Of Things Seen and Not Believed

I never met a flying pig with sprouted wings from fleshy sides.



I never met a little girl who shed her fur to take smooth skin, a former monkey-pie.



I’ve yet to meet that man of letters who could explain or teach a single thing, apart from grace.



Yet I have met a wormy little caterpillar-bug who once did crawl from dust to tomb, transformed, not evolved, to butterfly.



The Malachi Pour

Franklin once said: “if a man empties his purse into his head, no one can take it away from him”. This is true enough; though, at best, it is a splinter of the larger truth of generosity. The Lord says: “no one takes my life from me, I lay it down of my own accord”. The truth of generosity is simply this: if you choose to give something away, it can never be taken from you. If you give your wealth, how can it be taken? If you make a gift of your freedom, can you ever be made a slave? If you give love, mercy, forgiveness, can those things ever be snatched from your hands? If you give your faithfulness, your loyalty, your chastity to the bride of your youth, can it be stolen?
Has the atonement, the completed work, then ceased to compel our hearts, minds and souls to give? Has the sacrifice and the “keeping of the feast” constrained us, at God’s holy table, to close our rails, to lid the cup, once poured out in love, for us?

I say, emphatically, no! For The Cup is a flowing stream from everlasting to everlasting. The Cup to the suffering, the broken, the afflicted, the sick, the proud, and all manner of men, is the old covenant fulfilled and made new perpetual. The Atonement, singular, definite for all time, empowers and empours for all time. It is no mere abolition of law; it is consummation and perfection, willfully poured out and pouring out still- yea gushing, flooding out in tides, and beckoning us to join the swells, purifying and washing so that we may give acceptable gifts of our own sacrifice unto The Lord.

“Bring the full tithe into the storehouse, that there may be food in my house. And thereby put me to the test, says the LORD of hosts, if I will not open the windows of heaven for you and pour down for you a blessing until there is no more need.”  Malachi 3: 10

Dismas is a Prince

A prideful boy once asked the King, a favor to enjoy:

The King he listened to the lad, and asked for his true wish.

The boy said “I am a man with many needs and also wants and dreams. I ask to be a worldly man, more stellar than my king.”

The King he looked with sadness down, then gave the lad his wish:

He sent away the foolish boy, to be a foolish king.

A sweet young lass of noble birth, then said to the great King:

“Your Majesty, you see my gifts, you see my many things. I am a child of privilege; I deserve above the rest. Look after me, especially, make me a royal queen.”

The King he wept a solemn tear to see this child awry; He left her to another king, and granted her true wish.

A man of sickness and great sin, in chains, was drug into the court. His flesh was torn, his legs were broke. He bled upon the stones.

The wretch, he could not even lift his eyes, to see the Holy King, yet hoarsely still, he found his tongue and slowly did he speak:

“I am a broken thief, condemned to die, a sinner to my core, but once I met, on Calvary, a man who is my true King…and there he promised to remember me, into his kingdom come. I have no merits of my own and yet I Know Your Son. He was the perfect sacrifice; His blood for all my sins…Great Master, if it by thy will, I came to visit Him”.

The King in splendor’s sovereign grace, he took this beggar in. The Prince of Peace, He healed his wounds, and gently lifted him.

The Spirit of the Living God, rejoiced with all the host, and Dismas sang eternal hymns to Father, Son and Ghost.

The Wrestler

Inside the thirty foot line, the circle-world of pain, contest and fatigue, lies this struggle of man- of Jacob left alone.

With fear, sweat, blood and toil he grabs to take, at war against himself, his own self- made god.

 In short time exhaustion comes, fatigue and sinews drawn, for loss and victory is certain now, assured only to One.

Humbled man, your little god is now so small and weak, would you yet cling, and seek the blessing of a permanent limp?

 Would you now, not deserving, receive your new name, “Deceiver” no more but “Israel”; “Haser”, my child, you no longer lack.

 Oh humbled lad, defeated, yet victorious, in the grip of Champion Everlasting, who never tires of love poured out- to sacrifice.

 And still the blessings come, and yet, He wrestles on.

A Poet-Warrior’s Pen

A poet’s pen and mighty sword, is but a crutch to Thee.

A girl’s sweet smile and laughing love, shows just your heart for me.

 The man who was, and is, and will, with joy and judgment bring: once came, still comes, and yet to come, eternal shall He be.

