From dust of earth, the flesh of man was formed
By breathing Word, to breathe and till the earth;
The ground, now ploughed and watered, bears the corn
To feed the last, but highest of her birth.
On manna, dusty desert people fed,
The bread of heaven stilled their fleshly moans;
Yet to the dust returned their bodies dead,
Unsated still, though filled, creation groans.
Upon the threshing floor, the grain is thrashed
Until the husk is split and carried off;
Then hammered on the wooden mortar, smashed,
And watered, shaped, and baked into one loaf.
Friends, take and eat, the Bread of Heaven feeds
The Body, formed of Abrahamic Seeds.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Prodigal Thane
Introduction
Literary Introduction
The Epic: The epic poem has been a major literary genre in the Western tradition since Western literature has existed. From the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh and the Greek Iliad and Odyssey to the Roman Aeneid, the French Song of Roland, the Old English Beowulf, the American Song of Hiawatha, and the Modern English Idylls of the King, various cultures are represented across millenia of writing.
But a common thread underlies these, binding them into their common genre: the epic is a lofty, majestic piece, broad of scope and deep in plot, dedicated to exalting the heroic. It tells the tale of the rise and fall of peoples in exalted language glorifying the major actors in the story. Usually a sense of destiny plays a strong part in the characterization in order to ram home the purpose of each character and the importance of the plot to the flow of history.
The Old English Poetic Style: Most epics are highly structured, in keeping with the elevated status of their subject matter and thus the lofty style appropriate to telling the story. However, the nature of the structure varies largely by cultural poetic convention. The Old English epic, like most Old English poetry, relied chiefly on alliteration, heavy rhythm, and the caesura for its basic structure, and on word-play, especially kennings, for embellishment. Despite the natural pause placed in the middle of the line (the caesura), the alliteration of at least three syllables per line, distributed to phrases on both sides of the pause, unifies the line and gives it its basic structure.
Introduction to The Prodigal Thane
The Prodigal Thane is not a traditional epic; it is impossible to fit a grand scope into 150 lines. On the other hand, it deals with the ultimate plan of history, which is normally too grand a scope for any one poem. Attempting to solve this dual dilemma, I used the life of one very unheroic man and his conversion as a microcosm to discuss God's destiny for His people, the Church, and the world, with Christ as the hero. Whether I succeed I shall leave to the reader to decide. I did, however, maintain the Old English poetic form, relying on rhythmic alliteration, parallelism, the caesura, and word-play.
The Prodigal Thane
Upon a cloudy eve of Christmas, when King Ethelred was throned,
A thane from hall to home was stumbling, hasting with unsteady step.
From the board of bright feasts and great war-tales, he bore himself
As a wind-blown ship on waves, the wassail sloshing stem to stern
Within his bloated belly. His brain was burning,
His eyes entranced by tracing patterned webs of intrigue
Spun by a new nobility, rich in wealth, not in houses poor,
But in spirit. And spoke he shamefully to a passing woman,
This warden unworthy of the name, not wielding as he ought
The shield defending the defenseless, feckless instead
Of duty. Death him terrified,
The thought of striking swords him struck as if
The swords themselves were striking. A sweat appeared,
Breaking out upon his brow, if e'er his bread-keeper called him
Out to serve his battle-service, this strife not suiting him.
The cup his close companion, the cunning truth-revealer
Oft upon his tongue, the tingling grape-blood
Often stained his mouth and sometimes dripped upon his hands;
To revel with this his friend, and folly to pursue
He would prefer to following his lord, or fitting out his men.
With clouded mind he climbed into his bed, the curtains sealing darkness in their depths.
Safe from light he lay, in layered folds encumbered.
But seized with struggling horrors, sins returned upon his head,
His falling into deepened sleep a drowning deep.
He descended into depths, the dragging bottom weeds
Around his head were wrapped, wretched man beneath a sea of dreams.
He shrieked a shrill curse, a screamed knowledge of his impending doom.
Then beside his sweaty couch, there stood a man of light;
An Angel of Emmanuel, Elohim Most High,
Stood beside the struggling man as there he lay,
Hurling curses into his couch against the King of Heaven.
