Angel Psalms spiritual messengers bringing their ongoing invitation to be stirred in our hearts . . . to respond

S o    C lo s e        Y e t    S o    F a r   .  .  .

Sacred beings speak to you in voices no longer
listened to.  So close , yet so far
they gaze longingly at our cities
and wonder . . .

what would inspire them to dance the dream once more . . .
the ancient art of love. They send us messages daily
a bouquet of love

They offer us the shield of faith
and the spear of victory over the earth
from him who sent them.


Howard Schroeder

G  A  R  D  E  N      O F     G  E  T  H  S  E  M  A  N  E

In the garden of giving unto the Father's will, our Savior knelt and wept. The heart of hearts rent open in prayer loke a pomegranate broke open as a fragrant gift

In his moment of doubt and pain an angel wiped away the perspiration of anguish and betrayal. Crimson passion from every pore to face the trial ahead. The Father strengthens the heart that willingly endures such things, for He knows the way back to the gardenof Eden is through the garden of Gethsemane

"Father, if you are willing, take this cup from me, yet not my will, but yours be done." And an angel from heaven appeared to him and strengthened him. And being in anguish, he prayed more earnestly, and his sweat was like drops of blood falling to the ground. Luke 22:42-44

	F l o w e r   o f   P u r i t y   What is this deepness and desire that wells up in my soul?
	I have been a barren heart with unborn virtues can my heart be the womb that gives birth to your love? will an angel of Christ announce the incarnation of God in my heart?
	Only by your grace can I hold on to the seed of your love and bring it to fruition You are the God of union your love becomes flesh and blood in my being as I make you new to the world

As I ponder your mysteries in my heart
I desire the life of grace
as the flower of purity takes root in my heart

(Painting & Poem by Howard Schroeder ©1992)

B l e e d i n g     H e a r t     S u n

Like a potpouri of dead roses
I can smell my own dying
Reaching for the bleeding heart sun
of which one drop would set me free
from this garden of dying

even the outermost ring of His light
would be enough grace to pull me back
So I turn my face toward it
to be raptured from the inward spiral
and an angel of fire and light
sears away my shadowland

(Excerpt from the poem "Bleeding Heart Sun"
by Howard Schroeder ©1983)

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