(In reflection on Ezra, Nehemiah, and
The prophets of old on June 3, 2010).
Exiles return
To city in ruins
Charred remains
Of once golden temple
Dust and ash envelop
The mighty capital
City of King David
Vision of restoration
Rising from the rubble
Strongholds of opposition
Crumble before Almighty God
History's Grand Architect
The Master Builder
Our Carpenter King
Measuring state's boundaries
Plumb Line for the nations
Impaled by the
Tools of His trade
Pierced by the ones
He would save
Our Crucified King
Nailed to the very trees
He imagined in the beginning
Killed by His creatures
Sacrifice for their souls
The divine died
Ineffable mystery
Our Creator King
Resurrected and ascended
Interceding for us now
At the Father's right hand
Seated on His throne
Soon to judge the earth
The Just and the Justifier
Our Coming King
Showing posts with label The cross. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The cross. Show all posts
Friday, July 9, 2010
Saturday, October 3, 2009
"Hostages no more"
(Recounted October 3, 2009).
I had a dream this week that a man put a gun to my head.
Barrel pressing under my chin, I was instructed to walk;
Obviously running was not a viable option.
"Your life is worth more than all the money in the bank"
We have been told on more than one occasion.
Working for a financial institution, there is always the chance
That a crazy bank robber might take you hostage,
Attempting to break into the secured cash vault.
We've seen the training videos, but what can truly prepare
For the sensation of cold metal on your skin?
Fear so easily sneaks into the soul when you lie down to sleep.
I have not been up late at night worrying and counting sheep,
For it is not a rational, waking hour's fear.
The farfetched, terrifying scenarios that just might come true:
This is the stuff of which nightmares are made.
Yet we have been saved from much greater horror than this:
Christ has rescued us from life's supreme robber: Death!
We are hostages no more! So where is our great rejoicing?
It simply comes and goes, as our mood flows up and down
Like the crashing waves on the beach.
I had a dream this week that a man put a gun to my head.
Barrel pressing under my chin, I was instructed to walk;
Obviously running was not a viable option.
"Your life is worth more than all the money in the bank"
We have been told on more than one occasion.
Working for a financial institution, there is always the chance
That a crazy bank robber might take you hostage,
Attempting to break into the secured cash vault.
We've seen the training videos, but what can truly prepare
For the sensation of cold metal on your skin?
Fear so easily sneaks into the soul when you lie down to sleep.
I have not been up late at night worrying and counting sheep,
For it is not a rational, waking hour's fear.
The farfetched, terrifying scenarios that just might come true:
This is the stuff of which nightmares are made.
Yet we have been saved from much greater horror than this:
Christ has rescued us from life's supreme robber: Death!
We are hostages no more! So where is our great rejoicing?
It simply comes and goes, as our mood flows up and down
Like the crashing waves on the beach.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
"Sunday Afternoon"
(Inscribed by the magical beauty
of August 23, 2009).
Fanciful Summer's breath beacons unto me.
My iPod's soothing piano solo,
Fingers delicately stroking the keys,
I stroll to the park, meandering down my block,
Weaving through houses and winding streets,
Like bounteous rows of the blossoming rose.
Jingling bicycle bells and dog collars,
Quacking ducks and honking geese,
Whirl of skateboards and rustling leaves,
Frisbees soaring into the blue,
Each a soloist accompanied
By the gentle, flowing melody.
The pages of my journal flutter,
My sun-kissed hair joins the dance,
Flitting and glittering in the breeze.
Giggles and squeals float across the pond,
As children skip and prance,
Dodging water balloons midflight.
Bobbing his emerald head,
Then tipping completely over,
A duck tumbles in the waters
Perusing the depths for a snack,
And a gentle rumble of a plane overhead,
An afternoon twirl through the clouds.
A flock of geese clumped beneath
The welcoming shade of a tree,
Moseying across the grassy slope
Just out of the pages of a storybook.
I half expect to see the crook extending,
From behind a tree Little Bo Peep to appear.
No swans today, yet on such a pond
The ugly duckling once discovered his beauty,
And among such trees a little hooded girl,
Skipped with sweets for her grandmother,
And a young blonde discovered a house,
Tasted porridge and slept in the baby bear's bed.
With the shimmering golden rays and sparkling pond,
Grassy rolling hills and shady trees,
How can some so easily dismiss fairy tales?
"Mere rubbish and poppycock," they say.