The spirit's visage familiar, a face the thane had seen before
When on his armored knee he bowed before his lord:
His earthly earl, the bearer of a higher sword,
The ring-giver, given rings by greater hands.
But it was altered, aweful now in godly majesty.
The once-gold hair was white, yet wise, not wizened, was his face;
The dark eyes were dreadful, in dire distress the man upon the bed
Gazed into glaring pate-windows to grasp what lay within.
His eyes amazed by majesty, the man would writhe,
By light sore lashed, when love in darkness was his wont.
He saw this Being there, beside his bed,
And in outraged awe, he anguished cried
“Woe is me, a man of unclean lips, that much has done
Against the God of my lord; to gain this sight I am undone.”
In terror tried to flee, but tied down by his guilt
He wept and wailed; his weeping pierced the night.
Then spake the spirit; He spoke from Holy Writ
Of dreadful days to come, and dark winds of war—
The sword-gatherings soon to come; the spear-forests growing fast.
“Upon a day of wrath the King shall come again, His coming heralded by thunderclouds
And rumblings in the reddened sky. His righteousness in burning wreaths
Shall smoke, consuming all; the sin of man a tinder before a burning blaze.
The King of Heaven and of Hell; the High King of all between,
Shall with an iron rod bear rule. The ruthless nations shall bow and tremble,
Kings once cruel now cringe in fear—with care they'd built their cities
But neglected to grant unto their Lord the glory for which He'd raised them up.
Then gathered there with Gog, their god themselves,
They'll gaze upon the coming storm, in grim despair,
Their doom upon their heads descending.
Whence comest this conquering ruler? His crown was promised to Him in eternity,
This Son of David, Son of Jesse, Son of Man upon the throne of David
Eternal to rule, to reign over the sons of men.
God of God, man of man; granted was His throne by God the Father.
Where have gone the men of great houses? Gone their horses, gone their armies.
Where have fell rulers fallen? Before their Lord;
In judgment on unfaithfulness, He felled the pillars of their temples
Like trees of oak-groves; they trembled before His terrible wrath.
The mountains of their high places melt like wax
Before the fiery breath of God, the fire consuming
The arrows that they aimed; His armies overriding theirs.
The whirlwind whipped upon them, the wondrous chariot of God
O'errode their ranks; they reddened all his garments as the winepress.
These faithless had sworn their fealty; were fain to be His thanes,
Yet in His absence, in enjoyment spent His goods,
Unfaithful stewards of his fiefs, and feckless of their duty.
Thus returning, in righteous rage
He struck them down and set their souls free from their bone-cages.
But whence this warlike host, that with the King forth marches?
Whence this war-band, this marching host of swords?
Whence their gloried songs of grace? If God in rage hath crushed
Rebellious thanes, and brought deserved doom upon their heads?
I saw this same valley, a still and quiet vale
A thousand years before, thick-filled with bones.
Hewn into pieces, hacked in battles,
Dead and dried after days in the sun,
Clean-picked by crowding vultures, climbed upon by creeping worms,
Food for fearsome wolves; a fulsome pile outside Jerusalem,
The City of the Sovereign Lord, Mercy-seat.
A prophet was placed there—upon a hill where he could see
The ruin of his raging people, the wreckage of a prideful nation.
And seeing, mourned the men here lying; moaning for the slain.
As standing still he was, God's Spirit spoke
Unto him, saying 'Son of man, speak unto these bones,
That they may thrive again; these dead in sins shall live.'
Thus spake he, as the spirit moved him,
And flesh did fill their forms; their shape again
Of living men, their ligaments on bone,
And skin did clothe their glist'ning flesh.
Yet life did not yet lift their limbs; they lay there silent.
'Son of man,' the Spirit spake again,
'Unto the whisp'ring wind, this word speak:
“Come, bring breath unto these bones, bear life into their lungs.”
Thus speak, O Son of man; and see My hand perform this thing.'
He asked not why, but spoke: the air was agitated,
The four winds sweeping fast into the valley,
And up the bodies stood in vast array; an army called
From out their gruesome graves; their God in grace
Forth-called them from their crypts. Their bone-beds
Now are empty, their tarnished armor bright again.
But whence these men? Were they not other rebels?
Had they not likewise sinned thus; were these not thanes unfaithful, too?
