On Finding God After the Rain

I found God today, in a patch of mushrooms.
They, golden-domed pavilions in emerald grass,
with cap, stem and gills—His divinity looms
in them. They astound me with intricacy.

I found God today, walking a black street
turned blue by the sky in its still, broad puddles—
Heaven’s streets are paved with gold, but now they meet
me, as I walk these streets here paved with Heaven.

I found God today, I found His Son in bark
of a tree, rough like the rough wood that scraped His
shoulders whipped raw when He bore my cross, that dark
dark day—with light for me shining through branches.

I found God today, in a raindrop falling
from a flower at my touch, like a blood drop,
tear drop on His face at His Father calling
Him to anguish and abandonment for me.

I found my God today—for He is ever
here, wooing me, showing me His hidden face,
His silent voice, the world He made never
hushed, but always shouting His name with joy.

"A Divine Song of Praise to God, for a Child", by Isaac Watts

This comes from The 1777 New England Primer, which I made an updated version of a few years ago.

How glorious is our heavenly King,
Who reigns above the sky!
How shall a child presume to sing
His righteous majesty!

How great His power is none can tell,
Nor think how great His grace;
Nor men below, nor saints that dwell
On high before His face.

Nor angels that stand 'round the Lord,
Can know His secret will;
But they perform His heavenly Word,
and sing His praises still.

Then let me join this holy train,
And my first offerings bring;
Eternal God will not disdain
to hear an infant sing.

My heart resolves, my tongue obeys,
And angels shall rejoice,
To hear their mighty Maker's praise
Sound from a feeble voice.

If I Had Known Him

Now, I know that I wrote this one when I was about fifteen!

If I had lived another day,

when Jesus walked the streets,

if I had heard He was passing by,

would I have want our paths to meet?

If I had heard His words of love,

and seen Him heal the lame;

if I had watched Him at His work,

would I still revere His name?

If I had heard the claims

that Jesus was a king,

if I had been an honest Jew,

would that have meant a thing?

If I had stood there at the trial,

when He was there, unafraid;

if I had heard His calm defense,

would I be sorry He was betrayed?

If I had been at the crucifixion

and understood His words when

He forgave the men who hung Him there,

what would my feelings have been?

If I had been told excitedly

that Jesus lived again!

If I had heard their joyous shouts,

would I have believed them then?

I long to have known Jesus the man,

to have walked beside Him for a day,

not be born long after--and, yet,

perhaps--it's better this way.

"Portrait of a Man"

I was digging through a collection of old, scribbled-on papers (I never throw anything I wrote away), and found this little poem. I have no idea when I wrote it, but it was long enough ago that I have no memory of it. Fun! Doesn't seem quite finished, but I like it any way.

There was a man who laughed, and cried,
and loved, and held, and lost.
His life spent bearing others' loads,
He chose, and chose the frost.

In His voice the thunder rolled;
in His laughter sparrows sang.
In His eyes starts shone;
in His touch was healing rain.

A crowd of thousands came to hear,
and cheered Him to their aim.
A crowd of thousands came to peer,
and jeered Him in His pain.

A trial--a crown--a cross--
a road well paved in blood.
A hill--a hammer--a high-hung sign--
wind, and wet, and mud.

Lines Written in a Laundromat

I had a request for this, from my good friend Lissa, who once gave me a quarter in a laundromat and commissioned me to write a poem for her.

These are empty crossroads
where people come
not to live or stay
and no shattered fears or transformed dreams
have broken on the glass
or whirled around in the rhythmic electric cycle
of clothing rebirth.

There is nothing alive about this place.
The wooden and cinder block cyril blue walls
and tawdry tables
and uniform lines of steel machines dully shining
flipping the colored cloth on its head
synchronized with furious little fans
are dead, and a cry
to the unaesthetic heart of those who think in practical ways
in this country—And yet
humanity has trickled through
or welled, like a side-eddy
(The little rich and smally housed
and really alive).
I wonder at the tales
and wish I could have known the faces
the lives so full, that came, and left this place empty.
In the silence their silence is heard—
their faces were as blank as those dryers
as uniform, perhaps.
We wash our clothes
our hearts we take away unchanged.

In this,
humanity’s berth,
well worn,
we sit as strangers
passing through
as others have,
one or two in the trickle that washed the cyril blue
walls with remembered moments
not worth counting but
remembering
and recalling like the tumble of
brilliant faded clashing
garments that bring beauty
going round
and round
because they must.

