7-9-10
Lay Down
Lay down every right
Every claim to self
Any belief that I deserve peace and safety
Lay down
Lay down any thought of vengeance
Any retaliation and bitterness
The grit of teeth and the anxious wrestling in the night
Lay down
Lay down your dreams of perfection
And your plans of self pleasing
Lay down your grip on having all things work out your way
Lay down and rest in the tumultuous peace of Jesus Christ
Where circumstance swirl
The heart grows still
Leaning on the only arms that can hold
Lay down
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Called
Called
Dec 1985, John Piper
Five miles southeast of Nazareth
A young man drew his final breath,
And perished in his mother's arms.
She stared across the olive farms
South to the Plain of Esdraelon;
And back and forth she rocked her son,
Her only son, and held his head
Against the breast where she had fed
Him with her bitter milk and tears.
For dark and bitter were the years
When he was born. His father died
Before the child could walk. His bride
Of twenty months had buried him,
With help from friends, out on the rim
That falls steep toward Samaria.
And spices from Arabia
Were given by the neighborhood,
As everyone agreed they should,
Because she had no other family.
But yet there was the son, and he
The widow's only hope.
Twelve years
They lived together, and her fears
Grew less as he became a man.
And then the dread disease began:
At first the intermittent cough;
And then the puzzling fever off
And on; and then the constant wheeze;
And then the nights upon her knees:
"Almighty God of Abraham,
Take pity on me, Lord, I am
A widow; he's my only son.
If he should die I am undone!"
And then the purple spit appeared,
And all the worst that she had feared.
To fight his final fears she tried
To hold him tight until he died.
And back and forth she rocked her son
Above the Plain of Esdraelon.
Her friends made fit the burial place
Out on the rim, and made a space
Beside his father, and prepared
The body while his mother stared
Across the Plain, too stunned and weak
To work or cry or even speak.
But then, come burial day, at length
She summoned up her little strength,
And with the child and crowd and pain
She led them out the gates of Nain.
And now, behold, the Word of God!
The rock- and ocean-splitting rod!
Along that very road there came
A band of men, and One whose name
Is Jesus Christ the Lord. They bowed
Politely to the grieving crowd,
But one: the Lord had fixed his eyes,
As though he heard a thousand cries,
On her. And when she saw his face
She stopped, and silence filled the place.
A strange and awesome feeling fell
Upon that crowd, and they could tell
That this exchange was very deep.
And then he spoke and said, "Don't weep."
And something happened in her heart
That made the heaviness depart.
And then he motioned to the men
Who held the box, and when
They looked at her and saw her hope,
They set it down and loosed the rope.
As gentle as a hand could be,
He made the coffin cover free,
And then with father-fingers lay
The strips of facial shroud away,
And spoke with passion in his eyes:
"Young man, I say to you, arise."
And he arose. And Jesus placed
Him in his mother's arms, and faced
Her one last time. Perhaps the two
Of them alone were all who knew:
Two short commands were all he said—
Two people quickened from the dead.
Who can withstand the word of Christ!
It has for ages now sufficed
To bear the universe it made!
Come let the glory be displayed
Of Jesus Christ's triumphant voice!
The dead rise not by their own choice,
And none of us would live at all
But by the Lord's triumphant call!
This is the truth of candle two:
The call of God makes all things new.
Dec 1985, John Piper
Five miles southeast of Nazareth
A young man drew his final breath,
And perished in his mother's arms.
She stared across the olive farms
South to the Plain of Esdraelon;
And back and forth she rocked her son,
Her only son, and held his head
Against the breast where she had fed
Him with her bitter milk and tears.
For dark and bitter were the years
When he was born. His father died
Before the child could walk. His bride
Of twenty months had buried him,
With help from friends, out on the rim
That falls steep toward Samaria.
And spices from Arabia
Were given by the neighborhood,
As everyone agreed they should,
Because she had no other family.
But yet there was the son, and he
The widow's only hope.
Twelve years
They lived together, and her fears
Grew less as he became a man.
And then the dread disease began:
At first the intermittent cough;
And then the puzzling fever off
And on; and then the constant wheeze;
And then the nights upon her knees:
"Almighty God of Abraham,
Take pity on me, Lord, I am
A widow; he's my only son.
If he should die I am undone!"
And then the purple spit appeared,
And all the worst that she had feared.
To fight his final fears she tried
To hold him tight until he died.