They were. But when He looked upon the world,
The middle-earth midst heav'n and hell,
And knew that never did man think of Him,
Only thinking evil of his Lord, then He thought
To manifest His mercy. To man He would become true man
And bear within His body the punishment due to them.
And promised He the Patriarch, the ancient Nation-father, Abraham,
To bear a people, born of grace, to bless the nations.
Through the prophets then, this was shown to be
A nation made of every tribe and tongue, a nation under heaven.
The Christ would come and call them to Himself.
And so He did; and dying, harrowed Hell,
The souls of Israel from the fire-pit saving,
Showing them from Sheol, and sheltering them
Beneath His winsome wings. Wide His grace in that day was.
Not for the sinner's sake, in sooth, but for His name's
Which, wandering, they'd profaned amongst the wasted nations;
Mistrusting His truth in promise, the tyrant captors
Made a mock of the people and their God, but mocking stilled
When the people's enemies were overthrown—the arm of Heaven's Guardian
O'erthrew them in a running sea of red blood; the rescued people
Straight through it strode, as standing on dry ground.
Humbled then, they hailed their King; called Him King of Heaven, Earth, and Hell,
Above Whom none bore higher crown; always had He been, yet now they owned Him so.
Raised up by Him for His righteous glory, now they raise His name in honor.
Though they died the death of sin, He died with them and with Him raised them--
And thou with them art, sleeping, buried; thou in water covered,
Baptised in brooding horror of deserved wrath, yet by the water and the blood redeemed.
For His glory, by His might, His enemies He's conquered;
For His glory, by His grace, His people's hearts He has as well;
For His glory, by His might, His people's enemies He's conquered,
Death and grave have lost dominion, driven into hell;
The curse you called upon yourself, your King upon Him bore,
Your name is written with the righteous, writ in blood;
Your sinful self, slain within His body on the tree.
In dire dread you saw your sins; in dread mercy they are covered,
And He has called you holy, hailed you righteous:
And where are thine accusers? Wake thou sinner, sin no more.”
Literary Introduction
The Epic: The epic poem has been a major literary genre in the Western tradition since Western literature has existed. From the Sumerian Epic of Gilgamesh and the Greek Iliad and Odyssey to the Roman Aeneid, the French Song of Roland, the Old English Beowulf, the American Song of Hiawatha, and the Modern English Idylls of the King, various cultures are represented across millenia of writing.
But a common thread underlies these, binding them into their common genre: the epic is a lofty, majestic piece, broad of scope and deep in plot, dedicated to exalting the heroic. It tells the tale of the rise and fall of peoples in exalted language glorifying the major actors in the story. Usually a sense of destiny plays a strong part in the characterization in order to ram home the purpose of each character and the importance of the plot to the flow of history.
The Old English Poetic Style: Most epics are highly structured, in keeping with the elevated status of their subject matter and thus the lofty style appropriate to telling the story. However, the nature of the structure varies largely by cultural poetic convention. The Old English epic, like most Old English poetry, relied chiefly on alliteration, heavy rhythm, and the caesura for its basic structure, and on word-play, especially kennings, for embellishment. Despite the natural pause placed in the middle of the line (the caesura), the alliteration of at least three syllables per line, distributed to phrases on both sides of the pause, unifies the line and gives it its basic structure.
Introduction to The Prodigal Thane
The Prodigal Thane is not a traditional epic; it is impossible to fit a grand scope into 150 lines. On the other hand, it deals with the ultimate plan of history, which is normally too grand a scope for any one poem. Attempting to solve this dual dilemma, I used the life of one very unheroic man and his conversion as a microcosm to discuss God's destiny for His people, the Church, and the world, with Christ as the hero. Whether I succeed I shall leave to the reader to decide. I did, however, maintain the Old English poetic form, relying on rhythmic alliteration, parallelism, the caesura, and word-play.
The Prodigal Thane
Upon a cloudy eve of Christmas, when King Ethelred was throned,
A thane from hall to home was stumbling, hasting with unsteady step.
