Singing New Songs

Rough Fabric

2009-02-04T13:33:00.000-06:00

When the quiet waters lapped the shore
and the strong nets were in their hands
He called them.
He called them—
rough fabric, as they were,
weathered within and out
unfit for much use (as some would think).

They left it all behind—the trappings
of their lives,
their sustenance and their families’ too.
The half-mended nets,
the boats still on the lake,
for He Who spoke as no other
had spoken to them.

Fishers of men…
how could they understand that, then?
or the road that would bend
to Calvary, and beyond
into all the world
to crosses of their own…?

When the sun shone on Galilee
and they labored by the sea
He called them,
and their hearts leapt,
hands shook,
feet eagerly stumbled
in haste to follow

Jesus Joseph’s son.
He, young, unafraid,
spoke the Words of God,
but they little knew then
He was their Consolation,
their Redeemer,
their promised Messiah,
and His fire would consume them—

rough fabric, as they were,
unfit for any use but something hard—
to be beaten, to be stretched,
to be wrung, or cut in two,
and in the end,
(though not by human hands)
to be all burned up.

Prayers of Sixth and Trinity

2009-01-31T15:11:00.002-06:00

Sixth and Trinity were the cross streets in the "bar section" of town where I used to stand with my husband as he handed out tracts and shared the gospel. My primary job was to pray, and this poem is an approximation of the prayers I used to say, and the moment that happened again and again--it used to fascinate me--when they looked at the tract and it's bold print "Righteous for the Unrighteous," and then passed on.

Oh Lord, save her.
Here she comes,
the girl in the black halter,
rose tattoo, and eyes
of empty determination,
just like the others. Save her.
I don't know her, I can only guess
at history and heart breaks,
what sins, fears, friends,
justifications she carries in her walk,
or who she goes to,
but her life has been mapped out
in Your mind since before Time,
and I pray that You would
save her from all her sins.
By Your grace.
Your mighty grace,
strong like a battlement against Satan's
temptations, and all our sins.
We build our towers against You,
but You devastate them
with love, when You choose.
Oh, she's walking past now—she sees
the fluttering paper—
It's life! It's life! For free, take it!--
averts those
eyes You know, tosses
the blond hair, grips her
black vinyl purse a little harder.
Her heart! Her heart!
It must be changed!
Change it! Change it, Lord!
Even like Christ
changed the water to the wine,
and You changed Israel's heart from
stone to flesh.
For mercy's sake, and all that blood;
Did not He shed enough
for her as well?
One more! One more, good Lord,
to magnify
the forgiveness of the cross,
and the power of the sacrifice.
One more to speak Your praises,
one more to bring You glory by her salvation,
and Christ by her redemption.
How many did He buy?
The number of the elect out number the sand.
Oh, may she be one!
Forgive her Lord, forgive her. Forgive her sins,
as we all have been forgiven.
Give her mercy, Lord, as we all
have received mercy, not by our hand,
but by Yours, and Your Son's.
There, she's gone again,
the crowd has swallowed her up,
and she walked away
from salvation tonight, but You will
always know where she is.
Oh Lord, save her.

Complaint about writing rhyming Christian poetry

2009-01-30T13:17:00.006-06:00

I need to vent.

I keep trying to write rhyming poetry, because it's much harder than non-rhyming, and builds good discipline, I think. Only there's a problem. If you are writing Christian poetry, the words you tend to use the most often just don't rhyme with much of anything.

For instance, take "Christ." Christ doesn't rhyme with anything but "heist" and "poltergeist". Try to write a poem using that, now!!

"Faith" doesn't rhyme with anything but "eighth" and "wraith" (which I did once use, which I guess means I don't get to do it again).

"Love" is famous for having only a few rhymes, two of which are "shove," and "glove." "Dove" and "above" are slightly more promising, but really overused already.

And then there's "hope..." Dope, mope, lope, pope, slope, nope, cope ... a larger selection, it's true, but not exactly the sorts of words one really wants to use in a poem about the Lord Jesus Christ. And "Jesus" doesn't rhyme with anything at all!

This is why I have such a large collection of two-thirds written sonnets. I start out strong, and then get to the last third and just can't make a rhyme to save my life. I have a bookmark for a website that provides you with a list of all rhymes for any given word, so I'll use that and find that the word I want doesn't rhyme with anything. I'll think and think to come up with something else that will also express the idea, look it up, and guess what? It doesn't rhyme with anything either!

Here's an example of a would-be sonnet that died an untimely death due to lack of plausible rhymes (and my inability to wrap an idea up in the lines permitted):

Afflicted, reviled, cursed, the scum
of the earth; destitute, stoned, sawed and slain,
the Saints march in. All Heaven, look—they come!
The Lord’s Redeemed come in a tattered train,
and trailing glory. Here not many strong
not many wise, not many rich when they
were called to leave their homes and start this long,
long journey of splendor and pain. Oh say,
you hosts, are these the ones their Father knows?
They’re clothed in sheepskins, goatskins, barefooted,
bloodied and beaten, orphans and widows:
they bear the wounds of Christ.

