Gethsemane's Rose

“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?

Doxology-- A prose poem in 3 parts

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.

"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.

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