From the board of bright feasts and great war-tales, he bore himself
As a wind-blown ship on waves, the wassail sloshing stem to stern
Within his bloated belly. His brain was burning,
His eyes entranced by tracing patterned webs of intrigue
Spun by a new nobility, rich in wealth, not in houses poor,
But in spirit. And spoke he shamefully to a passing woman,
This warden unworthy of the name, not wielding as he ought
The shield defending the defenseless, feckless instead
Of duty. Death him terrified,
The thought of striking swords him struck as if
The swords themselves were striking. A sweat appeared,
Breaking out upon his brow, if e'er his bread-keeper called him
Out to serve his battle-service, this strife not suiting him.
The cup his close companion, the cunning truth-revealer
Oft upon his tongue, the tingling grape-blood
Often stained his mouth and sometimes dripped upon his hands;
To revel with this his friend, and folly to pursue
He would prefer to following his lord, or fitting out his men.
With clouded mind he climbed into his bed, the curtains sealing darkness in their depths.
Safe from light he lay, in layered folds encumbered.
But seized with struggling horrors, sins returned upon his head,
His falling into deepened sleep a drowning deep.
He descended into depths, the dragging bottom weeds
Around his head were wrapped, wretched man beneath a sea of dreams.
He shrieked a shrill curse, a screamed knowledge of his impending doom.
Then beside his sweaty couch, there stood a man of light;
An Angel of Emmanuel, Elohim Most High,
Stood beside the struggling man as there he lay,
Hurling curses into his couch against the King of Heaven.
The spirit's visage familiar, a face the thane had seen before
When on his armored knee he bowed before his lord:
His earthly earl, the bearer of a higher sword,
The ring-giver, given rings by greater hands.
But it was altered, aweful now in godly majesty.
The once-gold hair was white, yet wise, not wizened, was his face;
The dark eyes were dreadful, in dire distress the man upon the bed
Gazed into glaring pate-windows to grasp what lay within.
His eyes amazed by majesty, the man would writhe,
By light sore lashed, when love in darkness was his wont.
He saw this Being there, beside his bed,
And in outraged awe, he anguished cried
“Woe is me, a man of unclean lips, that much has done
Against the God of my lord; to gain this sight I am undone.”
In terror tried to flee, but tied down by his guilt
He wept and wailed; his weeping pierced the night.
Then spake the spirit; He spoke from Holy Writ
Of dreadful days to come, and dark winds of war—
The sword-gatherings soon to come; the spear-forests growing fast.
“Upon a day of wrath the King shall come again, His coming heralded by thunderclouds
And rumblings in the reddened sky. His righteousness in burning wreaths
Shall smoke, consuming all; the sin of man a tinder before a burning blaze.
The King of Heaven and of Hell; the High King of all between,
Shall with an iron rod bear rule. The ruthless nations shall bow and tremble,
Kings once cruel now cringe in fear—with care they'd built their cities
But neglected to grant unto their Lord the glory for which He'd raised them up.
Then gathered there with Gog, their god themselves,
They'll gaze upon the coming storm, in grim despair,
Their doom upon their heads descending.
Whence comest this conquering ruler? His crown was promised to Him in eternity,
This Son of David, Son of Jesse, Son of Man upon the throne of David
Eternal to rule, to reign over the sons of men.
God of God, man of man; granted was His throne by God the Father.
Where have gone the men of great houses? Gone their horses, gone their armies.
Where have fell rulers fallen? Before their Lord;
In judgment on unfaithfulness, He felled the pillars of their temples
Like trees of oak-groves; they trembled before His terrible wrath.
The mountains of their high places melt like wax
Before the fiery breath of God, the fire consuming
The arrows that they aimed; His armies overriding theirs.
The whirlwind whipped upon them, the wondrous chariot of God
O'errode their ranks; they reddened all his garments as the winepress.
These faithless had sworn their fealty; were fain to be His thanes,
Yet in His absence, in enjoyment spent His goods,
Unfaithful stewards of his fiefs, and feckless of their duty.
Thus returning, in righteous rage
He struck them down and set their souls free from their bone-cages.
But whence this warlike host, that with the King forth marches?
Whence this war-band, this marching host of swords?
Whence their gloried songs of grace? If God in rage hath crushed
Rebellious thanes, and brought deserved doom upon their heads?
I saw this same valley, a still and quiet vale
A thousand years before, thick-filled with bones.
