We will meet in the gardens of paradise. The blue sky will smile at us And the soul will bloom like a periwinkle, If they followed in the Lord's footsteps. We will meet in the gardens of paradise.
We will all hug like brothers. We will never spend the night there. Eyes will shine joyfully, That we all reached the goal. We will all hug like brothers.
And the Universe will hear a psalm. The Lord's children sing. Angels will rejoice with us, Eternity will gently embrace with a wing. And the Universe will hear a psalm.
We will meet. Our home is in heaven. And there will never be separation. All the saved will hold hands In white robes, all are young. We will meet. Our home is in heaven.
March, 2022
He returned alone. with defeat He measured the road between the grasses with difficulty. Everything recently seemed like a fairy tale... He went to his father. He lost.
And on the other side of the sick, Where hopes grew anchors, In the father's heart to the destitute The flame of faith and love was burning.
One more look at the distant, upset... Someone is coming from the Judean lowlands. Crying sadness in the form of a tired, A gentle wave in the soul: it must be a son!
The gate creaked in alarm. Father still has enough strength to run... All torn, barefoot, exhausted, But - son! Oh, finally, my son!
We bowed our knees in prayer. It was barely heard: "Father, I have sinned..." "I accept, my son, your sadness. Do you hear the song of my soul?"
And on the shoulders of sons, bent Father's hands... — a moment of all-forgiveness. Two souls embraced, winged, Happiness-fate trembles over them
The fog rolled in to the village, They spread out across the fields and ravines. I hear soft words, my mother's whisper Mom prays - everything, as before.
The sinewy hands folded like a shuttlecock. The moment is beautiful. Only mother and God. In prayer there is a symphony of sounds, And it sounds only for two.
Crying with a violin, the pain is unquenchable, He whines about lost destinies. For my daughter, grandchildren, and son Mother is praying. Mom is in pain.
Velvet flute sound A low voice flies up. Mom is praying, maybe for the last time... Heaven hears you, speak.
The timpani beat the sky in alarm. A mother's heart hears trouble. And then in prayers until exhaustion In the gap, it becomes necessary.
Here, thanks to the major chords And the minor sound of mourning, Life-giving streams flow here To the mournful branch of the willow.
Prayers are not afraid of censorship, Because they sound from hearts, not pulpits. God knows the prayer score And he puts his seal.
Mother's prayer symphony... We will never understand her. We are happy to have you around Praying mothers live.
The sons have not yet grown up, And it's not long before dusk. And restless dreams are dreamed, And every night is like the last.
The sons have not yet grown up, And the world is a complete dead end. What path will they find When the soul is both pure and gentle?
The sons have not yet grown up, I am still forming their crowns. Sons, like the echo of spring, And I hear bells in the winter.
The sons have not yet grown up. Oh, take your time to grow up, eagles. Let the ash trees make a noise for you About guarding the wings.
Sons of my old age, Grow up, rise up. I bless the season When will it be "autumn" for you too.
The dawn broke out with a washed-out star. On the creative palette, freshness is beauty. The Master opens a miracle gallery: The dew still trembles on his canvases.
Pale copies are stacked in basements. The gray Hermitage jealously guards them. And for us, all the originals are daily Offers God's glorious vernissage.
God, You are an Artist and Creator of masterpieces! Our earthly talent will not surpass them. Because Your ornaments are made of beautiful pearls, And Your jewelry is a pure diamond.
A wonderful gamut of the greatness of nature, Unearthly landscapes have a strange color Beautiful and beautiful, like a girl's beauty, And meadows blooming delicate velvet.
The Lord's exhibition, personal, own, That has been working continuously for many years. It is always available to us, solemnly clear Will inspire as long as there is peace.
If we are so tempted by all earthly beauties, Dew mornings in the blue mist, What then awaits in the holy heights, In a new heaven and a new earth?!
About the land with plowed forehead... Vasyl Simonenko
As if his soul was frozen in soot. Pain in the heart - up to the handle, How to find Martian landscapes And savage merciless war.
There is a violent cave-in. Behind each pine tree is a father. It leaves behind an audacity From dead trees.
How to look the conscience in the eye? For a handful of amber In the modern Middle Ages We drive the soul into the coffin.