And then we go.

1998/99

"Batter My Heart," by John Donne

Batter my heart, three-personed 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 O, 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.

Hosea 3:1-5

Sometimes, lacking inspiration of my own, I have been known to work at turning Scripture passages into blank verse. I try to stay as close to the original text as possible, just rearranging the words slightly to fit the necessary rhythm. This usually works better with narrative passages than didactic (where I don't want to change anything). Pursuing my current theme, I offer up this passage of Hosea.

The Lord said to me, “Go again, and love
a woman who is loved by husband, yet
adult’ress, even as the Lord still loves
the sons of Israel, though they turn away
to other gods and love the raisin cakes.”
And so I bought her for myself; the price
was fifteen shekels silver, and half and
one homer barley. Then I said to her,
“You shall stay with me many days. You shall
not play the harlot, nor shall you have men;
so I will also be to you.” For so
the sons of Israel also will remain
for many days without a king or prince,
or sacrifice, or sacred pillar, and
without ephod, or household idols. And
then after, sons of Israel will return
and seek the Lord their God and David, King;
and trembling they will come unto the Lord,
and to His goodness in the last of days.

The Prostitute's Reply

“Fear not, for I have redeemed you; I have called you by name—you are Mine!” Isaiah 43:1

I hated Him, when first He entered the cell where I was curled in near-death. He stood there with His Father, perfect and so beautiful, and I hated Him for everything that He was. I knew Him to be wealthy, and coveted His gold, but more than that, I knew Him to be good, and I feared His goodness like I never feared death.

And then . . . it happened. He chose me. His Father, almighty and unbeguilable, looked at me, the foulest inmate of that foul place, and He changed my life. In an instant, by a word, He gave me to His Son, and His Son made me His possession. Without ever pausing to ask me if I wanted Him (I would have spat in His face if He had), He claimed me as His own. He turned to me, and then He grasped my hand, and He called me love. He took me to His home . . . the gleaming walls of gold and white, the music that trickled through the rooms! He healed my diseased body, and bathed it clean. With His own Hands He washed the dirt from my hair. But that was only a beginning.

For thirty-three years my Prince toiled to bring me from my darkness. I bitterly fought Him, but He gave Himself for me as no man has ever given Himself for a woman. The battle for my soul was a battle to death and back again, a battle of blood—but His death, and His blood, not mine. When I saw it run, rich and red, it was then I knew that He had overcome me. I had thought myself strong, strong as hard iron from perpetual sin and nights without hope, but He was stronger than I. I soon found that for every evil thing I had done in my lifetime, He had done many good. The vice that ruled my heart could not rival the integrity and beauty that filled His. His purity was greater than my impurity, and His love was stronger than my hate. Because I could not break Him, He broke me, and He bent me, changed me, and made me anew.

Oh, now, now I remember it as a dream. Now, I feel. Now, I hope. I live. I laugh, I weep, I struggle and get angry and turn to repent. The woman that I was is gone, disappeared with the night, but I am not yet the woman I must be for Him. But do I love Him, my Bridegroom, my Lord? I know none other beside Him. I know no other whose face is so radiant, whose mouth holds such sweetness, whose arms are so secure. The union that once stained me again and again now makes me holy, for it is He who is my lover. My Beloved is mine, and I am His. I have no other Husband, and I have no other Savior. He has brought me life, and without Him, I die again.


This follow-up to Love Story was written about a month later, and was the product, in part, of a passing quote I heard, that Johnathan Edwards had referred to salvation (or perhaps election) as "the holy rape of the soul." While Love Story is about election, this is about salvation.

Our Love Story

To continue with the theme of the church as the Bride of Christ, I thought I would post a short prose piece I wrote in college.

“Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. For behold, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers have already appeared in the land; the time has arrived for pruning the vines, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree has ripened its figs, and the vines in blossom have given forth their fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away!” Song of Solomon 2:10-13

Once upon a time, a baby girl was born in a foreign land. She was born to hardship and sin, and in sin and hardship she lived. She had what might have been a bright and intelligent mind, but soon, as she grew, it became bent to the narrow cunning of a thief, and could not reach beyond her own desires. At an early age she grew to love the dirt and stench of the streets, shunning purity, and prostituted herself for less than a meal.