Hewn into pieces, hacked in battles,
Dead and dried after days in the sun,
Clean-picked by crowding vultures, climbed upon by creeping worms,
Food for fearsome wolves; a fulsome pile outside Jerusalem,
The City of the Sovereign Lord, Mercy-seat.
A prophet was placed there—upon a hill where he could see
The ruin of his raging people, the wreckage of a prideful nation.
And seeing, mourned the men here lying; moaning for the slain.
As standing still he was, God's Spirit spoke
Unto him, saying 'Son of man, speak unto these bones,
That they may thrive again; these dead in sins shall live.'
Thus spake he, as the spirit moved him,
And flesh did fill their forms; their shape again
Of living men, their ligaments on bone,
And skin did clothe their glist'ning flesh.
Yet life did not yet lift their limbs; they lay there silent.
'Son of man,' the Spirit spake again,
'Unto the whisp'ring wind, this word speak:
“Come, bring breath unto these bones, bear life into their lungs.”
Thus speak, O Son of man; and see My hand perform this thing.'
He asked not why, but spoke: the air was agitated,
The four winds sweeping fast into the valley,
And up the bodies stood in vast array; an army called
From out their gruesome graves; their God in grace
Forth-called them from their crypts. Their bone-beds
Now are empty, their tarnished armor bright again.
But whence these men? Were they not other rebels?
Had they not likewise sinned thus; were these not thanes unfaithful, too?
They were. But when He looked upon the world,
The middle-earth midst heav'n and hell,
And knew that never did man think of Him,
Only thinking evil of his Lord, then He thought
To manifest His mercy. To man He would become true man
And bear within His body the punishment due to them.
And promised He the Patriarch, the ancient Nation-father, Abraham,
To bear a people, born of grace, to bless the nations.
Through the prophets then, this was shown to be
A nation made of every tribe and tongue, a nation under heaven.
The Christ would come and call them to Himself.
And so He did; and dying, harrowed Hell,
The souls of Israel from the fire-pit saving,
Showing them from Sheol, and sheltering them
Beneath His winsome wings. Wide His grace in that day was.
Not for the sinner's sake, in sooth, but for His name's
Which, wandering, they'd profaned amongst the wasted nations;
Mistrusting His truth in promise, the tyrant captors
Made a mock of the people and their God, but mocking stilled
When the people's enemies were overthrown—the arm of Heaven's Guardian
O'erthrew them in a running sea of red blood; the rescued people
Straight through it strode, as standing on dry ground.
Humbled then, they hailed their King; called Him King of Heaven, Earth, and Hell,
Above Whom none bore higher crown; always had He been, yet now they owned Him so.
Raised up by Him for His righteous glory, now they raise His name in honor.
Though they died the death of sin, He died with them and with Him raised them--
And thou with them art, sleeping, buried; thou in water covered,
Baptised in brooding horror of deserved wrath, yet by the water and the blood redeemed.
For His glory, by His might, His enemies He's conquered;
For His glory, by His grace, His people's hearts He has as well;
For His glory, by His might, His people's enemies He's conquered,
Death and grave have lost dominion, driven into hell;
The curse you called upon yourself, your King upon Him bore,
Your name is written with the righteous, writ in blood;
Your sinful self, slain within His body on the tree.
In dire dread you saw your sins; in dread mercy they are covered,
And He has called you holy, hailed you righteous:
And where are thine accusers? Wake thou sinner, sin no more.”
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Sonnet on Beauty and the Good
(30 December 2008)
My eyes bedimmed by fleeting shadows drear,
Accustomed to an umbered light, now blind
To brighter things, I stumble as I wind
Along a road that ends at last, I fear—
The portents with the wind that whips my ears—
In dust, as that I tread the same in kind.
I tremble lest the things I've grasped I find
To melt and rust away as journey's end I near.
But th'setting sun uplifts my setting soul
From solid earth to liquid, flaming skies,
Sets fire to the settling, sombre coal
By awful sparks drawn in by awe-filled eyes.
The sky's alight! And lifts my soul aflame
Into the ether air, afire again.