Martian polis landscapes… The eyes of the craters are in tears. Our children will tell their grandchildren How Polish beauty disappeared.
On a thoughtless and barbaric sacrifice Cain puts a terrible seal. Already the pupils of the craters are dead... Quietly, the pine trees are dripping with resin.
Do I recognize you, native land, How will I come out of the fog of expectations? Because they are crucifying my Polissia... I don't sing the requiem yet The edge of hope has not yet faded.
My native land! My dear earth! Childhood, youth, maturity... bustle. Not the summers to spread your wings Everything has almost faded. Not those summers...
Who knew that fate would return me like this, That there will be pain and sadness in a foreign land And the sincere call of the father's field, And unfaithful mother's songs.
The land of the parents, you are always the closest, More than once I breathed on you in my sleep. Homeland smoke is now dearer to me For that fire that is in a foreign land.
Let my son tell his son, That no matter how the wide world beckons, You will never endure the Motherland The soles of trampled boots.
Oh my land, my earthly love, My old corns are burning. I would not fall only on a foreign field, And to die - on the ancestral land.
must be blind To not see the flash of autumn And illuminated with gold Age-old luxurious forests. Nature is still awake. A woman dreams of summer in a beggar And the air is intoxicating He sings an ode to the dew.
Must be deaf In order not to hear the cry of the cranberry, How the rains sigh Watering the sad field, As the soul speaks About the prematurity of the fleeting life And how the wind howls About a short earthly path.
You have to be dumb So that the lips do not speak thanks For autumn gifts, September ripe summers... Let it not be in the soul Not even a bit of bad weather! Let the springs ring And the earth, like Eden, flourished!
If prayer had colors, We would be witnesses of a beautiful vision. As a fruit, as a gift of deep humility, What incense flows upwards... If prayer had colors.
When we went out to the yard at night, Then we would be greeted by a bright light, And the holy secret of prayer would be revealed to us, As the day will give its keys to the night... Whenever we went out to the yard at night.
And the day would shine like a rainbow for us, For from the hearts of men, going in the coming day, High, immortal prayers would pour, Life would be with plenty of sights... And the day would shine like a rainbow for us.
If prayer had colors daytime, at night, All the time.
My Ukrainian language, Holy Martyr. Your eternal sounding word From our hearts grows.
It blooms viburnum, Groomed and clean, Sweet and painfully familiar, Like a necklace for the soul.
You were crucified more than once Crooks and vassals. They took it off the cross and hid it, But you resurrected.
And lived in the hearts of the pure, Bound by prayers And always in foggy times, Movo, you were with us.
You are like a gift from God You are like a crown as a reward. Your way of the cross The daughter of her people.
Go, break through the thorns My Ukrainian language, I believe, he will overcome the evil Your everlasting word.
People are afraid to meet God, But it is scarier not to meet Him. It would be better for him to be a strict judge for us, Than the distant forever and strangers.
He is the most holy and almighty Love, He lights the stars in the soul. Why did it turn out like this in our lives, That we went to empty mirages?
Why the heart is a tired island - It did not resist the waves of sin. The boat hit a sharp stone, The deaf conscience did not worry.
And it hurt, it hurt, it hurt, It hurt and burned until exhaustion... So I wanted to spread my wings And feel the blissful warmth.
But someone strong held tight, Not giving rest even for a moment, And forced to lie prostrate, So that the blue does not open for us.
Retreat from the heart, anxiety! Let the coming day be clear! ...It is very scary to meet God, It's even scarier not to meet Him...
I was a witness, as in the early sixties of the 20th century
in the city of Volodymyrka, Rivne region, they destroyed a wonderful historical monument.
He stood glumly Surrounded by sad oaks, And people in the distance Whose spirit has not hardened yet.
Suffered the hardships of war, I endured a difficult day. And now the oaks are green They want to protect from people.
The temple should be crucified today Universal, as Christ once was. And the current pilates are terrible Nishko washed his shaking hands.
Suddenly - an explosion. The walls trembled, Stuck heart, pain in the eyes. And a beautiful piece of architecture Now it will turn to dust.
The temple screamed, rose up for a moment, To the blue, away from malice... He fell powerless. Grief is all around And a pile of bricks. The oak trees wept.