As time passed, the girl became a woman already aged and hard. There was no sin her young eyes had not seen, and no abomination she had not pursued. Her thoughts never lifted from the polluted sod she walked on; she did not look up to the sun or the sky, and she never wanted anything better. Blood stained her hands, and deceit sat on her brow. She feared only the unknown, and though there was no joy in her labors of lust and pride, she wanted nothing else.

The day came, however, when the little freedom she had disappeared. Her crimes found her, and the patrolmen caught her, bound her, and cast her into prison. There, shivering in a corner, penniless, filthy, diseased, vile and guilty, she waited without hope to live or to die.

Not far away from that place, the King of many lands dwelt in His mighty castle. He was the greatest King to ever walk the earth, and the most beloved. He ruled with justice and impartiality; He administered His kingdom with mercy and open hands. He knew His people, and He loved them. His decisions were wise, and honest and upright.

The King had a Son, and everything His Father was, He was too. From His earliest days He was raised to love truth and beauty, to work hard and not regard rank or wealth in His treatment of men. He studied diligently at every thing given Him to learn, observed mankind, and soon became wise beyond His years. In all the land, there was no one who could speak ill of their Prince, so truly had He won everyone, from the highest noble to the lowest peasant, by His charm, sweetness, and fairness. When tested or challenged, He was unmoving, but when appealed to, He was unfailingly kind and generous.

Most legendary concerning the King and His Son was the love that bound them together. Even those closest to them did not fully comprehend the depth of the bonds between them. When, in time, the Prince became grown, and the King determined to find the Prince a bride, most doubted that He would ever find a maid He considered worthy of His Son. Many kingdoms came offering the finest and most beautiful of their young women, and the King traveled far searching, but time after time He turned back, and said, “Not yet, My Son. She is not found yet.”

Then, in the early hours of one cold, still-dark morning, the King and His Son made a visit to a prison. Slowly, the jailer took them through, showing them each prisoner and recounting the crimes that had brought him or her there. This was the prison where all the worst of those who lived in that kingdom came sooner or later. They were thieves, cutthroats and murderers, men and women hardened beyond recognition, twisted beyond recovery. There, in a corner, still redolent with cheap perfume, malevolence and fear in her eyes, they found the prostitute of the streets. She shrank from the light of the jailer's lamp.

“What has she done?” asked the King. The jailer began to speak, and, one sin at a time, it all came out. Every evil deed she was known to have committed—and there were many—sounded against the stone walls in the quiet while she huddled in her filth. Was there a shade of shame that passed over her face, for the first time, here in the presence of two such men?

The jailer ceased, and there was silence. “And so she is justly come here,” said the King. The other nodded, and would have passed on, but again the King spoke, and arrested him. “Wait,” he said. “She does deserve this and more, by all that she has done, but I do not want her to suffer it. I have decided, and I shall give her to my Son for His bride.”

Horror filled the faces of those standing by. “But, Sire,” cried the jailer, “of all the women in this kingdom, she is the most unworthy!”

“I know,” replied the King. “That is why I choose her.”

“Come away, Sire,” urged a member of His council. “Surely there are others. Surely we can find Your Son a pure bride, a virgin.”

“No.” Now the Prince spoke and He looked full into the face of the haggard woman on the floor. “No, I don’t want another. This woman,” He declared, “this woman will I have, and no other!”

“Why?” The question arose from many. “Why do You want her?”

The King’s Son smiled. “Because My Father has given her to Me, and she is Mine.”

The King took the Prince’s hand. “My Son, this woman is unclean, but You can make her clean. The price will be high, and this labor will be the greatest of Your life, for her crimes still stand, and you will have to make their atonement. But if You will take her, if You will pay her debts, and give Yourself to raise her up, she, the lowest, hardest, most unworthy of all women, shall become the most beautiful and virtuous of all women. None in this whole land shall rival her. Then she will be Your bride, and she will love You as no other could.”

Lamplight danced across rough stone and trodden straw, a bony, worn body covered in rags, and two dark, empty eyes still unbelieving. The Son nodded. “I take her,” He said. “I claim her now.” Then, He reached out His hand, and took hers. “Arise, My love. For the night is passed, and the day is come.”

