Saturday 31 March 2018

RESURRECTION POEM


RESURRECTION

Let us sing of resurrection, 
And, with Him, our voices, raise. 
Let us sing of glorious dawnings, 
And in all our mornings, praise. 

Jesus, you are all our glory, 
We will bless with every breath. 
You, in heavenly brightness seated, 
In the dark, defeated death. 

Springtime chorus sweetly cherish, 
Him who stands at ever-dawn. 
Daffodils now trumpet gladly, 
He who saved the badly-born. 

Glory, glory, shout the story! 
Sing it upwith voices' lifts! 
How the God who died is living. 
And to Man is giving gifts. 

Now there is a hope of heaven, 
By His rise, another place. 
Because Man his Saviour chooses, 
And no more refuses grace. 

Let us sing of resurrection, 
And, with Him, our voices, raise. 
Let us sing of glorious dawnings, 
And in all our mornings, praise. 

Jesus, you are all our glory, 
We will bless with every breath. 
You, in heavenly brightness seated, 
In the dark, defeated death.

Tuesday 27 March 2018

WHAT DO YOU SEE?

Yesterday, out on my bike, I took this pic of a springy scene.

Now, we could leave it at that. Because it's just lovely. Spring has come. But here's something else. Do you see a lovely spring scene of sky, grass, horses and daffodils? Or do you say, 'Oh, pity about the barbed wire, that ruins it'?
Two people sit outside a country pub on a pleasant spring evening. Across the other side of the lightly-trafficked road is a cricket ground. One person looks with great pleasure at the grass, the people walking their dogs, the sky, the nice houses; they feel the gentle breeze, hear the singing birds, sip their drink and find a moment of joyous perfection. The other says, 'Oh I can't stand that road! That traffic! It spoils the whole thing for me.'
The question is, what are you set up to see? Do you always spot the barbed wire and the traffic, or do you see the grass and the sky? 
Are you an appreciator or a criticiser? 

Saturday 24 March 2018

AGHAST

 A timely reflection on Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, which always moves me.

AGHAST
Aghast He watched as at His feet,
The ground decayed away,
And slimy fell there crumbling earth,
The pit of all dismay.

Aghast He fell upon His knees,
In danger then to slide, 
Into the hopeless, no - escape,
The turmoil of the died.

Aghast He heard the plaintive pleas,
The newer, rent with awe;
The older, fainter, no less dire,
Arose from Hades' maw. 

Aghast the cross before Him stood, 
And He in darkness, blind, 
Was judged, sent forth, and bled of light, 
And left kind life behind. 

Aghast He saw himself slip in, 
No clutching, to undo;
His blood made slide His entry to,
All hell for me and you.

Aghast He heard the father's words,
'Condemned with no parole'.
And watched as pierced, rejected, He, 
Became a now - damned soul.

Aghast He wept as sobs arose, 
Unbidden from within. 
In disbelief, His flesh corrupt, 
Became all human sin. 

Aghast the words could hardly form, 
The pleas were choked with pain:
'Oh Father, if it might be so, 
Spare me this stinking drain.' 

Aghast He bowed His crown-less head, 
And groaned, 'so let it be. 
This is the mouth of very hell, 
And this the way for me.'

Wednesday 14 March 2018

'WHO?' POEM

In my continual attempts to express, both to myself and others, the wonders of the Easter Story, here is a recent offering about the cross.


WHO?
Who hung himself upon a cross?
Who partnered with the hands of men?
Who stood before the furnace door? 
Who burned and, burning, sheltered them?

Who stepped under the wrath of God?
Who bore it, took it, drank it down?
Who grabbed the poisoned cup of death?
Who laid Himself under the ground?

Who gave up God, for God's own sake?
Who, 'I'm abandoned' bitter, cried? 
Who an abomination made? 
Who in such filthy ending, died? 

Who at bright noon pulled on the night?
Who closed his eyes in dark of soul? 
Who bowed under injustice' weight? 
Who made Himself an offering, whole? 

Who pulled sharp pain into his bed?
Who ache and sorrow gave embrace?
Who laid Him down in squirming hell? 
Who smeared our spit upon His face?

Who ripped his soul with his bare hands?
Who cast the pieces to the floor?
Who stamped upon them underfoot? 
Who willed them buried, evermore?

Who let His blood for all mankind?
Who show'rs of His own water, sprayed?
Who ope'd compassion's deeper vein? 
Who, limp and lifeless, Himself laid?

Who?
Only one.
Who?
Who sufficed? 
Who?
God's own Son.
Who? 
Jesus Christ.

IT MAKES YOU THINK

In 3 days time, on Saturday 28th July, I will be exactly the same age my dad was when he died. He was 64 and 2 weeks. It was no age, we all...