Here's another, about the book of Joshua:

From out the desert they came in, sun worn
and hardened, with their children and their sheep,
their tents and their God. Men from childhood sworn
to this: to fight to win, to claim and keep
this land that God had got for them. They learned
their parents' lesson well. Before their flood
of men great cities fell; they bled and burned
before the Righteous One to whom their blood
was due. What panic was in Canaan then--
when God hurled rocks upon their heads, and stopped
the sun above.

There's more, believe me. (sigh) Maybe I'm not cut out to be a sonnet writer, but there's just something about it I can't resist--it's like a verbal puzzle (and anyone who knows me knows I like puzzles).

That's all now.

Come Now, Death's Shadow

2009-01-27T14:01:00.003-06:00

The experiences this poem discusses happened years ago. I wrote it awhile back as more of a reflection on them than anything else.

From dust we came
to dust we must return
some of us covered in blood and small—
a life that barely lived
a heart that barely beat, though fast,
beneath frail ribs and paper skin,
while blind eyes and downy brows
mark the image of God
being knit.

Hear me, Lord!
Hear my whisper, hear the flutter
of silent movements
stopped within my frame—
my fallen frame, too weak to hold
the life You chose to take.
The garden’s curse
exacts its toll again.
Bitter, familiar sin!
I feel its sting now,
deep within my body,
piercing to my heart.

My love
cannot dry up,
like my blighted child.
It flows in rivers down my face.
It carves its place
in the landscape of my life—

But that deep pool, clear
and only sweetened by salt-tears
shall water the seed of Your Word
within me.
Your will, Your mysteries, Your plans
for me and mine—
for that soul whose properties You know—
Your Providence and choice,
and mercy seen through mortal pain—
these lessons I will learn,
take from Your hand the grief,
call You blessed,
and remember

This child, too, belonged to You.

Abraham's Altar

2009-01-15T07:19:00.005-06:00

I would like to give you part of a longer poem that I started working on some time ago. I made progress quickly at first, but have stalled now, unsatisfied but not knowing how to get from where I am to where I want to be. There's a lot to be said about this particular story, and I want to cover it all, but without running on forever.

Here's what I have written so far (the readable parts), with a warning that much of this may end up deleted:

*The first line of each verse completes the last one from the verse before. I indent them, but blogger won't let me do it here.*

On Abraham’s altar he laid
the weight of years, and tears that stayed
in his wife’s yearning heart while yet
she knew he loved her, and set
his mind to accept the servant
as his heir.

There the fervent
hope of God’s promise, their prayer,
and the sands of the lands that their
journey had traversed lay prostrate
in the body of a boy. Late
he had waited, watched the stars, seen
in them all his children between
then and eternity. They too
waited for their death. So he drew
his dagger to slay the laughter
of their old age, nor could, after,
Isaac say he wavered.

This man
by God’s call had gone in the span
of frail life from pagan Ur
to here—and though he was unsure
so often, though he doubted God,
and gave up his wife from fear, prod
the Divinity by taking
the slave girl, and made an aching
wound that history’s not yet healed—
His justification was revealed
at this hour, at Abraham’s grim
test, before the angel stayed him,
when all his heart’s desire lay still
and bound before him, and his will
strained against his heart.

Abraham
believed. Nor did he need the ram
to understand that just one birth
was enough—that this child of mirth
would live, and death alone could not
kill the promise of He who brought
him here; he begged not mercies such
as he begged for Sodom’s children.
Could Sarah’s womb be more barren
that it already was?

And so,
in faith, he bound his son, and no
sooner did he take up the blade,
then God in graciousness stayed
him.

Joseph

2008-12-09T08:19:00.000-06:00

I am the man
who took the woman’s shame
upon myself, defied
those who murmured whispers
counting months
and sheltered her with my name.

I am the man
who trod hard roads
beside her, held her, swaying
bowing on the donkey
with the Life-Spring
of the universe
kicking in her swollen womb.

Long the hours
we journeyed on,
panted in the small shade
whispered to the waiting Majesty
prayed Him stay His coming
a little while yet.

Rough and awkward
unprepared,
I am the man
who was midwife
at the birth of the Eternal One,
and held Divinity
squalling, bloody in my hands
while the Prophets’ voices
thundered in my ears

and high above the stable roof
a new born star
burst into incandescent life.