Psalm 45 For the choir director: A love song to be sung to the tune “Lilies.” A psalm[a] of the descendants of Korah. 1 Beautiful words stir my heart. I will recite a lovely poem about the king, for my tongue is like the pen of a skillful poet. 2 You are the most handsome of all. Gracious words stream from your lips. God himself has blessed you forever. 3 Put on your sword, O mighty warrior! You are so glorious, so majestic! 4 In your majesty, ride out to victory, defending truth, humility, and justice. Go forth to perform awe-inspiring deeds! 5 Your arrows are sharp, piercing your enemies’rts. The nations fall beneath your feet. 6 Your throne, O God,[b] endures forever and ever. You rule with a scepter of justice. 7 You love justice and hate evil. Therefore God, your God, has anointed you, pouring out the oil of joy on you more than on anyone else. 8 Myrrh, aloes, and cassia perfume your robes. In ivory palaces the music of strings entertains you. 9 Kings’ daughters are among your noble women. At your right side stands the queen, wearing jewelry of finest gold from Ophir! 10 Listen to me, O royal daughter; take to heart what I say. Forget your people and your family far away. 11 For your royal husband delights in your beauty; honor him, for he is your lord. 12 The princess of Tyre[c] will shower you with gifts. The wealthy will beg your favor. 13 The bride, a princess, looks glorious in her golden gown. 14 In her beautiful robes, she is led to the king, accompanied by her bridesmaids. 15 What a joyful and enthusiastic procession as they enter the king’s palace! 16 Your sons will become kings like their father. You will make them rulers over many lands. 17 I will bring honor to your name in every generation. Therefore, the nations will praise you forever and ever.

Holy Sovereign, Savior, King

Only in mercy, yet only in purity…

Only in generosity, yet only in righteousness…

Only in infancy, yet only in maturity…

Only in forgiveness, yet only in judgment…

 Only in kindness, yet only in severity…

Only in work, yet only in play…

Only in peace, yet only in war…

Only in songs of praise, yet only in prayer…

Only in life, yet only in death…

 Only in abundance, yet only in want…

Only in fellowship, yet only in solitude…

Only in fear, yet only in hope…

Only in doubt, yet only in faith…

Only in sickness, yet only in new life…

Only in sleep, yet only in toil…

Only in blindness, yet only in sight…

 Only in joy, yet only in strength…

 Only in celebration, yet only in mourning…

 Only in corruption, yet only in purity…

 Only in thirst, yet only in streams…

 Only in pride, yet only in humility…

 Only in power, yet only in weakness…

 Only in hell, yet only in heaven…

 Only in peril, yet only in rescue…

 Only in brokenness, yet only in restoration…

 Only in lack, yet only in provision…

 Only in one, yet only in three…

are You, lowly, most high, Holy Sovereign, Savior, King.

 -a reflection on the Gloria: “..for thou only art holy; thou only art the Lord; thou only, O Christ, with the Holy Ghost, art most high in the glory of God the Father. Amen.”

When Poverty Came Home

 

When once You came upon our house, we acted very proud:

We shouted very loud; we refuged in dark clouds.

When once You intruded through our doors, we asked You please to leave, but still You steeled away, and stood, to have Your say.

You taught us, though not “nice”. You taught us, though not “sweet”, but in the Master’s name, You bathed our soiled feet.

You pointed up to love; You showed fidelity: first fruits to God, above, then to the ones You love, a holy hope of life.

This triune poor third peg, is not a broken leg, but just a poor old ghost, with tongue inflamed in truth, who guides a conquering host, from age to age, no boast, this poor, yet Holy Ghost.

The Poor Rich Man

He serves not one, but only himself.

He sits with none whilst in the company of all.

He speaks without hearing; to be only heard.

He loves not any, but lusts after all.

He claims his land, to fence others out.

He boasts of his honor; he pays with his heart.

He collects only objects, to prove his great worth.

He owes not one, and calls it virtue.

He rants from his bed ‘til it turns to his grave.

His use is of others, expending his soul.

He bears hard his wrath, and clings to all grudges.

Rather to die, than seek or grant forgiveness.

He is a shrewd manager, no prodigal he.

What he chooses to carry; he sadly receives… burdens to burden.

His yoke is so heavy, to even lift high, but he dares not let go.

He grips hard his pain; he shelters his eyes….

 And cowers in shame.

