​patrick oliver griswold
Poetry
Patrick's poetry chronicles a soul's journey through life's complexities, weaving experiences of love and humor while exploring man's solitary quest to find meaning. His verses ultimately lead home to the redemptive embrace of Jesus Christ, revealing the sacred destination that gives purpose to our wandering. Here you will find a selection of poems from his new book of poetry, "Letters to the Living".
Forever Grace Upon the Hills
Through the mist upon the morning tide,
Your mercy walks where shadows hide.
Every stone and every stream,
Whispers grace, a holy dream.
Grace upon the hills,
Grace within the valleys still.
Grace that lifts the broken soul,
Grace that makes the wounded whole.
In the silence of the ancient glen,
Your voice is heard, it calls again.
Though the night is long and deep,
Your grace sustains,
Your promise keeps.
Oh, the rivers sing,
the mountains bow,
Your endless grace
is here and now.
Through every trial,
through every pain,
Your love remains;
Your grace remains.
Grace upon the hills,
Grace within the valleys still.
Grace that lifts the broken soul,
Grace that makes the wounded whole.
Forever grace upon the hills.
A Poet Torn
The Faith of Sacrifice​​
I walk the edge of dusk and dawn,
A soul that limps, but still believes.
You found me in my fractured song,
Where laughter hides what pain conceives,
And mercy waits beneath the eaves.
​
He bore the weight of love betrayed,
While silence wrapped the gallows tight.
Some cursed Him with a bitter cry,
Some kissed His cheek beneath the night,
And still He chose the cross for right.
I speak in riddles, cracked and kind,
A jester in a holy court.
Yet when I fall, You lift my name,
Not with rebuke or cold retort,
But grace that floods the last resort.
The thorns He wore were not His shame,
But crowns of fire for sin’s release.
He bled where we had drawn the line,
And in that wound, He planted peace—
A bloom that bids our striving cease.
I’ve danced with ghosts and drank with doubt,
And stitched my wounds with borrowed thread.
But You, O Christ, You saw me through,
When all my lesser gods had fled,
And whispered life where I played dead.
The tomb was sealed with stone and fear,
Yet love refused to stay confined.
He rose not just to conquer death,
But to restore the soul and mind—
To lift the low, to heal the blind.
So here I stand, a poet torn,
With ink-stained hands and trembling knees.
I raise You high with every breath,
Not out of duty, but with ease—
For You are joy that never flees.
Where the Light Still Finds Us
A Sonnet of Grief​​
It doesn’t shout. Grief never has to try.
It comes in quiet—soft as breathing wrong—
unthreads the edges of a lullaby,
then stays too long in places joy belonged.
You miss the way the gospel used to sound—
the way it met you warm and full of light.
Now Scripture echoes, hollow in the round,
and every prayer feels heavier at night.
But Christ still walks the garden of your ache.
He knows the turning shadows by their name.
And when the heart has bent enough to break,
He gathers every piece without a shame.
So rest. The dark is deep, but not the end.
He’s near enough to call you back again
The Lord is near to the brokenhearted,
and saves the contrite of spirit.
Psalm 34:18
Candle of the Lord
after Proverbs 20:27
The soul holds flame—
quiet, steady—
lit by hands unseen.
It does not flicker in the dark.
It learns to wait,
to warm what cannot be reached by reason.
It moves beneath the surface of things—
where memory hides
and longing keeps its watch,
where old grief hums low
but grace hums lower still.
No part of us is passed over.
The flame enters the hollow chambers,
the tight-closed rooms,
the places named
too tender to disturb.
And there—
with patience,
with mercy drawn in quiet breath—
it searches.
Not to shame.
To illumine.
To reveal the shape
of what was always meant to live.
We are known like this:
by light that leans in close
and calls us home,
one slow beam at a time.
​
The spirit of man is the candle of the Lord,
searching all the inward parts of the heart.
Proverb 20:27
The Way Everlasting
after Psalm 139:23–24
Come search me, Lord—
in those places I look away.
The quiet corners I leave unnamed.
Trace the breath I never speak aloud.
Sift the marrow from my prayers.
See if a weight still clings to me.
What I have left nameless,
Your hand reveals all.
And as I continue toward darkness,
You show the better way.
You never force.
Your direction is kind.
And in that mercy,
I walk.
I follow behind You,
even when I lag.
And You never slow—
in those places I called safe.
Each step is known to You.
Each sorrow is accounted for.
And every path You offer
leads me home.
​
Search me, O God, and know my heart:
try me, and know my thoughts:
and see if there be any way of iniquity in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.
Psalm 139:23-24
The Renewing
after Romans 12:2​​
This world makes shapes—
loud, demanding—
asking you to fold into them.
But you are clay
in gentler hands.
Not molded by pressure,
but by presence.
Each thought
brought forward to the light.
Each habit
held to the flame.
Each lie
unlearned in silence.
You do not resist by rage.
You are changed by renewal.
Transformed by the still,
inner turning
of the mind toward mercy.