Matthew in verse, pt 3

2008-12-04T14:10:00.000-06:00

Now when they had departed there, behold
An angel of the Lord appeared in dream
To Joseph, said, “Arise and take the Child
And mother by night, flee to Egypt. There
Remain until I tell you; Herod soon
Is going to search for Him to destroy
Him.” He arose and took the Child by night,
Departed for Egypt and there remained
Until the death of Herod, that what had
Been spoken by the Lord through prophets might
Be yet fulfilled, that “Out of Egypt did
I call my Son.” When Herod saw that by
the Magi he was tricked, he then became
Enraged, and sent and slew the male children
Who were in Bethlehem and all of its
Environs, two years old and younger, that
According to the time which he had heard
From Magi. Then that which was spoken through
The prophet Jeremiah was fulfilled,
“A voice was heard in Ramah, weeping and
Great Mourning, Rachel weeping, weeping for
Her children; and refusing comfort, for
They were no more.” When Herod died, behold,
An angel of the Lord appeared in dream
to Joseph while in Egypt, said, “Arise
and take the Child and mother and go to
The land of Israel; those who sought His life
are dead.” And so he rose and took the Child
And mother, and came then into the land
Of Israel. But when he heard Archelaus
Was reigning ov’r Judea in place of
His father Herod, he was frightened to
Go there. And being warned in a dream by God,
Departed for the regions Galilee,
And came, resided in the city called
There Nazareth, that what was spoken through
The prophets be fulfilled, “He shall be called
a Nazarene.”

Matthew in verse, pt 2

2008-12-02T08:33:00.000-06:00

Now after Jesus’ birth in Bethlehem,
Judea, in the days of Herod King,
Behold, the Magi from the east arrived,
In Jerusalem to ask, “Where is He
Who’s born the King of Jews? We saw His star,
And came to worship Him.” When Herod heard,
The king was troubled, and all Jerusalem.
And gathering together the chief priests
And scribes of all the people, he began
Inquiring where Christ was to be born.
They said to him, “In Bethlehem, Judah,
For so it has been written by prophets:
“And you, oh Bethlehem, in Judah’s land,
Among the leaders of Judah are by
No means the least, for out of you shall come
A ruler who will shepherd my Israel,
My people.” Then Herod secretly called
The Magi, ascertained from them the time
The star appeared, and sent to Bethlehem,
And said, “Go make a careful search, the Child
Go find, and when you found Him report back
To me, that I may come and worship Him.”
And having heard the king, they went their way;
And, lo, the star, which they had seen when east,
Went on before, until it came and stood
O’er where the Child was. And on coming to
The house they saw the Child, and Mary, now
His mother. They fell down and worshipped Him;
And, opening their treasures, gave to Him
Their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh.
And, warned by God in dream not to return
To Herod, departed another way
for home.

A Friday fragment (posted on Saturday)

2008-11-29T13:57:00.002-06:00

Out of Egypt I called my Son...

A vast train
--A man and a woman
stretching across the desert
--traveling alone
with cattle and herds
--with a small child
carrying the treasures of Egypt.
--carrying the Treasure of eternity.

Out of Egypt…

Sand, exotic wonders: a hard land, but beautiful too, with one wet ribbon of green
carrying life to all.

A hot sun to dry mud bricks; great idols rising to their Pharaoh’s self-worship; whips, swords,
and the slave-driver’s call.

A rich land, of leeks and garlic, cucumbers, pots of red animal flesh simmering
under stars of night fall.

Out of Egypt I called My Son.

Israel fled to Egypt, once, and, sheltered in lush delta land,
waited while famine’s bitter hand
passed over.

ISRAEL fled to Egypt, too, sheltered by the arm of the LORD,
and waited while the mad king’s sword
passed over.

Matthew in verse, pt 1

2008-11-26T21:41:00.001-06:00

The Advent season coming again...

The birth of Jesus Christ as follows was.
His mother, Mary, had been betrothed then,
To Joseph, but now before they had come
Together she was found to be with child
The Holy Spirit by, and Joseph, as
A righteous man, did not want to disgrace
Her publicly, and so desired to put
Away her secretly. But when he had
Considered this, an angel of the Lord
Appeared to him in dream, and saying, “Son
Of David, do not fear to Mary take
As wife, for that which is conceived in her
Is of the Holy Spirit. She will bear
A Son, and you will call His name Jesus,
For it is He who’ll save His people from
Their sins.” Now all took place that what was said
By God through prophet be fulfilled, as such:
“Behold, the Virgin shall with child be, and
Shall bear a Son, and they shall call His Name
Immanuel;” that which means, God with Us.
And Joseph arose from sleep, and did as he
Had been commanded by the angel then,
And he took her as wife, though virgin still
Until was born a Son. He called His name
Jesus.

Midnight Comfort

2008-11-13T12:20:00.002-06:00

My weeping child
I gather in my arms,
press his warm damp cheek with mine,
whisper to him of angels
that spread their breathless wings
over the shadows cast
by the green nightlight.
In the other bed, his twin
stirs, turns his sweet,
closed-lidded face up.
I soothe, shush,
stroke the beloved tousled head,
tuck the small curled body in,
and leave behind
my prayers to the God who watches
even while I sleep.

They Must

2008-11-09T20:51:00.002-06:00

I'm back! For the two or three of you who actually read this, I apologize for the long absence. I have been working on some poetry, but none I'm ready to put up on the blog at this point. I don't know that this is ready either, but here it is anyway.

They must have a Savior.