This allegory sprang from three primary sources: The first was when my dear friend, Lissa, described a picture she had drawn based on the same quote from Song of Solomon that appears at the top. The second was the idea of a fairy tale in which the "beggar maid" was not virtuous and beautiful as they are in all fairy tales, but in fact as low and despicable as I could possibly make her. These provided the romantic inspiration. The theological inspiration came from John MacArthur's great sermon on election that he delivered at one of Sproul's conferences some years back. It's my all time favorite sermon. In it, he talks of the church as being a love gift from the Father to the Son, and received and loved by the Son for the Father's sake.

The Bride Awaits

“Behold, I am coming soon!” Revelation 22:7

Breathless
behind her veil,
longing
to see His face….
Eagerly
she looks for Him.

Her maids press her with food.
“Here, eat something, do not wait—
you do not know when He will come.
It may not be soon.”

“Eat? How could I eat?
How can I think of food
when He is coming—
my bridegroom is coming with the clouds in the morning,
striding across the hills whose cattle are His, with
feet like fine brass,
and a radiant face
—His head like gold, His eyes a flame—
in splendor and beauty!
He is coming,
He is coming for me,
my bridegroom, my love!
No, I shall not eat. Not until I eat my marriage feast.”

Her maids bring her a chair.
“Well, sit, at least.
Take off your veil. Rest
from your vigil—He will not come soon.”

“Rest from waiting? I could not rest.
Not until my heart
rests its yearning.
Take off my veil? I shall not.
He told me to wait for Him—
He told me to be ready.
How if He should come, and find me
sleeping,
my dress awry, my veil cast off,
as if I did not believe Him?
as if I did not love Him?
Could I not stay awake?
Could I not watch,
could I not pray an hour,
for Him,
my Lord, my bridegroom, my lover,
whose coming shall shake the earth, and overthrow
all doubts
and evil by the breath of His mouth?
Is my beloved not mine?
Am I not His?
Is He not altogether lovely?
Glory shines around Him,
truth and justice march before Him,
and my redemption comes carried in His strong, pierced hands.
Prince! Warrior! Husband!
He will not forget me.
He will not delay.”

“Well then,” said her maids,
“How long shall we wait?”

“We will wait until He comes,”
was her reply.
“We will wait through the long dark of night,
for He is coming swiftly, as the dawn.
—Come, ladies. Trim your lamps,
and do not forget the oil.
He may come at any hour.
Do not be troubled—we may tarry here a night,
but He will bring us joy
in the morning.
My bridegroom, my beloved is coming!
He is coming soon.”


Partial list of Scriptures
Psalm 30:5
Song of Songs 5:10-16; 6:3
Matthew 9:15, 25:1-13
Mark 14:37-41
Ephesians 5:25-27
Revelation 1:13-15; 21:2; 22:7

My Son's Feet

Warning! If you are one of those people who is easily grossed out by other people's feet, don't read this! All you who know me will probably laugh pretty hard at this. The son in question, incidentally, is J.

My son has sweaty feet,
even as I had sweaty feet,
tough, dirty, thickly calloused feet, and slightly cracked
around the heels,
dark from
kicking through dust, stepping gingerly
over sun-hot concrete
(stopping sometimes to pick out burs or broken glass bits),
and then running happy in the muddy grass,
or climbing rocks my toes could grip
while others fumbled in their boots.
—And then my shoes!
My shoes!
Those childhood shoes, flimsy and stretched,
black, grimy inside, and smelling the way
I’m sure my feet would smell,
if I never washed them.
No wonder I tried not to wear them, and left them behind
so often that
my mother stopped buying me anything but flip-flops—
they made my feet sweat, and
(more importantly) confined them—
My bare, clever-toed, sweaty feet,
with the dirt of three continents ingrained in them.
Even now I cherish
my callused soles, refuse the
loofahs and files and polishing stones and lotions,
preferring their roughness and happy memories.

And now my son has sweaty feet.
Little, square, soft but strong feet,
with always dirty toenails,
that his socks stick to like Velcro.
“Now, push with your foot,” I tell him, as I try to wrestle them on
one half-inch at a time.
“Mommy, I don’t want to wear them,” he tells me, and I smile.
“I understand,” I say. “Why don’t you wear your sandals
today? Or go barefoot.”
“I want to go barefoot.”
“That’s good.” That’s good, my son.
Go enjoy the sun-warmed pavement, sharp grass and
soft dirt between your toes. Step on rocks and glass and burs, wince
and then run on. Feel
God’s earth beneath you, touch it, be connected
with it, grip it with your toes and
dance on it, enjoy its dirt and
life
before civility houses your feet with
shoes that are required, and
cut you off.