Modern adults too busy for childhood fables,
Too mature for talking animals,
Too advanced for simply moral tales.
May God have mercy upon us all!
My soul, soak in the warmth and tranquility
Infused in every golden ray!
O breathe deeply of the magical air,
The beauteous dancing of the breeze!
Praise Him who formed the heavens,
Who fashioned the earth with His Word,
Who walked beside Galilee's sea,
Who climbed Golgotha's solitary tree!
of August 23, 2009).
Fanciful Summer's breath beacons unto me.
My iPod's soothing piano solo,
Fingers delicately stroking the keys,
I stroll to the park, meandering down my block,
Weaving through houses and winding streets,
Like bounteous rows of the blossoming rose.
Jingling bicycle bells and dog collars,
Quacking ducks and honking geese,
Whirl of skateboards and rustling leaves,
Frisbees soaring into the blue,
Each a soloist accompanied
By the gentle, flowing melody.
The pages of my journal flutter,
My sun-kissed hair joins the dance,
Flitting and glittering in the breeze.
Giggles and squeals float across the pond,
As children skip and prance,
Dodging water balloons midflight.
Bobbing his emerald head,
Then tipping completely over,
A duck tumbles in the waters
Perusing the depths for a snack,
And a gentle rumble of a plane overhead,
An afternoon twirl through the clouds.
A flock of geese clumped beneath
The welcoming shade of a tree,
Moseying across the grassy slope
Just out of the pages of a storybook.
I half expect to see the crook extending,
From behind a tree Little Bo Peep to appear.
No swans today, yet on such a pond
The ugly duckling once discovered his beauty,
And among such trees a little hooded girl,
Skipped with sweets for her grandmother,
And a young blonde discovered a house,
Tasted porridge and slept in the baby bear's bed.
With the shimmering golden rays and sparkling pond,
Grassy rolling hills and shady trees,
How can some so easily dismiss fairy tales?
"Mere rubbish and poppycock," they say.
Modern adults too busy for childhood fables,
Too mature for talking animals,
Too advanced for simply moral tales.
May God have mercy upon us all!
My soul, soak in the warmth and tranquility
Infused in every golden ray!
O breathe deeply of the magical air,
The beauteous dancing of the breeze!
Praise Him who formed the heavens,
Who fashioned the earth with His Word,
Who walked beside Galilee's sea,
Who climbed Golgotha's solitary tree!
"By his stripes"
(In reflection after taking
the Lord's Supper in August 2009).
"Nothing but the blood," the pastor sings,
As I make my way down the aisle.
Dipping the bread in the cup, I say, "Amen,"
And return to my seat with morsel in hand.
Permeated pinch of bread, lifting to my lips,
I squeeze too hard and it drips on my hand.
'Clumsy, irreverent fool!' I shriek.
The crimson trickles down my skin,
As a trail of blood on my palm.
Startled my fingers curl.
My other hand flies to the spot,
Cupping my hand, as though
Protecting a bloody wound,
Covering an exposed gash.
I gaze at the scarlet.
Such were his stripes that day
When his hands they pierced
And his flesh they flayed.
Sweating tears of blood,
So flowed the cleansing flood.
Like the coal-purged lips of Isaiah,
Once leprous, Naaman's childlike flesh,
Hemorrhaging woman or epileptic boy,
The sinful, withered hand of my soul.
Broken, shriveled, rotting
Now redeemed, renewed!
By his stripes we are healed
the Lord's Supper in August 2009).
"Nothing but the blood," the pastor sings,
As I make my way down the aisle.
Dipping the bread in the cup, I say, "Amen,"
And return to my seat with morsel in hand.
Permeated pinch of bread, lifting to my lips,
I squeeze too hard and it drips on my hand.
'Clumsy, irreverent fool!' I shriek.
The crimson trickles down my skin,
As a trail of blood on my palm.
Startled my fingers curl.
My other hand flies to the spot,
Cupping my hand, as though
Protecting a bloody wound,
Covering an exposed gash.
I gaze at the scarlet.
Such were his stripes that day
When his hands they pierced
And his flesh they flayed.
Sweating tears of blood,
So flowed the cleansing flood.
Like the coal-purged lips of Isaiah,
Once leprous, Naaman's childlike flesh,
Hemorrhaging woman or epileptic boy,
The sinful, withered hand of my soul.
Broken, shriveled, rotting
Now redeemed, renewed!
By his stripes we are healed
Saturday, September 19, 2009
"Laser beams"
(Upon returning home from
a drive on August 2, 2009).