We are all

children of darkness,
born weeping, snarling,
snapping at our Master’s hand.

Our souls they wail,
scratch the night,
dirt and hell’s fires glimmering
beneath our finger tips.

We are all lost.

We are all captive in our lusts,
cowed by our gods (not
least the golden self),

and let our own blood
from our veins to earth
to appease them—

and yet our libations
are never enough
for mercy.

We must have a Savior.
We must have Christ.
We must have His blood—

His blood
for ours
His blood on the altar.

While, savage, we slew Him
and thought ourselves clever, to
destroy goodness,
that our evil might live—

He, the ageless
Prince of the Light
slew us instead.

They must have a Savior.

The altar was God’s, of course,
not ours (or Satan’s).
That’s the secret He didn’t tell us
when He handed us the knife
and bared His breast.

The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness cannot overcome it.

And so, into
the Light, among the legions
with His name upon our breasts—
where, chosen and called
in liberation we kiss His hands—

and put our fingers through the holes
wherein we see
our names inscribed—
we stepped.

His blood
for ours,
His blood on the altar.

but….

They must have a Savior.

Others labor still
grovel by their idols,
scratch the dirt, slit their wrists,
watch the crimson sin
and pain run to the
barren earth.

They can not see His beauty,
can not hear the music
of His voice that whispers grace,
and beckons

still always beckons

to open their eyes,
and bind their wounds,
and gently sew up their hearts
scratched to tatters by
their own sharp fingernails.

They must have a Savior.

They must.

Naaman's Rebirth (prose version)

2008-10-16T13:37:00.000-05:00

2 Kings 5

Shadows, quiet ripples, murky water: as murky as the end for which he came here.

It was wet, cool on his diseased skin, but surely unmiraculous. Was it for this that he had traveled all this way? Oh Abanah and Pharpar! The golden rivers he had played in as a child!—surely they had more power than the unpretentious waters of this foreign land. So, too, the mighty golden gods, and their priests’ incantations, than that insolent prophet of Israel’s unseen deity.

“Go, wash in the Jordan seven times, and you will be healed.”

How did he get here, anyway? How had that word first come to him, carried from his wife’s little servant girl, “the prophet who is in Samaria?” How had she come there, for that matter? Why?

From Israel to his household. From his household to Israel.

He should never have listened to her. He had been foolish, he saw that now, but what was there to do but to follow through with it?

Water. Wet. Running in his eyes and down his hair and beard. Once … twice …. This was ridiculous, really. This was far too easy. Where was the striving, the ceremony, the great words spoken and deeds performed? He knew was battle was, and he knew victory. Did Elisha not think that he could accomplish something greater than this? He did not come to beg charity. What was this God anyway, to heal in this manner?

Three times . . . there were his men, his chariots and horses and soldiers, waiting on the bank, watching silently. Four…. Where was the honor that was due his high position and estate, when he waited at the prophet’s door? Five…. Why did he come here? Why did he listen? What was it that compelled him, from his comfortable home all the way here? Here, to this river, this humiliation, reluctant obedience to the prophet’s command—relayed by a servant, no less—he had come for cleansing. Could this God make him clean? This water wouldn’t clean him, but would the God who ordered him there? Six …. only once more to go. What would happen, when he went under that last time? Would he be changed? Would anything be changed? His gods, lacking in power, had done nothing for him, given him no relief when he brought his offerings, gave them his gold. Now would the God of Israel to whom he had given nothing show power? What did Elisha know that no other priest or prophet had?....

Seven. The seventh time he bent and immersed himself in Jordon’s stream. The seventh time he emerged…

New. New skin like a baby’s, whole and rosy and smooth and fresh; like the soft skin of his children when he held them in his arms, and whispered in their ears. And the surging of his heart as he touched that precious, new, life-giving skin was equaled by the wonder in his mind for now he knew. He knew, for the first time truly, that there was a God. Not an idol, but a God. Not ceremonies or incantations but power, real divine, power, and it had touched Him. He had touched him, and he knew he would never be the same.

“Indeed, now I know that there is no God in all the earth, except in Israel.”

Broken Fingers

2008-10-14T07:53:00.001-05:00

Broken fingers, bleeding, cold . . .
I am too weak to hold this rock.
Forgive me, Lord! Forget my name . . .
Forget You ever died for me.
Just let me slip, slip, slip away
Into the darkness of this sin.
The torrent’s black, and grim and fierce,
But it would be so easy . . . .

No, save me, Lord! my heart must cry,
I cannot live without my God!
I cannot go back to death;
I cannot let go of life.
You will not let go of me;
You will not set my conscience free
To be with sin again as friends.
You must make me faithful still . . . .

Broken fingers, bleeding, cold . . .
But Your unseen hands on mine
Will hold me lightly, surely safe
Through brutal storms and bitter gales;
And though sin’s darkness sucks at me
And I’m too weak to hold this rock,
You, my life, make me live in You;
You, my Savior, save me still.

