Sunday, January 3, 2010

Song of Eternity

I look behind me-

I see those who’ve gone before.

You led each one-

You opened wide Your door.

I look ahead-

My path obscured with sin and fear.

“O, Lord, I need You by me!

I need You to be near!”

As I struggle on this path,

Falling in the fear of man,

Your promise is to not forsake-

“O, Child, take My hand.”

Blindly, I grope

For Your outstretched hand,

Longing for freedom

From this slavery to man!

Suddenly, my eyes behold

Your blessed Son

As at His bloody cross

I stand undone.

Weeping, I fall

Before Your blessed Son

His complete sacrifice

My freedom has now won.

My path is now

Inflamed with light-

My future by Your Son’s Love

Now shines so bright!

As Your mercy guides me

Through Your holy gate,

Justified, I firmly stand-

Death no longer is my fate!

In awe I stand

Before Your throne-

By Your grace set free-

A Child of You alone!

Eternity with You is now

My Blessed End!

“O Lord, You are my Love,

My Father, My Friend!”

Holy, Holy, Holy!

Breaks forth with joyous sound

As Eternity’s Song

To You I resound.

“My Lord, I love You!”

I lay all at Your feet

As Eternity’s Song

I’ll forever repeat!

Adversity's Bloom

It is rough and rutty, this rod I carry. It is lifeless and cold. Its splinters snag like spurs as I grasp it in my hand, yet it cannot be released. My hands, though once smooth and supple, have now been calloused and warped by the thorns of this bitter stake, called Adversity.

I cannot see the rugged terrain beneath my feet, and so I clamber over hollows and hurdles, scattered along the way, holding the rod as far from my body as my outstretched arms can bear. Step by step, I continue, my rod's weight increasing with every step taken.

For a while, out of stubborn disdain, I continue trying to avoid the hurt caused by Adversity's spiteful shards. I scoff at the sight of it, which serves only as a reminder of the hindrance it presents.

I have been told, however, that it is necessary, that I cannot complete the task ahead without it. That soon, I will change this gore for glory. I have been assured that I may trust the One from Whose Hand it came. The ache, the throb, the sting... each is working together for a good that I cannot yet see.

Increasingly, I become weary of carrying on. In hopeless contempt, I hang my head as with one step, I am brought nearly to my knees in despair. My despondent heart is giving out, yet, almost instinctively, I thrust the rod's foot to the ground, bearing down on it with all of my weight.

When brought close and embraced, the rod I had struggled to bear now offers support as I rise once more to my worn feet. Although, at once, I had seen it only as an instrument of pain, Adversity now brings peace.

Suddenly, a new appreciation overwhelms me. I see this rod as an opportunity for triumph rather than torture. I step forward, and although the weight of the rod is still felt, it no longer poses a limitation. With every twinge of pain, a new strength is found, giving hope and courage for the step that follows.

In wonder, I examine the rod beneath me, it's twisted form reminding me of my wrenched heart. My eyes pool with tears as I discover, carefully tucked away within the notches and knots of my rod, a single, solitary bud.

The Day Chivalry Died

A high pitched moan,
A low pitched groan,
The wardrobe door ajar.
Under dim light,
An ancient knight,
The wrinkled warrior.

He peers inside,
And sighs with pride,
To see his armor suit.
He reaches in,
To touch the tin,
The steel and silver truth.

He traces down,
The plume, the crown,
The helm, the plate, the belt.
Once gleaming bright,
Now cased in night,
Tarnish and rust he felt.

A pang of pain,
And strident strain,
As he unsheathes the sword.
The sword so stout,
He wields about,
And utters not a word.

The olden days,
Like fading haze,
Return to him in waves.
Dismaying dames,
And noble knaves,
And dragons deep in caves.

The sword, the shield,
The battlefield,
The banners they would fly.
When weapons wield,
The foes would yield,
Neath blades once brandished high.

But that was then,
When men were men,
And blood flowed through the reins.
And this is now,
Sadly somehow,
The men are full of shames.

He stops and stares,
For no one cares,
For what once gave him pride.
He turns away,
And mourns the day,
The day chivalry died.

Bulletproof Smile

With a gentle scratch we watch,
Watch as the thick, black ink
Seeps, saturates, stains,
Stains a parchment page.
The stain she can't erase,
We watch it run in place.
The ebony liquid pools and sinks.
The parchment drinks
The pen gracing face,
Every word, every line,
Every couplet, every rhyme.
listen to the prophecy
She: the author. I: the sage.

We see her every day,
A glorious bloom transfixed
Upon her youthful visage.
We perceive a genuine joy.
We perceive a perfect peace.
And every words she speaks,
And every move she makes,
Would only convey a thorough sense
of satisfaction, fulfillment, and purpose.

That smile,
That bulletproof smile,
Would anyone question its authenticity?
Those eyes,
Those delightful orbs brimming with joy,
Would anyone imagine them brimming with tears?

And this is the question,
Does imperfection dare critique perfection?

For in those hallowed moments of the reserved,
When one's mind is quiet,
And fear finds himself unlearned,
I've seen a cocoon woven in bitter tears.
Each fibrous strand forged in the furnace of doubt.
I've seen a colossal tower built in fears.
Brick by brick, and black within,
Thick, so thick, and thorns without.

Perhaps it's just a void within.
Perhaps it's just a question begging for clarity.
Or maybe, just maybe, it's the nebulous enigma of a beautiful mind.
Perhaps what I see is an aesthetic perception that has yet to come to term.
Still in its infancy, it knows what it is,
But fears to be exposed to an otherwise unsuspecting world.

So she writes,
The pen to the parchment,
Etching in shallow scratches.
So she writes,
The pen to the page,
Wielding windless words.

They beg to be spoken.
They yearn to be heard.
But they would be satisfied,
If only to be read.

So with a gentle scratch I watch,
Watch as the thick, black ink
Seeps, saturates, stains,
Stains a parchment page.
The stain she can't erase,
I watch it run in place.
The ebony liquid pools and sinks,
The parchment drinks,
The pen gracing face,
Every word, every line,
Every couplet, every rhyme.

I believe in that smile,
That bulletproof smile.
It's authenticity is without question
In my mind.

However, I hear the strike of a match.
I smell the sulfurous sensation,
As spark begets spark begets flame begets fire.

Oh, the smile is real,
But with a dreadful start I watch,
Watch as the hot, blue flames
Kiss, caress, consume,
Consume a parchment page.
The page she can't replace,
I watch it burn like lace.
The consuming fire whips and whirls,
The parchment curls,
Where the pen once had graced,
Every word, every line,
Every couplet, every rhyme.

Oh, the smile is real,
But in the gleam of the firelight
I see those eyes.
But is it joy with which the brim?

I perceive a contrast to that smile,
That bulletproof smile.
Not a contradiction, mind you,
But rather a complimentary antithesis.

And as those delightful orbs of aesthetic perception
Watch the words wither and grey,
She's already thought of penning the next one,
And burning the beauty forever away.