The will of God
is not a riddle.
It is a road—
and it welcomes the bare soul.
Walk it slowly.
Let discernment grow
like fruit in the season
He alone chooses.
And as you walk,
what once conformed you
no longer fits.
You are becoming
what He always saw.
Do not be conformed to this world,
but be transformed by the renewing of your mind,
that you may prove what is the good and acceptable
and perfect will of God.
Romans 12:2
These three small poems follow the movement of a soul learning to listen.
First comes the voice, calling us awake. Then blessing finds us, quiet, undeserved.
Then, at last, we learn to walk in what we have heard.
It is the simple arc of faith:
We hear.
We receive.
We follow.
1. Of Hill and Voice
The hill at the edge of the crowd,
Beyond the murmurs, rises
In the hush of morning.
A man stands there, dust in his hair,
Speaking of lilies and sparrows,
Of salt, of light.
You know then it is not fear
That mends the torn places.
The voice calls. The air holds.
The hill stands at the edge of hope.
The wind carries the word among branches.
The promise shines, then falls like rain.
2. Of Blessing
The dawn at the bend of the road,
Beyond the last house, glows
In the hush before labor.
A Voice on the wind says, Blessed are,
And the Word moves among olive leaves,
Salt-heavy, light-bound.
You know then it is not the strong
Who inherit the fields of peace.
The meek rise. The promise breathes.
The dawn stands at the edge of mercy.
The wind carries the softest prayer.
The Word settles, quiet as bread.
3. Of Saying and Hearing
The path at the edge of the sea,
Beyond the nets, glistens
In the first warmth of light.
You have heard it said, the Voice begins,
And the air holds its breath,
Listening past the surf.
You know then it is not the old
Words that hold the dawn together.
The new Word steps near. The heart opens.
The path stands at the edge of turning.
The wind moves over water, over stone.
The Word walks, calling us home.
Through the Hard Way
Through the Hard Way
The hill rises slow in the dusk,
its stones sharp with silence.
A shadow bends low across it.
You have asked to know Him here,
where comfort does not linger,
where the cross speaks more than the crown.
Listen—
the wind carries a name through the thorns.
It is whispered, not shouted.
You step,
and the ground breaks open with light.
The Hard Way becomes the narrow gate.
​
The second silence waits by the river,
its waters dark, unmeasured,
the current pulling deep.
You kneel to drink,
and the taste is both bitter and sweet,
salt and honey in one cup.
He has walked this way before,
leaving no map, only footprints
that vanish in the tide.
Morning bends over the ridge,
a thin fire on the horizon,
a song rising with the wind.
The Voice calls again,
not to the strong or the certain,
but to the broken who listen.
And you know—
the way of suffering is the way of knowing,
and the Word Himself walks beside you.
​
​
​
​
​
​
Faith with Feet in the Dust
(after James 2)
​
Partiality & Mercy
They entered wearing different clothes.
One had a jacket that whispered wealth.
The other carried weather in his skin.
And the room turned
quiet.
Not with malice—
just instinct.
The kind we don’t question
because it feels like order.
But the Kingdom
does not sort by shine.
It comes through the poor man’s coat
and the rich man’s ache.
It has no favorite seat.
It does not wait for credentials.
It breaks the circle
we thought was protection.
​
You believe in God.
Good.
Even demons do.
But belief that stays in the mouth
dies there.
What you do with your hands—
there’s the question.
Who do you feed?
Who do you clothe?
Who do you let interrupt your day?
These are the echoes
of true faith.​
There are no gold stars in the Gospel.
No polite applause for agreeing
with what you’ve never lived.
The brother who walks in hungry
has no use for your blessing
if your pantry stays closed.
Mercy is not a sentiment.
It is movement—
a body bending
toward another. This is the deal:
that faith and works
are not rivals but companions.
They walk together
across the field,
each carrying
what the other cannot.
And judgment—
when it comes—
will not ask
what you believed
when the lights were low
and the music was soft.
It will ask whom you lifted
when the world was lost.
​
Sacrifice & Breath
There is a moment
when belief stops being silent.
Not a declaration,
but a gesture—
a hand raised
without knowing where it will land.
Abraham on the mountain,
Isaac breathing beneath him,
and no proof but the Voice
he heard days ago.
This is not metaphor.
This is blood and wood
and the breath caught
between trust and trembling.
Rahab opened her door
to strangers,
not knowing
how the story would end,
but she believed
it meant something
to protect the strangers
she could have let go.
She was not righteous
by resume;
she was righteous
by risk.​
Faith, when it lives,
lives in the tension—
between command and response,
between what we cannot see
and what we still choose to do.
Without that,
faith is a body on a table,
skin still warm
but soul departed.
So we return
to the ones with dust
on their shoes,
calloused palms,
a meal carried
to someone who
forgot how to ask.
We return
to the movement of mercy,
the action of belief,
the weight of love
measured in footsteps.
This is faith.
Not still
But breathing.​
​
​
​As the body without the spirit is dead,