Mantra Against Violence [on tv]

2008-10-08T12:33:00.001-05:00

November 30, 1998

How many gun shots?
How many blood wounds?
How often across my mind the synthetic red
has shattered in grotesque imagery
of real people’s pain? The death
and suffering and sin that has torn a once
innocent world to gory shreds
must repeat itself, as if we had not
real blood in rivers through our streets.
The screams of a thousand mothers
will echo in my ears if I but look around;
why seek more?
Surely soon blood will be a film upon my eyes
as terror stalks my thoughts
to slay them for death’s cult following.
I do not wish to share my skull with corruption,
putrescence, hate and violence,
but how shall I wash these guts away?
Soon, how shall I grieve
for the world I seek in fascination?

Gethsemane's Rose

2008-09-29T13:27:00.001-05:00

“And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us, and we saw His glory,
glory as of the only begotten from the Father, full of grace and truth.”
John 1:14

It was a rakish crown--twisted, you know;
the slender thorns didn’t look so cruel all
bound up like that. The people said he seemed
more clown than king. The blood, of course, hurt the
effect. It was a little gruesome for
a summer’s afternoon. Not that they weren’t
all used to seeing the Romans’ criminals,
but this was different. The city knew
his death was theirs, not Rome’s. And so they would
have rather laughed than winced, when they saw him.
They focused on the crown, pathetic and
so tragic-comic as it made him. Poor
fool going to his death, and he the claimed
Messiah. So what could he promise now?
When all was done they took the placard that
their governor had ordered, and disposed
of it. The King of Jews indeed. The throne
of David wasn’t for him, nor any such
imposter coming powerless, without
an army at his back. What had this one?
A prophet, and some fishermen, the love
of harlots, and the testimony of
known lunatics? No man would follow him
after his death. And if he’d really been
a king? What kind of coronation was
that? Suffering for celebration, thorns
for jewels—how could these be royal marks?
One must wonder what people would accept,
what kingdom could be worth, that crown.

1999?

These Days

2008-09-25T14:33:00.001-05:00

I wrote this one when I was about sixteen. If I felt that way then, imagine how I feel now!

Time is slipping!
Like
sand,
silvered sand,
though
our fingers.
And though
we try to
grasp it,
it keeps on
slipping
down
in a
silken ribbon
of
moments gone
fading
rushing by like the wind as it blows.
These days
that are
so precious?
We cannot
keep them
but can only
gaze
in delight
while
we have them
and then
we can remember.

Doxology-- A prose poem in 3 parts

2008-09-18T13:40:00.003-05:00

Part I

Alpha.
Almighty.
Apostle and High Priest.
Son of God.
Word of God,
Living Water.
The consolation of Israel.

If I had a voice, I would sing of the wondrous Lord Who crucified the flesh of many men. I would sing of His salvation, of His wisdom, of the surpassing righteousness of His every thought and desire, and the splendid, awesome wrath that He brings on those who dare to trespass against His purity.

I would sing, had I voice, of earth’s liberation—of the King of Kings, and His two thorny crowns (one to tear the flesh, and one to rend the soul). I would sing of the Lamb of God so sinlessly slain that while His blood stained the alter, His glory set it flaming. The force of His holy ardor dug out a font of life for a race all born dead.

If I could sing, I would sing a lament for those other songs never sung, hymns aborted before conception by a single sin that rendered infertile the minds and hearts of all men. If God had given me the knowledge, I would move the church to weep for every insult offered to Him, for every word that wasn’t spoken, every act that wasn’t done for the praise of His glory. Have you not heard, o man? No other treasure will endure. At the sounding of the trumpet, the First and Last will burn the chaff of human history, and only gold bought from Him will survive.

Part II

Immanuel,
Creator.
Cornerstone.
Morning Star.
Justifier!
Mighty Fortress.
Lord of the Harvest,
Avenger.
Holy One,
Head of the church,
Heir of all.

That single Event that happened one afternoon outside a little Middle Eastern city stands now as the vortex of history. Every land is caught by its power, and every event. Time is counted by it, cultures are changed and lives are driven. The births and deaths of governments, the germination and decay of whole peoples have been carried out in its shadow. The roots of the Cross go down to the very heart of the earth, and its arms straddle the sky. It rises high like a gaunt specter, reeking of blood: the stench of death to those who hate it, but the fragrance of life to those who follow it. Truth lies in its path, cutting a line across the earth, dividing the righteous from the unrighteous, and securing the Lord’s own.

This—this herald of God’s mercy and promise of God’s wrath, this troubling, ugly, glorious, confounding thing has wrought upon the world a change such as those who stood and watched Jesus die could never have guessed. Those who mocked Him never thought their words would resonate across the centuries; those who condemned Him knew not how many would condemn them. But still we see record of their deeds, printed on the rice-paper pages of our Bibles, and through them, poor vessels of wrath, God has brought Himself undying praise. To a people led back from the darkness, He is the Dayspring, the source of the morning! Proclaimed as Redeemer, worshipped as Servant, the Son of God is now the Lamb that Sits at the Center of the Throne, and this title is His highest crown.