And back and forth she rocked her son
Above the Plain of Esdraelon.
Her friends made fit the burial place
Out on the rim, and made a space
Beside his father, and prepared
The body while his mother stared
Across the Plain, too stunned and weak
To work or cry or even speak.
But then, come burial day, at length
She summoned up her little strength,
And with the child and crowd and pain
She led them out the gates of Nain.
And now, behold, the Word of God!
The rock- and ocean-splitting rod!
Along that very road there came
A band of men, and One whose name
Is Jesus Christ the Lord. They bowed
Politely to the grieving crowd,
But one: the Lord had fixed his eyes,
As though he heard a thousand cries,
On her. And when she saw his face
She stopped, and silence filled the place.
A strange and awesome feeling fell
Upon that crowd, and they could tell
That this exchange was very deep.
And then he spoke and said, "Don't weep."
And something happened in her heart
That made the heaviness depart.
And then he motioned to the men
Who held the box, and when
They looked at her and saw her hope,
They set it down and loosed the rope.
As gentle as a hand could be,
He made the coffin cover free,
And then with father-fingers lay
The strips of facial shroud away,
And spoke with passion in his eyes:
"Young man, I say to you, arise."
And he arose. And Jesus placed
Him in his mother's arms, and faced
Her one last time. Perhaps the two
Of them alone were all who knew:
Two short commands were all he said—
Two people quickened from the dead.
Who can withstand the word of Christ!
It has for ages now sufficed
To bear the universe it made!
Come let the glory be displayed
Of Jesus Christ's triumphant voice!
The dead rise not by their own choice,
And none of us would live at all
But by the Lord's triumphant call!
This is the truth of candle two:
The call of God makes all things new.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Heart and Skill Pt. 2
The Genius unknowingly shared a birthday with a goat who is not even a part of this story, but also with a young woman who was christened Kathy. Her biography will remain short, but let it be known that in the course of the previously mentioned nineteen year span, she became the most beautiful girl in body and heart that was alive in the entire world. Period.
Through a series of mishaps, ironies, and one overturned cart in the middle of a market, she became acquainted with both the Simpleton and the Genius, both of whom joined the entire bachelor population in loving her madly.
But there was a problem.
The Simpleton felt a fire burning in his heart for the girl but could not tell her how he felt. It was not a language barrier that kept him from writing beautiful sonnets for his love, it was the fact that even if he knew the words to say, he would not know in what order to say them. He had become, by no genetic fault whatsoever, mentally handicapped. And now at the age of 'nine'teen the only phrase that could run through his head was "I love you".
This desire of his was strong, but it was never allowed to grow. His love was confined to this one phrase in the same way that a fish is confined to a tank. If only it had room to grow it would have become much larger and deeper, but this single phrase did not hold ultimate sway on him.
The interaction that took place between the girl and the Simpleton was entirely limited to this one phrase. At first Kathy loved the Simpleton because she heard whispers of passion in his voice that ran deeper than the mobs that pursued her. She thought she heard echoes of art that her heart longed for, but in the end she grew tired of his repetition and, seeing that his mental faculty did not match his heart, shunned him completely.
Kathy's relation to the Genius is another story altogether, or another paragraph at least. As Kathy conversed with the Genius she was amazed with his knowledge. He seemed to know so much about life and the world. Unfortunately it became evident to her that he was rather blind to people. While he tried to show his love to her, he would always do it in a blunt and assuming way. The genius thought that the match between perfect beauty and perfect wisdom was logical and he tried reasoning with Kathy to show her this was true. Over and over again the Genius took things that were beautiful because they were true and eloquized the life out of them. Something of romp and play had died in him long ago and so every romantic proposition was wrung of anything that would sound silly or that was not completely true and then presented to Kathy with humble flare.
Kathy eventually dumped them both and married a tubby boy named Poetry who had grown up with red-haired Bill Collins.
Tip to Simpleton: Train yourself to appreciate beauty with skill.
Tip to Genius: Don't be a moron.
Second tip to Genius: Train yourself to appreciate beauty.
Through a series of mishaps, ironies, and one overturned cart in the middle of a market, she became acquainted with both the Simpleton and the Genius, both of whom joined the entire bachelor population in loving her madly.
But there was a problem.