And then he runs outside,
and I too, following him over
hot rocks and prickly weeds with
tough and blackened joyful feet.

Complacency Trades

We
weigh righteousness’s heavy golden crown,
turn, and
mince before mirrors
in tinfoil tiaras.


1997?

The Name I Call

When in my dreams I’m running steep
From shapes and fears that spring to life,
Instinctively, though still asleep,
The name I call is Jesus.

When dreams won’t come, and sleep evades
My heavy eyes and weary mind;
As stars grow dim beyond the shades
The name I call is Jesus.

When sin’s allurement makes me groan,
And my poor will grows weak within;
When I cannot win, or fight, alone,
The name I call is Jesus.

When I don’t call to Him in time
To stop my head long rush to sin,
And tones of shame within me chime,
The name I call is Jesus.

When problems rise, wrongs I have done,
And sins are catching up with me,
I just seek mercy from God’s Son:
The name I call is Jesus.

When anxious thoughts crowd my hours
With worldly needs yet to be filled,
Praise be to He who clothes the flowers!
The name I call is Jesus.

When griefs that I don’t understand,
And losses that I can’t control
Come carried by Almighty’s hand,
The name I call is Jesus.

When pleasantness fills up my path
And peaceful night trails peaceful day,
He's still the One who took God’s wrath:
The name I call is Jesus.

When prayers are answered, joy surprises,
When God forgives me once again;
When each day the sun still rises!—
The name I call is Jesus.

And when some day bright trumpets cry
And all the earth must turn to see
The God descending from His sky—
The name I’ll call is Jesus.

And, when in time, before His throne,
All nations, tribes and tongues must say
That there is one who’s Lord alone—
The name they’ll call is Jesus!

On His Omniscience

How foolish we, who think to see the course
of things to be as if our wisdom ranked
sufficient for the calculations that
requires. How small our knowing when compared
to He Who Knows the Thoughts of All, our Lord.
Awareness with out thought and knowledge with
out learning! Ever understanding, He
made time but to encompass His works like
a frame or a glass bottle might. Their worth
is Heaven’s platinum and diamonds; they
are indestructible, so what was done
in time for us renews eternally
a contract made. The future holds for Him
no mysteries; He planned it. Every day
He makes it out of present. He made it
unchangeable before the rock and fire.

This was my first experiment into writing blank verse--i.e. unrhymed iambic pentameter--in college. It was this attempt to begin to bring discipline to my usually free-verse style of writing that eventually led to the sonnets that have already been posted here. Rhyme and meter still present considerable challenges to me, but I continue to try to wrestle language and passion and meaning into the strict forms of yesteryear; I think poets today tend to get lazy, and I don't want that to be true of me.

The Blind Man Speaks

“I’ve never seen light.
What is it? Is it real?
Why can’t you describe it to me
in ways I can understand?
I know reality.
Reality is solidity,
and heat.
Reality is pain.
Reality is pungent, raucous,
spicy, sharp
and breezy.
So explain sight—is it hard?
And light--is it fragrant or rank,
bitter or sweet
is it like violins or a car horn?
I know these things, you see.
I understand them, and they
are all the reality I can imagine.
And if you tell me light
is none of these
I will not believe
in your reality.
I will believe that you have been deceived
and pity your—excuse the expression--
blindness.
You see, I am not a fool.
I trust myself,
not stories made up by dreamers.”

"For the gospel is foolishness to those who are perishing..."

1998?

The Daily Grind of My Sinful Self

Each little shrugged-at sin

each little casual sin
that slipped by me today:

these sins You bled for.

Your most priceless blood,
Your divine unspeakable agony
that turned the skies black
and tore all our souls into salvation. . .

Well, it was for these:
my stupid laziness,
careless tongue,
secret prideful daydreams
and well-excused failure to just
do something I know I should do.
After all, I’m only human . . .

well, isn’t that the point??

Forgive me, Jesus Lord.
Forgive this poor cursed mortal who dares to
forget Your pain,
and carelessly go on sinning as if
she didn’t know that such sins
are only paid for in blood.

If Your pardons were handed out
like tokens,
so many to be used as needed,
oh, how long ago I would have wasted all of mine
on selfish little thoughts
lazy little ommittances,
and simple lack of effort on my part?