Sing! Sing, oh nations, and shout oh people of God! Sing aloud, and shout! The chorus of many races shall rise someday, many tribes as one Chosen People, one Holy Nation, one Royal Priesthood. For the glory of God, and of God alone, the Triune Untied One, perfection compounded twice, shall the light of His love rain upon the heads of a wretched multitude, and make their sorrow joy. From now until the end of time, and from then into eternity, shall saints say and angels affirm the intrinsic beauty of every Thought of God, the justice of His Words, the excellence of His lasting renown. He is our Hope and our Salvation. He is the exquisite Pearl of very Great Price. He is the eternal, incandescent flame, and we like moths shall forever be flying toward Him.

Part III

Refiner.
Righteous One,
the Bread of Life.
Intercessor.
Lover of our souls,
He who heals.
Our Hope!
Faithful God.
Jealous God.
Forgiving God.

I would sing, if I could, of His song. I would sing of the great symphony He is making from time, as every day that passes adds a note to His staff, and every eon forms a new movement. Vast, spectacular, in a tapestry huger than the heavens, He has spun out melody and harmony, orchestrating creation, and wooing the world by His power. The overbearing theme of this symphony is His Glory: it sounds and repeats, echoing off the walls of the universe, escalating into the deafening climax of Christ’s death on the hill called Golgotha, when perfect love did perfect justice meet. Now, it resounds still, recurring like a fugue in the ears of those who can hear it.

Many men have lived and many tales have been told. The writing of many books is endless, says the Teacher, and meaningless. People have worshipped God, and they have hated Him. His Name has been foully spat on. The Hands that Bled have been arrogantly scorned. All men have hated Him, our blessed Redeemer, and only some have loved Him. Yet what, after all, is the conclusion to the babble that has filled this planet and now howls louder than before? God in His grace and in His inscrutable, incorruptible righteousness still stands, unmoved, immutable, and His is the anthem that the nations will sing. All these songs have been sung, and here sing I now mine, but in the end there is no song but His. And the flawless execution of His immaculate plan will be seen, and wondered at, and praised, and acknowledged, and then every person who has ever refuted the truth of His Word, every eye that ever was closed to His Sovereignty, every tongue that failed, as mine has, to give Him the praise and the thunderous applause that He so deserves, all together will cry,

“Glory!
Worship the Lord God of Hosts!
Kneel before Him,
Come in the Joy of His Splendor or
the Fear of His Wrath for He is
Pure
and the Might of His Honor is like an Army of Warriors.”
“Holy,” cry the people of God,
“Holiness is His banner!”
“Lord!” cry even those who despised Him,
“Lord is He, Christ, the Son of God,
Jesus Christ the crucified is Lord indeed!”

And the Radiance and Representation of God’s own Being will rise like the blinding, unveiled sun over the line of the earth’s horizon, Incandescent and Holy, and men will fall prostrate, and seraphim will shout, and then we will know.

The Lord Saves.
Omega.
Amen.

Genesis 40

2008-09-15T15:49:00.001-05:00

Just musings...

How quickly dreams are forgotten—
even prophetic ones.
The shadow of death had passed,
and the cupbearer went his way, forgetting
the Hebrew in his dungeon.
How long and lonely Joseph must have felt,
serving his sentence for righteousness.
“Was it for this that you brought me here, O God?”
Perhaps he thought, perhaps not.
But the boy became a man no longer arrogant,
And when at last God’s hour came
He (the Lord that is) lifted his head,
Saved the land, and even those
who threw him in the pit
became recipients of His mercy.
Divine, forgiving God, to bless their bloody hands…
but not until
the lesson was learned, of course.
“Poetic justice” doesn’t really do it justice.

The Last Word

2008-09-12T22:15:00.007-05:00

This is a work in progress, and you must forgive the limitations of this blog. Much of my poetry has to be altered when I post it here, because it won't let me indent anything, or center part of it without centering the whole thing, and it often eliminates spaces between lines for me. The original version is a little easier to read because of these things, but I hope you will enjoy it anyway.

“Behold, I am the Lord your God.
I, the Lord, am the maker of all things,
I am He.
I am He who forms light and creates darkness.
I, even I, am the Lord,
and there is no savior besides Me.”

“It is I who have declared and saved and proclaimed—
who is there who speaks and it comes to pass,
unless the Lord has commanded it?
Is it not from mouth of the Most High
— there is none who can deliver out of My hand—
that both good and ill go forth?
—I act and who can reverse it?”

Then the angel said to them,
“Do not be afraid, for behold, I bring you good tidings of
great joy which will be to all people. For there is
born to you this day in the city of David
a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.”

Thus says the Lord,
Who makes a way through the sea
And a path through the mighty
waters,
Who brings forth the chariot and the horse,
The army and the mighty man,
“I, even I, am the one who
wipes out your transgressions
for My own sake.
Is My hand so short that it cannot ransom?
Do not tremble, and do not
be afraid.
I am the first—
Is it not from the mouth of the Most High
—and I am the last—
that both calamities and good things come?
—And there is no God besides Me!”