My eyes bedimmed by fleeting shadows drear,
Accustomed to an umbered light, now blind
To brighter things, I stumble as I wind
Along a road that ends at last, I fear—
The portents with the wind that whips my ears—
In dust, as that I tread the same in kind.
I tremble lest the things I've grasped I find
To melt and rust away as journey's end I near.
But th'setting sun uplifts my setting soul
From solid earth to liquid, flaming skies,
Sets fire to the settling, sombre coal
By awful sparks drawn in by awe-filled eyes.
The sky's alight! And lifts my soul aflame
Into the ether air, afire again.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Sonnet on Love: To My Brothers and My Sisters by the Blood and Water
Thy heart is not thine own: Christ’s blood was spilt
To ransom that which is most rightly His:
Dispose it not where thou alone dost wilt,
But only if thy Master also please.
Though tempted by the warmth of Passion’s flame,
Yet guard thy heart, from which thy life comes forth;
Of Love, this Passion proves to be the bane,
In thine own eye diminishing Love’s worth.
Content to rest behind thy Father’s shield
A child asleep, until He doth awake
Thy heart to truly love another, yield
Thine all to Him, Who is most fit to take.
Within the arms of thy dear Saviour rest
‘Til He awake thee—whole, and pure, and blest.
To ransom that which is most rightly His:
Dispose it not where thou alone dost wilt,
But only if thy Master also please.
Though tempted by the warmth of Passion’s flame,
Yet guard thy heart, from which thy life comes forth;
Of Love, this Passion proves to be the bane,
In thine own eye diminishing Love’s worth.
Content to rest behind thy Father’s shield
A child asleep, until He doth awake
Thy heart to truly love another, yield
Thine all to Him, Who is most fit to take.
Within the arms of thy dear Saviour rest
‘Til He awake thee—whole, and pure, and blest.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Sturmschreiben
I.
A rose, a sunset,
God speaks; He speaks as well in
Lightning and thunder.
II.
Through my window flickered
Lightning, flashing fire in the sky;
What could I do but wake to watch it?
The chariot of God passed by.
III.
The storm is passed, the night is gone,
The morning comes with birds in song.
IV.
A flash, a thunder,
God speaks; He speaks as well in
Shadow, a whisper.
"The LORD is slow to anger, and great in power, and will not at all acquit the wicked: the LORD hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet." ~Nahum 1:3
A rose, a sunset,
God speaks; He speaks as well in
Lightning and thunder.
II.
Through my window flickered
Lightning, flashing fire in the sky;
What could I do but wake to watch it?
The chariot of God passed by.
III.
The storm is passed, the night is gone,
The morning comes with birds in song.
IV.
A flash, a thunder,
God speaks; He speaks as well in
Shadow, a whisper.
"The LORD is slow to anger, and great in power, and will not at all acquit the wicked: the LORD hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet." ~Nahum 1:3
Sunday, May 11, 2008
I Have Been Washed, But Am Not Clean
(Spring 2007)
“I have been washed, but am not clean;
In me remain the fruits of death:
I breathe the very breath of sin
And struggle ‘gainst my fulsome flesh.
O God! Will you not pity me,
Who strives to serve your holy will?
Can I not hope to e’er be free
Of struggles with the fiends of hell?
Can I not hope, except my death,
In which you take me to Thy land
To e’er be free of my old flesh
That strives to pull me from Thy hand?
I know that I am justified,
And nothing in Your eyes can change
The status you have given me
But still this struggle, bitter cup,
I wish to pass away from me.
The worst is that I know you’re pained
When I deny the cross I claim,
By disobeying thy good law;
With filthy hands, I fall in shame.”
His speech thus closed, the servant fell
Upon his face before his King,
Who, rising from His golden throne,
Did raise the prostrate to his knee.
Then, bowing down upon His own,
The King close clasped the weeping man,
And wept Himself, the flowing tears
Commingling as they dropped upon their hands.
And then the servant glanced upon
His hands held in the King’s strong grasp;
As flowing o’er his fingers, tears
Behind them left a cleanséd path.
He saw the tears were red as blood
And were indeed, for as they cleansed
The filthy stains, they covered o’er
His flesh and salved his burning shame.
The servant cried the harder when
He saw this grace dispersed afresh
And clung the tighter to his Lord
In sorrow for his weakling flesh.