People cried too. Wiped The sleeve is sky blue from the eyes. And the vandals listened to curses: They did not wish days, but nights.
That's all... Bitter and painful drama... Only gray smoke from fresh wounds... A few years later, on the site of the temple They will "build" a cheap restaurant.
He stands, but is always ill with something. Years pass, there is no turning back. And the oaks spread their branches upwards, And the heaven of repentance awaits.
Let's take care of our heart temples From outside the enemy of the soul. Lord, be with us forever. Protect from evil, sin and lies.
He is the Son of God. He is kissed by the sky. And felt in the Sanhedrin, That not they, but He, uncrowned, He sits by right on the universal throne.
He was a Stranger. He was offered All the kingdoms of the world and their glory are perishable. Refused. Because it was required of Him Fall at the feet of the enemy in prostration.
He was a Stranger. All disenfranchised people He was a friend and brother every day. He was not afraid to have dinner with them, Making a holiday of their needy life.
He was Love untainted by anything. He carried her divine everywhere. Love was also given to a traitor, When Judas washed his feet in humility.
Only He was destined to be a beaten bird Raise the wings outstretched on the cross. Finish the cup, say: "It is finished!" And become invincible even to death.
Jesus is risen, the Mount of Olives, The students have gathered, there is beauty all around. Almost a minute has been strange — To go in a cloud to heaven.
And he got up. Heavenly gates Submitted to the King of kings, That our temples, heart temples Filled the breath of His gifts.
The students are waiting, the tension is growing... There is a holiday in the city, a solemn moment. The era of the Holy Spirit is coming, So that, having ignited, it will always burn.
And - a noise suddenly, like a strong wind. Hope in the eyes, love in the hearts. God's children are waiting for the Spirit. For a sacred moment - spilled blood.
And then - a glow, as if fiery, It fluttered, but it didn't burn. The people saw something incomprehensible, What was a real miracle then.
By the fire of love in the temple of the heart, With the sacred fire on the altar From heaven, joy flowed with gifts - That is the promise of the King of kings.
Heavenly Father, You are your Son Sent to earth - and He saved us, And then you gave the Spirit to man, So that orphanhood will pass us by.
It is impossible to give anything more, And no one could get closer... Life with abundance is so happy! — I lay at your feet, Jesus.
People in the temple: faces, faces. Rich, widows, poor... Christ sat opposite the treasury, In which they threw silver coins.
Husbands are coming... Luxurious robes And noble gray hair - A sign that they are rich. The same ones sacrifice fully.
A generous offering from the rich — Not a bend, not a wonder. The rich has somewhere to get, And for the treasury - a surplus.
Among the noisy people, In the middle of temple decorations There is a widow from a simple family, That became an example for us.
Goes timidly to the treasury. How a sincere heart flutters! Two leptos clasped in right. Blessed, glorious moment!
This moment is for the Lord, the Master... When sacrificial on the altar We put a meager, small, In His eyes, this is a worthy gift.
We carry love and loyalty And we ask: - Bless, So that our sacrifices have value, How to talk to a poor widow!
I will come to You, my ancient Rabbi. Like Maria, I will quietly sit at your feet. You will tell how the dew trembles on the grass, Where to find solace for the heart.
You will explain to me why the tear fell, Why do I have to carry my burdens, Why storks turn back in the spring To the old withered pear.
I will ask You, I will learn from You, How to worship You sincerely. My Lord and Savior, my Shepherd Jesus, Your gracious words are myrrh.
You will reveal the secrets of Your promises And you will let me enter behind the curtain, That I may see the glory of the heavenly stars, Your scepter and your holy robe.
I will ask how love comes into the heart, How do I enter into worship? And give thanks for the eternal cover, What increases faith in salvation.
You will open new horizons for me, That I may know the holy secrets. I will draw your words, my good Rabbi, How to draw water from a well.a
They mocked the dignity of the Messiah Cynical and scary. The night turned away. He has already sown the earthly sorrowful field. It will spawn through the smoke of centuries.
It's still a long way to black dawn. A terrible day and a bloody trail. And the whistle of the bull. The answer is silence And evil faces on a crimson background.