“For My own sake,
for My own sake, I will act;
For how can My name be profaned?
And My glory
I will not give to another.”
.
What shall we say, then?
There is no injustice with God, is there?...
May it never be!

“Blessed are you when men hate you, and when they exclude you,
And revile you, and cast out your name as evil,
for the Son of Man’s sake. Rejoice in that day and leap for joy!
For indeed your reward is great in heaven.”

And the Word of the Lord came to me,
saying,
“Son of man, the house of Israel has become dross
to Me, therefore
--Then they will know
I will gather you in My anger
--that I am the Lord
and in My wrath and I
--their God.
will lay you there and melt you.”
For, says the Lord,
“I, I will vindicate the HOLINESS
of My Name.
I, the Lord, who brought you out of Egypt.”

“Hear, O Israel,
the LORD your God is
one God.”

BUT NOW
the righteousness of God
apart from the law
--O the depth of the riches
of the wisdom and knowledge of God! --
is revealed;
Even the righteousness of God, through
faith in Jesus Christ
--So His visage was marred more than any man,
And His form more than the sons of men; --
to all and
on all
who believe, for there is no difference:
For all have sinned, and fall short of the glory of God;
--How unsearchable are His judgments--
being justified freely by His grace
through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus,
--and His ways past finding out! --
Whom God set forth
--He was oppressed, and He was afflicted
yet He opened not His mouth--
as a propitiation by His blood,
--He is brought as a lamb to the slaughter;--
through faith,
to demonstrate His righteousness, because
in His forbearance God had passed over
the sins that were previously committed,
--But He was wounded for our transgressions,--
to demonstrate at the present time
--He was bruised for our iniquities--
His righteousness, that He
--The chastisement for our peace was upon Him--
might be JUST, and
the JUSTIFIER
of the one who has faith in Jesus.
--And by His stripes we are healed.

Who are you, O man, who
answers back to God?
For from Him and through Him
and to Him are all things!

“Have you ever in your life
commanded the morning,
and caused the dawn to
know its place?
You shall not make other gods
of silver or gold,
for I am He.

“Whoever comes to Me,
and hears My sayings
and does them,
I will show you whom he is like:
He is like a man
building a house,
who dug deep
and laid the foundation on the rock.”

In triumph I will parcel out
Shechem,
and measure off the Valley of Succoth.
Gilead is mine, and Manesseh
is mine;
Ephraim is my helmet,
Judah is my sceptor.
Moab is my washbasin,
upon Edom I toss my sandal;
over Philistia I shout in triumph.”

nightfears

2008-09-10T19:07:00.000-05:00

How long
have you strode
in the streets
of the night

like a man
in a dream
who is dazed
by his fright?

Did you pray,
when you lost,
and your eyes
turned from life

to the rope
at your feet
and the edge
of the knife

that will wait
for your fall?
Will you wake,
do you sleep,

is this day,
is it real?
Is the hope
worth the leap

and your life
worth the pain?
Is there more?
Do you lack?

Are you blind
from your fear
or more blind
from the black

of a world
that’s so sure,
does not ask,
will not think,

but just want?
Do you grope
in the dark,
would you blink

in the sun,
or is noon
what you’ve got,
and the best

of the deal
is the play
and the feel,
and the rest

is a ghost?
Do you know,
have you found,
do you stride

in the streets,
is there sense
in this world,
do you hide

from your mind?
What is truth?
Is it here?
Have you found

what you seek?
Will your strength
last the fight
that you’re bound

to meet soon,
if you live?
If you die?
Would you sell

all your wealth
just to speak
to the man
who could tell

where to find
in the blare
peace of mind? …

[Breathe.]

Will you pray,
can you weep?

Does the truth
come too late?
Is there way
through your sleep—

Will you live,
and leave death,
will you breathe,
and know breath?

If by truth
you can break
all these lies
so you wake
from your night,
you will find
in the light
peace of mind. . . .

and live.

1999

Letter to an Unseen Love

2008-09-04T08:05:00.004-05:00

A couple of weeks ago my husband and I celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary. In honor of that, I thought I would post this poem, written in the year before our marriage, when he was just another aquaintance. It is a poem about why I stayed single, why I waited and hoped and prayed for a man that God would clearly show to me, rather than compromising and just "dating around." I put all of my girlish longings into it, never knowing that my husband was, in fact, literally "next year."

You are the strut in my step.
You are my fingers in my hair.
You are the secret smile through talk of romance,
and the waiting out of quiet frenzies.
You kiss me in the car, in the kitchen, and in my bed.

You are the dream of my silence,
the taste of my desire.
It is you who compel my beauty,
my hope of being woman.
I have always dressed for you, painted my lips
and bejeweled my ankles for you: there is no other.
When laughing at eyes, I am thinking of you.