“O God, my God, I don’t deserve
To be forgiven yet again;
How could you love a wretch as I
Who stumbles on the smallest stone?”
The King would answer not, but clasped
Him closer; tears anew did fill
Their eyes, and silence reigned.
The servant lifted up his eyes
To meet his Lord’s, and then a smile
Rose on the servant’s lips as he
Did hear this word come from the King’s:
“Child.”
“Simon Peter said unto Him, ‘Lord, not my feet only, but also the hands and the head.’ Jesus said to him, ‘He that is washed, needeth not, save to wash his feet, but is clean every whit: and ye are clean...’” John 13:9, 10
“For ye have not received the Spirit of bondage, to fear again: but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.” Romans 8:15
“I have been washed, but am not clean;
In me remain the fruits of death:
I breathe the very breath of sin
And struggle ‘gainst my fulsome flesh.
O God! Will you not pity me,
Who strives to serve your holy will?
Can I not hope to e’er be free
Of struggles with the fiends of hell?
Can I not hope, except my death,
In which you take me to Thy land
To e’er be free of my old flesh
That strives to pull me from Thy hand?
I know that I am justified,
And nothing in Your eyes can change
The status you have given me
But still this struggle, bitter cup,
I wish to pass away from me.
The worst is that I know you’re pained
When I deny the cross I claim,
By disobeying thy good law;
With filthy hands, I fall in shame.”
His speech thus closed, the servant fell
Upon his face before his King,
Who, rising from His golden throne,
Did raise the prostrate to his knee.
Then, bowing down upon His own,
The King close clasped the weeping man,
And wept Himself, the flowing tears
Commingling as they dropped upon their hands.
And then the servant glanced upon
His hands held in the King’s strong grasp;
As flowing o’er his fingers, tears
Behind them left a cleanséd path.
He saw the tears were red as blood
And were indeed, for as they cleansed
The filthy stains, they covered o’er
His flesh and salved his burning shame.
The servant cried the harder when
He saw this grace dispersed afresh
And clung the tighter to his Lord
In sorrow for his weakling flesh.
“O God, my God, I don’t deserve
To be forgiven yet again;
How could you love a wretch as I
Who stumbles on the smallest stone?”
The King would answer not, but clasped
Him closer; tears anew did fill
Their eyes, and silence reigned.
The servant lifted up his eyes
To meet his Lord’s, and then a smile
Rose on the servant’s lips as he
Did hear this word come from the King’s:
“Child.”
“Simon Peter said unto Him, ‘Lord, not my feet only, but also the hands and the head.’ Jesus said to him, ‘He that is washed, needeth not, save to wash his feet, but is clean every whit: and ye are clean...’” John 13:9, 10
“For ye have not received the Spirit of bondage, to fear again: but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.” Romans 8:15
Friday, April 18, 2008
Blow, Ye North Wind
October 2006
O'er the mountains high I stride:
A wint'ry blast down the mountainside
Tears at my face and at my eyes-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
I reach the top, stand on the hill:
The fiendish wind drifts fell and chill;
My breathing life it tries to still.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
And as I face the sullen draft
Against my face, I must needs laugh,
For all ye blow away is chaff.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
Against thy cutting current keen
I press, as devouring demons teem;
I shall defeat thee, thou damned fiends.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
Yes, damned thou art, thou fiends who throw
Thy sleet, intent to make me bow,
For it is God who sends the snow-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
And in that final fatal hour
I'll breathe my last in my Father's tower,
And thou, North Wind, deprived of pow'r-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
O'er the mountains high I stride:
A wint'ry blast down the mountainside
Tears at my face and at my eyes-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
I reach the top, stand on the hill:
The fiendish wind drifts fell and chill;
My breathing life it tries to still.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
And as I face the sullen draft
Against my face, I must needs laugh,
For all ye blow away is chaff.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
Against thy cutting current keen
I press, as devouring demons teem;
I shall defeat thee, thou damned fiends.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
Yes, damned thou art, thou fiends who throw
Thy sleet, intent to make me bow,
For it is God who sends the snow-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
And in that final fatal hour
I'll breathe my last in my Father's tower,
And thou, North Wind, deprived of pow'r-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!
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