What would I do when I really messed up badly?

—Oh, but I already have,
that’s my point, isn’t it?
I already do,
every day,
and Your red blood runs over me and covers each weak offense,
and the torment of Your mighty soul
took place so that,
well, I could shrug at any sin
and still live to tell about it.

May I never shrug again.
And when I do,
please God, whose Hand can constrain even my wandering thoughts—
bring back Your Son,
and His dark hours and precious life-blood running out
--for me! for me!--
to my mind’s eye, that I may cease this
casual blasphemy
and once again remember

no sin is small that cost the life of God.

Black Robes

“But now the righteousness of God apart from the law is revealed, being witnessed by the Law and the Prophets, even the righteousness of God, through faith in Jesus Christ, to all who believe….Therefore we conclude that a man is justified by faith apart from the deeds of the law.” Romans 3:21-22,28

Black robes; red cape; white veil to hide the sin.
And every day the prayers at six; at noon;
at ten; and through the night they beat the sin:
again; again! “St Joseph! Mary!” Soon
relief must surely come for those who wait
and pray the beads, perform the deeds, and take
the transubstantiated cup of late
unholy wine. How can those who once slake
their thirst on God’s own blood do penance still?
With souls uncleansed, they seek salvation in
dead righteous bones, as though mute bones still will
have mercy more than Christ. They could begin
to find true righteousness, if labor cease
and faith and truth and Christ alone increase.

Our Fallen World

“For the creation was subjected to futility… because the creation itself also will be delivered from the bondage of corruption into the glorious liberty of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation groans and labors with birth pangs together until now.”
Romans 8:20-22

Our fallen world: how sad it lies, corrupt
and dying, yet so beautiful. The touch
of greatness is still on it: splendor cupped
within our hands, within the rocks, this much
and more to speak Divinity, the deep
down memory of Immortality
that once brooded over the surface; steep
slopes up to dazzling gasps, and every tree
stretches fingers to God until it bows
and dies. It groans beneath death’s hard decree—
deep gasps for birth, in hope of Him who’ll rouse
from death His saints— to life, and liberty!
Then too creation, splendidly remade,
shall, like its shining Savior, never fade.

Romans 6:3-4

The final poem in this set: the summation of God's redemptive plan.

“Or do you not know that as many of us as were baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into His death? Therefore we were buried with Him through baptism into death, that just as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, even so we also should walk in newness of life.”

How many ages
were thrust upon those nails,
and rode His blood,
when it dropped down and sucked the wood?
If men had heard
a thousand mother’s child’s brother’s voices cry
pain and triumph along with His,
they would have heard truth.
Not for small gain
did the Son of God and Man stake His flesh
against Justice—
nor was it a gamble, for Him.
He got what He came for,
a miracle,
and transposed souls across time
writhed, gave up their breath,
received a Redemption
by anguish they would never feel.

Nor, when He rose in sundered death,
did He rise alone.
No, we, too are
plunged through spiritual water,
flung into eternity, and life,
breathing,
still gasping
the breath of righteousness.
Sin is dying and the dead are living
by His cross

we are crucified.
He is propitiated, and
we are decimated, seared, slain,
and born,
leaving our sins behind,
like empty rags in a tomb.

2000

and Magi from the East

I thought it might be helpful to explain that both this poem and the previous one are part of a set in my mind. They were all written quite independantly, months apart, but they are similar in both style and and theme. They deal with election, and the forshadowing of the ingathering of the Gentiles. In both case, God went seemingly out of His way to bring in Gentiles from other lands, all the way to Israel to become a part of His plan.


They came
such a long way—
for a star.
It was none of their concern,
the birth of another nation’s king,
but the same Spirit who
moved over the waters
compelled them,
and they made the journey,
brought gifts to an unknown child.
No one in the homeland
saw the star
studied Scripture
went seeking a Bethlehem son with gold.
That’s why the frightened old man who
huddled in Jerusalem
was not prepared for the news—
“Where is He who’s born the King of the Jews?”
He himself was
no child of prophecy.
He thought he could kill
the Savior’s birthright, but
the King got His gifts,
as if tribute from
nations not yet beneath His heel.

No one knows
what the Magi returned to
when they returned by another way,
but it’s certain now that they came
because He had been promised to them, too.

1999