You are girlish plans, adolescent sighs,
and a woman’s longing.
You have ever been real to me.
However unseen your face,
your presence shadows my eyes,
and though I never see you,
I will always remember.

You, my love, seal my purity,
and our coming promise binds me now.
If not, then the dream of you binds me.
You are half my dances,
and all my love songs sung so throatily in the shower.
You are more than I could have guessed.
If I am always looking over my shoulder for you,
it is because I see your silhouette before me,
and feel your breath.

I have never had a lover, only a husband,
and if you are not, then I am no less married.
You are the strut, and the preen, and the smile.
You are Christ, you are prayers,
you are long anticipated,
but here made real by hope.

You are now, not only next year.

Naaman's Rebirth

2008-09-01T21:38:00.001-05:00

He emerged
like a baby
as if from the water of birth

new skin
heart
the old decaying carcass
left
in the river.

“Now I know that there is no God on earth but in Israel.”

He went back
to serve
his king

worshipped with
his slave girl
his face toward
Jerusalem.

On Finding God After the Rain

2008-08-28T11:50:00.001-05:00

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

2008-08-27T13:15:00.004-05:00

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

2008-08-26T16:06:00.002-05:00

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"

2008-08-24T16:47:00.007-05:00

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

2008-08-22T11:37:00.002-05:00

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

2008-08-21T15:13:00.002-05:00

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

2008-08-19T20:20:00.004-05:00

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

2008-08-16T16:41:00.002-05:00

“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

2008-08-15T11:23:00.011-05:00

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

2008-08-14T14:21:00.006-05:00

“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

2008-08-13T13:06:00.005-05:00

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

2008-08-12T13:32:00.001-05:00

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

1997?

The Name I Call

2008-08-11T07:46:00.002-05:00

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

2008-08-08T13:58:00.004-05:00

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

2008-08-07T13:50:00.001-05:00

“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

2008-08-06T14:03:00.001-05:00

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

2008-08-06T13:59:00.002-05:00

“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

2008-08-04T11:47:00.000-05:00

“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

2008-08-02T16:31:00.004-05:00

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

2008-08-01T07:27:00.007-05:00

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

The Moabitess' Legacy

2008-07-30T12:58:00.005-05:00

Brought far from her own land,
one of the rejected race,
the widow she followed
the last sob of her own grief’s kind to
foreign eyes past
idols she worshipped in her youth.
There, fields of barley brought her with their leavings,
while a mother, aged, sat home
and waited for her dark-skinned daughter
to bring the farmer’s love-gift in her arms.

Who knew what child
waited in an unborn womb
to be issue of her unresisted call
to the lowland where the invisible God
hid Himself on a threshing floor at night?—
Or saw the golden throne,
wooden cup,
shepherd’s harp
prophesying songs about another Bethlehem son?
When she made the journey home to her
burial ground
she never realized
she was already pregnant with salvation,
or that once more
alien people
would bow knee to the unseen God.

"Salmon begot boaz by Rahab, Boax begot Obed by Ruth, Obed begot Jesse, and Jesse begot David the king..." Matt 1:5-6

1999

Why I write peotry

2008-07-29T15:30:00.005-05:00

“Let the redeemed of the Lord say so, whom He has redeemed from the hand of the enemy,
and gathered out of the lands, from the east and from the west, from the north and from the south." --Psalm 107:2-3

Why shall we, the Redeemed, say so? What shall
we say? Can we, who died in Adam’s fall
‘til Adam’s greater son rose for us, all
our life in Him—Can we fearfully tell
those still in death, and chained to woe and hell,
about the glorious, eternal call
that came from Jesus Lord, who took the gall
and drank His Father’s righteous wrath so well…?
Eternity lies open now: all those
who seek His righteousness by hope, by faith,
by holy zeal (not of themselves), by Him
may enter in. And there, some day, in throes
of joy, we’ll worship while the fading wraith
of death and sin, and all but Christ, grows dim.

Hello, and welcome to my blog. Since the sole purpose for this is to publish (in the purest sense of the word) some of the poetry that I've been scribbling away at in corners for the last ten years, I thought I should start by making a simple statement about why I write, and what I strive to write about.

I've been writing as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, I dreamed of writing a novel some day. I never really thought I would be writing poetry, but in time it became clear to me that a) I'm not very good at novels, b) I didn't want to write one anyway and that c) poetry was the best medium available to me to write about the things I did want to write about--Jesus, and Scripture, and theology. Poetry is, for me, a way to explore the mysterious truths of Holy Writ, and to use my mind and reason while yet tapping into the imagination and emotion that God has given every person. The Bible itself is full of poetry, and while mine will never rival it, I take it as an indication that poetry is something natural for mankind, and that, when used to glorify Him, pleasing to God.

My goal is never to try to add to Scripture some mystery or beauty or excitement that it doesn't have, but rather to show forth the mystery, beauty and excitement that it, more than any other text in history, is so full to brim with. Therefore let the Redeemed (me), say so!