The Rich Poor Man

He loves God first, but finds love for all.

He sits with the low, but never alone.

He hears before speaking, with wonder and awe…

the saving message of forgiveness…faith, hope and charity.

  He metes no bounds, His fruits he does share.

He prays for all men, yet men honor Him.

His raiment is given, in trust, He obeys.

He seeks truth and peace; above all, He’s free.

He runs to the sick; He weeps for the dead.

He smiles at the rain; He stands on his head.

He laughs with the children; He sings to the aged.

He gives thanks for grace, and sin fears His name.

He prays for God’s mercy; He makes humble claim.

He carried a cross; He praises God’s name!

He gave all for all; His yoke is so light.

He yields to be carried, but lifted up high, His words carry far…

And abolish all shame !  

The Deceiver’s Great Crime

The crime he does commit, the gospel he does teach,

Go back for evermore, never forward…always to recede.

Great Satan’s myth and lie, like unto Balaam, is this:

That man, He cannot change, and God is bound of time.

His one great crime, in countless ways, sends men back unto the scene,

always as a dog unto his vomit, he does burden, he does scream.

He smiles at this rejoinder, he mocks at all who try,

did you ever really think, your own gravity, you could defy!

Give up he taunts and whispers, so soft you cannot change,

of use you are to none…your life is ‘most done… slide back to whence you came.

But a Man on a colt He rides, a mountainous growing tide, he swings the sword of life,

It cuts two-edged sharp, forgiveness in love; it points to only truth, it changes men in time.

He looks him in the eye, He says just simply this: “Stand behind me with your lies,

I cut loose the ropes of those whom you would let die.”

And Satan he does tumble and Satan he does fall,

in defeat he bows his head, back to the ashes he does crawl

  Back to his own judgment he returns, consigned to chosen exile called,

where man, he cannot change, and God is of all time.

The Man Up There

There is a man up there,

See how he hangs,

Surrounded by those who mocked then and now,

See his blood flow, see his breath slow, it is almost over

See how he hangs, now and then.

He once fed many with bread.

He once taught many with words,

Loved many, healed many, forgave many.

See how he still feeds, how he still teaches, how he still loves, heals, forgives.

Then and now.

The man will soon be among us brought down.

He is as no other, but as every other.

Of God, but yet man, a King of all kings, a shepherd of lambs.

A frail broken body, sweet ascendant pure dove.

Our Christ and our savior poured out only in love.

Men of God

If not for Godly men of faith,

where ever would I be?

I am by no means certain now,

but not on bended knee.

If not for Holy men of grace,

what ever would I learn?

I would be surely ever lost,

and for God’s love, never yearn.

If not for blessed hands and feet,

where ever would I hide?

Just tossed along in waves of doubt,

and carried with the tide.

If not for one strong teacher true,

what would be my fate?

To follow my own sinful ways,

of envy, greed, and hate. 

Of the Red Cross Errant and His Triune Foes

Sansloy, he is my daily foe, his sword, is never dull.

 He calls me out to ways of anarchy; he taunts me with his shout.

With the evil of my sinfulness, Sansloy he cuts me still, but in your strength of holiness, there comes the victor’s thrill.

Your law’s commands do call me back; confession, mercy plead,

Your true and honest pedagog, so gently teaching, leads:    

That on the tree was crucified, all sins of mankind’s seed, forgiveness is the healing leaf, the balm for cuts and sins, reminded of saving grace, Sansloy, he hides his face.

Sansfoy, he is the next great foe, his axe will fell me to my knees.

A giant man, he boldy walks in vales of death; he boasts of tragedy.

He knows my weakness, knows my fears; he smells my doubts with ease. Reminding me I am no Shepard King; nor even Jesse’s boy.  He laughs at such a little child, and calls my weapons “toys”.

 And yet, Sansfoy, he does forget, the one great worthy thing: remembering not the blood of Christ, already poured aground, but then reminded of sustaining grace, Sansfoy, he turns his face.

Sansjoy, he is the worst of all, his breath, an odious cloud.

He dwells in towers of broken light; he spies me from afar. He is an earnest enemy; he never leaves his plough.

His hands, they would tear out my heart, and turn me from the way. He wields the bitter tears of death, his tongue it does inveigh. He is a scaly nasty beast, his aim is to deceive.

He plucks the weak lambs from the flock. He brews a bitter tea. 

