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Poetry
As far as the I can see. Where could that be?
It always seems
to fall back on me.
As I reflect on
obedient unto death
instead of taking away sin,
it takes away my breath.
Do I trust in me
who is but a breath?
But the wages of sin
and the fear of death
originally by priests
taken out of sight
now by Christ
taken away by might.
His might makes
Him who he is.
The obedient Son
makes us His.
By His knowledge
with a now enlightened eye
it's not how far but so nigh.
Been around the block. Now in stocks on the block.
"Me first", words of a whore.
Now what's in store?
Will You restore
joy as before,
but much more,
wounds less sore,
on wings will soar.
In me You'll pour
Spirit to my core.
Truth, not folklore.
My wounds, drawn from the well of grief, my brokeness, my anger, no relief.
Are these from the Father or the thief?
My heart? Dead, buried, or just broken?
Depending, is my reaction to what is spoken.
Or is the fact that I react,
when instead by faith I just act.
Shame distorts the well of grief
denying it to be the Mercy-seat,
a man of sorrows who washes our feet,
this holy affair where anger, we don't meet.
The cross, Psalm 85:10, doubly sweet.
Control is the way we split ourselves in two. A part of me this and a part of me that. It is trying and trying separates us even more from our real selves. No wonder we are susceptible to varying degrees of panic attacks from living as two rather than one.
David prayed in Psalm 86:11 to heal of the two-faced hypocricy that the desire to control creates in us.
Self-control is the mark of a Christ follower and comes from surrender once trying ceases.
I wrote a poem that I'm reminded of as I write this about what surrender can bring while we still struggle with surprises.
A Sane Imagination, A New Creation
A sane imagination, a new creation.
Tempered action from shattered expectations.
Perservering, conscience no longer searing.
Courageous without domineering.
Silently, while speaking,
praying and seeking,
listening without freaking,
stillness, door creaking.
Who entered into my room
without permission so soon?
My heart? Don't bother!
Who's there?
Abba Father?
Getting my Mind around IT. The great attempt, putting God in a box, the mind lustfully flirting with the heart, forcing the heart to take the beautifully masked punches. But our head begins to hurt from the heart's wounds. The sore hands of the mind from trying to wrap itself around the Infinite, finally pull back, now, too tender. Without tenderness there is no understanding. Job 17:2-5
1/26/2005
When my sweet Lord cast my sins into the depths of the sea (Micah 7:19) there was no splash. It was done in the quietness and loneliness of death by the cross. But by His grace to me as John 3:3, my realization of this fact brought the splash personally and continually in the form of tears from my own eyes as he collects each tear in a bottle (Psalm 56:8) through my own suffering. The deafening sound and weight of each teardrop on my cheek transforms me through it's own unique gift of healing. We are not only not forgotten but brought closer through each drop (Psalm 34:18). Through stubbornness to willingness (Jeremiah 31:18) we are carried as on wings of eagles (Isaiah 40:31). A bottle full of tears weighs a ton (Psalm 56:8).
A bottle full of tears weighs a ton. All the weight behind the first one. To stop it requires an elephant gun. Like the first drop of rain we tend to run. Turning us upside down shaking the "changes" out of our pockets. Falsely transformed until water pressure freshly squeezes tears from our eye-sockets.