Red and blue lights flashing ahead,
A cluster of police cars on the curb.
"Rubbernecks" they call us,
Our eyes sprint to the scene,
Fixating on the 'cuffed.
A man stands with hands raised,
Legs apart for the frisking.
The policeman barks at him
While we stare intensely.
Fire shoots from the eyes,
Watching, glaring, judging--
Condemnation without a trial.
Strike of the rod
Crack of the whip
Agonizing pain
None to comfort
"Crucify him!" they shout
At whom they cheered "Hosanna!"
Once with joy and smiles for the king,
Now their radiant eyes are turned,
Morphed into laser beams,
Not simply to pierce his hands and feet,
But red-hot and sharp as iron,
Seeking to impale his heart.
Wincing from the shame,
Denied and rejected,
Dishonored and disgraced.
Stumbling beneath the weight,
Crushed by the cross,
He collapses on the dusty road.
Jeering crowds surround,
Yet humiliated he could not be,
For he humbled himself,
Sacrificing for his accusers,
Crushed for our iniquities,
Laid down his life for his enemies.
a drive on August 2, 2009).
Red and blue lights flashing ahead,
A cluster of police cars on the curb.
"Rubbernecks" they call us,
Our eyes sprint to the scene,
Fixating on the 'cuffed.
A man stands with hands raised,
Legs apart for the frisking.
The policeman barks at him
While we stare intensely.
Fire shoots from the eyes,
Watching, glaring, judging--
Condemnation without a trial.
Strike of the rod
Crack of the whip
Agonizing pain
None to comfort
"Crucify him!" they shout
At whom they cheered "Hosanna!"
Once with joy and smiles for the king,
Now their radiant eyes are turned,
Morphed into laser beams,
Not simply to pierce his hands and feet,
But red-hot and sharp as iron,
Seeking to impale his heart.
Wincing from the shame,
Denied and rejected,
Dishonored and disgraced.
Stumbling beneath the weight,
Crushed by the cross,
He collapses on the dusty road.
Jeering crowds surround,
Yet humiliated he could not be,
For he humbled himself,
Sacrificing for his accusers,
Crushed for our iniquities,
Laid down his life for his enemies.
"The way unveiled"
(Brought to light on June 28, 2009).
Rickety fence, ashen from searing heat,
Thrashed by wind, drowned by rain,
Buried 'neath spiders and web,
Helpless prey trapped within
Sickly, silken tomb.
Snarled branches, nettle, and brier
Veil the way, choking out life.
Boarded up windows,
Putrid stench seeps.
Sharp nails protrude,
Spikes stabbed through plank.
Gaunt and grey, door barred shut.
Earth shakes.
Foundations crack.
The way unveiled.
Fingers uproot thorns,
Gently trickling crimson.
Drops of sweat, cascading brow,
Soothing dry, cracked clay.
Hands pry rugged boards,
Pierced by the nails.
Smiling eyes, doors bow,
Sparkling bright, gentle radiance.
He exhales, stone melts,
Peaceful zephyr, breath of life.
Through its wall his feet step,
Life and light herein dwell.
Rickety fence, ashen from searing heat,
Thrashed by wind, drowned by rain,
Buried 'neath spiders and web,
Helpless prey trapped within
Sickly, silken tomb.
Snarled branches, nettle, and brier
Veil the way, choking out life.
Boarded up windows,
Putrid stench seeps.
Sharp nails protrude,
Spikes stabbed through plank.
Gaunt and grey, door barred shut.
Earth shakes.
Foundations crack.
The way unveiled.
Fingers uproot thorns,
Gently trickling crimson.
Drops of sweat, cascading brow,
Soothing dry, cracked clay.
Hands pry rugged boards,
Pierced by the nails.
Smiling eyes, doors bow,
Sparkling bright, gentle radiance.
He exhales, stone melts,
Peaceful zephyr, breath of life.
Through its wall his feet step,
Life and light herein dwell.
"Il Divino"
(Chiseled the morning
of June 16, 2009).
A blank canvas,
Empty, yet full.
Brimming with potential
While bare of design.
What is hidden in this marble?
Who lies beneath your lines?
Will I chisel away the speckles
Or mar with my brushes' stroke?
Grand figures, elegant and strong.
Il Divino fashioned from the dust.
Though the work of his hands they be,
Yet none his own beauty could embody.