 Yet Sansjoy he does forget, the army of your saints. With brotherhood and conquering hymns, they shout the psalms of praise, announcing one great reigning king, who conquers every place, and when he sees the sovereign grace, Sansjoy, he loses face.

Melancholic Joy

It cuts like a light;

It causes no fright,

But only to fear,

A savior brought near.

It seems a sad thing;

a life poured out for no thing.

Merely given in grace;

elected, to see His Face.

Fighters for purity;

His resurrected death is your surety:

The surgeon healer’s steady knife-

Is but the prune of sacrifice

Blood poured out in love to save, this melancholic joy.

If God Were Bad

If God were bad there’d be not joy, and only sin would reign.

If God were bad, this Son of His, would never had a’came.

If God were bad, there’d be not grace, forgiveness, mercy’s yearn.

If God were bad, there’d be not love, nor hope, nor faith to learn.

If God were bad, there’d be not laws, nor justice in the lands….

But God is good, and He is great; His will is set apart.

He is above our little heads; and nigh to broken hearts. 

Faith, Hope and Love

 

 

These places to abide,

 

 

through fears, our faith does lead,

 

 

to hope, through failures, still,

 

 

to love, His broken heart, received,

 

 

yet plant our hearts with seed,

 

 

and grow, three places to abide.

 

 

Jezreel! One God in Three!

Ecclesiastes

A boy set out to win the prize and be forever wise;

he took a gift from heaven sent, and ruled his kingdom come.

The boy became a growed up man, and rich beyond compare,

a palace with a golden gild, so many ladies, fair.

But as he aged, he gazed upon a mirror on the wall,

 reflected there was vanity, his mind so very small.

These things he had, without God’s love, they never would suffice.

They could not fill the great big hole; they led to just supplice.

And vanity was hidden there, it whispered in the weeds,

the sin of Cain was on his hands, it planted broken seeds.

 But yet he saw another hand, a holy, wounded limb,

The shining face, of timeless age, reflected back at him.

This limb it sprang from Holy root, the tree of life it grew, and in a twinkling of an eye, the man

forever changed, yet still he fights with vanity, but now he sees his sins.

Court of Grace

A court of grace would have no laws, but brim with broken hearts,

 

and flowing there, on stoney ground, would run a crimson tide,

 

a tide of love, a tide of tears, in thanks for sacrifice,

 

and flowing from the open doors, this tide would be poured out…

 

a river of new, unending healing balm, forgiving every doubt…

 

awash in answer to His prayers, His mercies, inside-out.

Theology

Theology

Three apostolic holy men, evangels all, once walked along a road.

They’d traveled far to foreign lands, and now they neared their home.

The one whose name was Law first spoke, to his companions true:

“I’ve often brought men to their knees, I’ve humbled kings and kin;

 I help them find their way along, I show them their great sin”.

The second man whose name was Works, then said to his dear friends:

“I visit men in prisons trapped, I’ve fed the truly poor;

 I shelter sick and needy folks, and fight against death’s door.”

The third great man, whose name was Faith, he was the thoughtful type. He softly said to his dear brothers then, with kind sincerity:

“My friends I am a means, a hope, an usher to a gate: with just a little bit of me, all men may find their way- but yonder stands our Master still, who set us on our way. He came to us before we went, and still pours out today. Look straight upon his radiant face, and know that we are home, for written in his eyes of love, you’ll find the name of ‘Grace’.”

The Adorner

She never waits to give; her energy pours out.

She makes new things of beauty from old things that were without.

She suffers fools not lightly; she touches broken hearts.

She delights in little children; she sees their hidden smarts.

She transforms the dreary dullness to light, in such a happy way.

She gives herself so freely; she rarely turns away.

This girl that I did marry: she does adorn my life.

I give to God all glory, for making her my wife.

Manna of God

Steady dew of heaven, coriander seeds shower lavish love;

new mercies, fresh blessings, daily bread is the manna of God.

Lord, shall I tire of the diet of your grace?

Lord, do not let this abundance be taken without cherish or taste.

Let me not be blind to your gifts to me, and lost to my sins.

Lord give us this bread always, let me not become ingrate and full,

swollen in my pride, keep me unleavened, let me savor each taste.

Lord, I wander. Lord, I become lost, and lose my way in the wild of sin, but

your arm is never too short, it holds daily bread, and it reaches in love.

A Prayer and reflection on Numbers 11