The Simpleton felt a fire burning in his heart for the girl but could not tell her how he felt. It was not a language barrier that kept him from writing beautiful sonnets for his love, it was the fact that even if he knew the words to say, he would not know in what order to say them. He had become, by no genetic fault whatsoever, mentally handicapped. And now at the age of 'nine'teen the only phrase that could run through his head was "I love you".
This desire of his was strong, but it was never allowed to grow. His love was confined to this one phrase in the same way that a fish is confined to a tank. If only it had room to grow it would have become much larger and deeper, but this single phrase did not hold ultimate sway on him.
The interaction that took place between the girl and the Simpleton was entirely limited to this one phrase. At first Kathy loved the Simpleton because she heard whispers of passion in his voice that ran deeper than the mobs that pursued her. She thought she heard echoes of art that her heart longed for, but in the end she grew tired of his repetition and, seeing that his mental faculty did not match his heart, shunned him completely.
Kathy's relation to the Genius is another story altogether, or another paragraph at least. As Kathy conversed with the Genius she was amazed with his knowledge. He seemed to know so much about life and the world. Unfortunately it became evident to her that he was rather blind to people. While he tried to show his love to her, he would always do it in a blunt and assuming way. The genius thought that the match between perfect beauty and perfect wisdom was logical and he tried reasoning with Kathy to show her this was true. Over and over again the Genius took things that were beautiful because they were true and eloquized the life out of them. Something of romp and play had died in him long ago and so every romantic proposition was wrung of anything that would sound silly or that was not completely true and then presented to Kathy with humble flare.
Kathy eventually dumped them both and married a tubby boy named Poetry who had grown up with red-haired Bill Collins.
Tip to Simpleton: Train yourself to appreciate beauty with skill.
Tip to Genius: Don't be a moron.
Second tip to Genius: Train yourself to appreciate beauty.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Heart and Skill Pt. 1
Once upon a time there was a boy who was born in the countryside. His parents were both very poor and could not afford to send him to the local school. Wanting to save face when queried about their son's education, the parents told all their neighbors that they valued their son's character above his education and that they would train him themselves. Since neither parent could read or write it was assumed by the neighbors that the son would prove an excellent ditch digger, which he did. Unfortunately, his parents hired him out too early in life and at the age of nineteen his vocabulary matched that of his last year of training ten years ago.
The Simpleton unknowingly shared a birthday with another boy in a village eight miles south. This boy's parents were also not extremely well to do, but placed a high value on the boy's education. He learned to read at three and was working on Latin and Greek by the age of eight. At nine he had mastered algebra and French and was just writing his autobiography. By the time he reached fifteen he had accomplished so many things that his parents were running out of subjects to teach. At sixteen he attended the largest university in the nation and completed his Masters in Every-stinkin-thing-there-is-to-ever-learn-in-the-whole-world in three years. At nineteen he was the most literate person in the country. From a young age the boy felt pressured by his parents and the distance grew as he began to pass them academically. His trip to the University was his final break with them. Now, he was alone in the world, for he could not find anyone his equal intellectually. Several times he came close to have one or two actual friends, but he was such an extremely logical fellow that he discarded them because of several flaws he detected. Alas, no one would be as perfect as he.
The Simpleton unknowingly shared a birthday with another boy in a village eight miles south. This boy's parents were also not extremely well to do, but placed a high value on the boy's education. He learned to read at three and was working on Latin and Greek by the age of eight. At nine he had mastered algebra and French and was just writing his autobiography. By the time he reached fifteen he had accomplished so many things that his parents were running out of subjects to teach. At sixteen he attended the largest university in the nation and completed his Masters in Every-stinkin-thing-there-is-to-ever-learn-in-the-whole-world in three years. At nineteen he was the most literate person in the country. From a young age the boy felt pressured by his parents and the distance grew as he began to pass them academically. His trip to the University was his final break with them. Now, he was alone in the world, for he could not find anyone his equal intellectually. Several times he came close to have one or two actual friends, but he was such an extremely logical fellow that he discarded them because of several flaws he detected. Alas, no one would be as perfect as he.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Portrait of a Toilet
It does not matter how eloquently or expressively a toilet is described, it remains a toilet. While it may be portrayed with words meant to strike emotion in the heart it can only reach a certain depth of poetry because of the content. Similarly, I have read some excellent poems about trees that have somehow stirred up less longing in my heart than the crappiest verse about the cross of Christ.
How much better it is when a master painter brings the soul to worship with words that cut straight through bone and marrow to the heart? I have seen it, I have heard it.