Prophets, apostles, our fathers attest,
More lovely, hallowed be his stained hand
Than any graceful illustration by it made,
Lowly, majestic image--beauty in the flesh.
of June 16, 2009).
A blank canvas,
Empty, yet full.
Brimming with potential
While bare of design.
What is hidden in this marble?
Who lies beneath your lines?
Will I chisel away the speckles
Or mar with my brushes' stroke?
Grand figures, elegant and strong.
Il Divino fashioned from the dust.
Though the work of his hands they be,
Yet none his own beauty could embody.
Prophets, apostles, our fathers attest,
More lovely, hallowed be his stained hand
Than any graceful illustration by it made,
Lowly, majestic image--beauty in the flesh.
"I stretch out my hand"
(Penned after reading the First
Epistle of John on June 14, 2009).
Alone, surrounded by blackness.
Offering aid, comfort,
To clasp another,
To unite amidst the darkness,
I stretch out my hand.
Extended, palm exposed,
Reaching...
SLAP!
Stinging my fingers retract.
Wounded I recoil my hand,
Withdrawing back into myself.
Fingers throbbing,
Meditating on the hurt,
Blood pulsating,
Heat radiating,
Drops of sweat begin to form.
Tightening, tension,
My fingers curl...
I thrust my fist into flesh!
Relief of tension,
As muscles relax,
Pent up rage dispelled,
Fingers tingling--
The satisfying sting of justice.
Then my eyes open and I see--
The pain inflicted in return,
Greater than the wound sustained:
The terrible darkness of the eye.
Overwhelmed by my hurting hand
And the hurt inflicted by my hand,
I weep
Over my pain, my brother's pain,
The very existence of pain.
Weak, hand trembling,
I reach out once more.
Hesitant, timid,
Vulnerable, unprotected.
At present, fingers quaking,
Wounds tender at the touch,
But perhaps someday soon,
In brilliant light we shall fully embrace.
Epistle of John on June 14, 2009).
Alone, surrounded by blackness.
Offering aid, comfort,
To clasp another,
To unite amidst the darkness,
I stretch out my hand.
Extended, palm exposed,
Reaching...
SLAP!
Stinging my fingers retract.
Wounded I recoil my hand,
Withdrawing back into myself.
Fingers throbbing,
Meditating on the hurt,
Blood pulsating,
Heat radiating,
Drops of sweat begin to form.
Tightening, tension,
My fingers curl...
I thrust my fist into flesh!
Relief of tension,
As muscles relax,
Pent up rage dispelled,
Fingers tingling--
The satisfying sting of justice.
Then my eyes open and I see--
The pain inflicted in return,
Greater than the wound sustained:
The terrible darkness of the eye.
Overwhelmed by my hurting hand
And the hurt inflicted by my hand,
I weep
Over my pain, my brother's pain,
The very existence of pain.
Weak, hand trembling,
I reach out once more.
Hesitant, timid,
Vulnerable, unprotected.
At present, fingers quaking,
Wounds tender at the touch,
But perhaps someday soon,
In brilliant light we shall fully embrace.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
"The Gnat"
(Composed at my dining room
table on January 12, 2009).
As I sat sipping a glass of wine,
I turned to the side
To flip the page of poetry
I was reading.
When I glanced back,
A gnat I spied,
Floating on the surface
Of my smooth merlot.
'How sad,' I thought at first,
'To waste a good drink
For an ignorant, dirty bug!'
When all at once, I laughed,
'What a glorious way to die,
A dive bomb into the wine,
Drinking deeply of the vine!'
As should I.
This is my blood which is shed for you
No timid sip to take,
But jumping, leaping,
Diving into the deep.
Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man
And drink his blood,
You have no life in you
Reckless abandon,
Complete emersion,
Total saturation in Christ.
My blood is true drink
table on January 12, 2009).
As I sat sipping a glass of wine,
I turned to the side
To flip the page of poetry
I was reading.
When I glanced back,
A gnat I spied,
Floating on the surface
Of my smooth merlot.
'How sad,' I thought at first,
'To waste a good drink
For an ignorant, dirty bug!'
When all at once, I laughed,
'What a glorious way to die,
A dive bomb into the wine,
Drinking deeply of the vine!'
As should I.
This is my blood which is shed for you
No timid sip to take,
But jumping, leaping,
Diving into the deep.
Unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man
And drink his blood,
You have no life in you
Reckless abandon,
Complete emersion,
Total saturation in Christ.
My blood is true drink
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