shot from one of the towers.
But somehow, she stood under joy with such powers.

Hate wells in even my own heart.
I burn to throw back their same death dart.
But somehow, she wouldn’t, though it tore her apart.

Oh, how did you give up all bitterness, child?
Why, when you smelled the dead bodies they piled?
What somehow deterred you from the War’s winning wild?
Who are you?

“I?”

“I am nothing: a weevil, a cow, a speck.
They made me that way with each painful peck.
But somehow, I found someplace to cry on: His neck.

“I saw His blood—not mine—
heard it gush for my sins like wine…
And somehow, He stood there, leading my line.”

Beaten, bruised, battered.
Body hopelessly shattered.
But somehow, none of it mattered.

Scarred beyond recognition—
Except to a fellow Sufferer’s vision
Who somehow forgave of His own holy volition.

My Ode to Running Water
To the Tune of “Lord, Plant My Feet on Higher Ground”

My throat, my throat!
So dry and parched!
No drink to coat
its walls of starch!

Oh, how I thirst
for a clean, crisp draught
of water nursed
from a faucet shaft.

To even see
that silver run
would strengthen me,
though I’d drunk none.

Thy running stream,
thy damp delight!
Thee my one dream,
thy laughter light!

I’d go to debt
to shower in
thy shower wet
to wet my skin.

The grease and grime
of many moons
thy drips sublime
in rainbow tunes

would wash away!
Away the stains!
Alas, my pay
can’t thee obtain!

Thy running stream,
thy damp delight
thee my one dream,
thy fountain bright!

Oh, running water,
die I may!
My life does totter
on this day.

Deluge of peace
and purity
oh cease to cease!
Give surety

that I shall rush
and thee shall spurt—
together gush;
together squirt!

Sea water, fresh,
spring water, bath—
care’th naught my flesh
what kind it hath.

I’m on my knees,
withholding spout!
Oh, tell me please,
without a doubt

if ever I
wilt thy trickle hear,
apart from cries
and my own tears!

Thy running stream,
thy damp delight,
thee my one dream
of liquid light!

But, oh, farewell—
alas, you failed
my thirst to quell,
OH FAUCET HAILED!

Megan's Portfolio

• Poetry
•     Page 1
•     Page 2

About Megan

Megan lives in California, USA

Philippians 3:12 ESV--my favorite verse so far--"Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own." My relationship with Christ is growing--slowly, painfully, breathtakingly. That's the center of who I am. I live in California, where I enjoy--among a vast and colorful world of other blessings--my freaky and incredibly wonderful homeschooling family of eight, playing the piano, and eating [all-natural, crunchy] peanut butter. Try it with vanilla yogurt sometime! I also love the Potter's School, an online Christian organization, and currently take English 3 with one of its teachers. Soli Deo Gloria!