Drown Me

In the gentle ripples of Your faithfulness

Drown me.

In the wild lapping of Your jealousy

Drown me.

In the raucous crashing of Your laughter

Drown me.

In the sea of your steadfast love

In the waves that sing like the heaves and sighs of cellos

Drown me.

In the wine that I hold

In the blood red cup

          sweeter than summer roses

Drown me.

  *painting detail from Manet's "Rochefort's Escape"

The best kind of blackberries

The best kind of blackberries

are the warm, dark, and fragrant,

the generous ones

that fall into your fingertips

and bleed between them,

that burst between your lips

into roses.

When after all of this

When after all of this we finally stand

Upon a crystal sea that's paved with blood,

How will we wonder that Your faithful hand

Did not release us to the hungry flood

Of wrath we churned and churned with our own sin?

When we are saved upon that final day,

Knowing You are all it's ever been,

And knowing we've been carried this whole way

By One who wears a rainbow on His head,

Though sin should claim us as its very own,

When You return or we're at long last dead

And as Your sheep acknowledged, loved, and known,

How special it will be for us to see

Each beat of Your great heart was bent toward mercy.

Sabbath Rest

I embrace sin like water and feast on lies

As I lug around this burden of

Rank flesh in the wilderness.

If I am weary, weak, and drowning underneath this weight,

What good is manna, water, blessing?

Show me, take me to a place, a promised land,

Where sin can't touch or taint me.

I can see You speak words over waters at creation.

I can see You overflow in light, a fount of light.

But I cannot see You make a sinner saint.

Grant me faith that I'd believe Your words that I can't see,

Light across my darkness, spread triumphantly.

And in creative, cleansing love ever let me be

Purified once and for all

Washed with water pure,

Just as You've promised me,

As all my sins lie slain beneath

Your feet in bloody victory.

As You have rested, so may I

And at Your cross forever lie.

Easter: Sonnet 3

I've planted seeds of wrath and sin, but He

Lies dead inside a tomb, for days encased

Within a shell that should imprison me,

But justifying payment is embraced.

The third sun rises on His winter's wait,

And in the smiling light, the seed explodes.

Though stagnant once, the life-blood circulates,

And living, free as blood, forgiveness flows.

His heart bursts into blossom and it beats

With laughter and with songs of victory.

Like springtime rain, His blood has drenched the seat

Of mercy. Jesus sings sufficiency.

For me this priest will ever intercede.

Unfurled here at this tomb is life indeed.

At the Foot of Christ's Passion: Sonnet 2

Like a gutted ox is hung to dry, skin splayed,

Wrath wracked and stretched Your arms out on that tree.

And as eternal terrors on You weighed,

You writhed, “My God, why've You forsaken Me?”

In the wasteland of my sin, I watch You thirst.

My conscience, like Your body, has been scraped raw.

And You, though searching frantic, find You're cursed,

The door of heaven shut by holy law.

Like an apple tree that's naked bleeds for spring,

Perhaps Your hands curled upward as You died.

Beneath this bloody tree I want to fling

Myself and lie with my mouth open wide

As blood like wine flows clean and pure and sweet,

A river bursting from Your twisted feet.

    
(Rembrandt, "The Slaughtered Ox")

In the Wake of Christ's Passion: Sonnet 1

He sweeps in holy like a hurricane.

A hammer thunders fiercely from the sky.

He wholly burns in gorgeous, reckless rain

Of grace. Who knew it hurt so much to die?

Did You know in Your passion as He poured

You out like endless water, melted wax?

If I am rendered senseless by guilt's sword,

Were You whom He made sin, split by His ax?

My lonely silver Tree bends passively

To sufferings. The foolishness of God!

With veins of gossamer, invincibly,

I'm held, and wine runs from the press He trod.

I'm killed, I live, I wither, loved by You.

Behold what You have done and to me do.

My feelings are not true

My feelings are not true,

But Christ is God's true Word,

And over all the howls of sin

And lies let this strong voice be heard:

My wickedness won't win,

Though sin crouch at my door,

Though satan and my heart agree,

It's those like me whom He died for.

And even though sin clouds my view,

Here at the cross my eyes can see

Atonement has been made by You

Who ever shelters me.