And if you all you see on the horizon is trite verse or exquisite wastepaper, do not give up. There are diamonds in the rough; there is a fountain in the desert. The source is the ultimate Poet, the Giver of Life. He is the only one who has every come up with anything original to say and when He talks all eternity listens.
We hear The echoes of His voice in every second. Train yourself to sing along.
How much better it is when a master painter brings the soul to worship with words that cut straight through bone and marrow to the heart? I have seen it, I have heard it.
And if you all you see on the horizon is trite verse or exquisite wastepaper, do not give up. There are diamonds in the rough; there is a fountain in the desert. The source is the ultimate Poet, the Giver of Life. He is the only one who has every come up with anything original to say and when He talks all eternity listens.
We hear The echoes of His voice in every second. Train yourself to sing along.
A Hymn
A thunder tumbling down the alleys of the rockies,
Blowing the pines with a freezing gust of heaven
A billion gallons of ocean,
Crashing into the rocky cliffs of the Oregon coastline
A sunrise so artistic
I can taste it in my heart
And a dying sun so lovely
It makes me want to cry
Wondrous are the works of Your hand and the breath of Your mind
Poured out on our surroundings as a testimony
To your greatness, power, and love
But Greater still
God on a cross
Man made free
All sin forgiven
Eternity opened
Pain crushed
Grief assuaged
Life poured
Death killed
God saves
God loves
God restores
Nature testifies day after day
Countless stars frozen in the dance of night,
Bursting light soundlessly past light-years of liquid space
River scattering, twisting, rushing, before falling to a wondrous impact,
Scattering the mist I taste at Multnomah Falls
A field of grain
Reverently bowing to its creator in the wind.
A coyote howl
The beat of bumblebee’s wings
A stroke of lightning across the sky
A baby’s first cry
A testimony of your greatness, power, and love,
But greater still
God as a man
Using our lungs
Craving our food
Stubbing our toes
Feeling the strain of our exertion
And the pain of our exhaustion
Tasting our food
Hugging our frames
Caring for our brokenness
Loving us in our dying
He came
He saw
He conquered with love
All hearts that had till then
Fortified themselves in pride and despair
The Savior of all souls
Came crashing in as the greatest of earth
But the humblest of heaven
God man
My friend and savior
Ever the name of Jesus written on my heart
And heard on my lips
For he sought me
And he bought me
With blood divine.
Blowing the pines with a freezing gust of heaven
A billion gallons of ocean,
Crashing into the rocky cliffs of the Oregon coastline
A sunrise so artistic
I can taste it in my heart
And a dying sun so lovely
It makes me want to cry
Wondrous are the works of Your hand and the breath of Your mind
Poured out on our surroundings as a testimony
To your greatness, power, and love
But Greater still
God on a cross
Man made free
All sin forgiven
Eternity opened
Pain crushed
Grief assuaged
Life poured
Death killed
God saves
God loves
God restores
Nature testifies day after day
Countless stars frozen in the dance of night,
Bursting light soundlessly past light-years of liquid space
River scattering, twisting, rushing, before falling to a wondrous impact,
Scattering the mist I taste at Multnomah Falls
A field of grain
Reverently bowing to its creator in the wind.
A coyote howl
The beat of bumblebee’s wings
A stroke of lightning across the sky
A baby’s first cry
A testimony of your greatness, power, and love,
But greater still
God as a man
Using our lungs
Craving our food
Stubbing our toes
Feeling the strain of our exertion
And the pain of our exhaustion
Tasting our food
Hugging our frames
Caring for our brokenness
Loving us in our dying
He came
He saw
He conquered with love
All hearts that had till then
Fortified themselves in pride and despair
The Savior of all souls
Came crashing in as the greatest of earth
But the humblest of heaven
God man
My friend and savior
Ever the name of Jesus written on my heart
And heard on my lips
For he sought me
And he bought me
With blood divine.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Depth of Poetry
The depth of poetry is not rated by an author's ability to use a thesaurus. Poetry is not someone's attempt to bend over backwards to say something a new way; it is an attempt to say it in a way that we feel it should have been said all along. Where an artistic level is high, but the level of meaning and significance are low, there is a lack of poetry. Because while there may be a superficial admiration at the ability of the author, there is no wonder stirred in the mind, no resuscitation of the heart, no opening of the eyes to the wonders of the world. Ephphatha.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)