Lilies of the Valley

May we wither in the shadow of Your cross,

And as our forms are melting into Yours

May Your blood-drops scatter

Like seeds on the winds of our wastelands.

Then may we spring up like lilies,

Heads bowing heavy with purity,

All through the green, green valley

Of Your sufferings.

*artwork by Mary Delany, "Convallaria Majalis"

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.

Silence and Song

It'd break your heart with beauty,

His booming, dangerous voice

Reverberating over the high mount

With smoke and fire cloaked.

As His lawful lyrics

Danced from His holy lips,

With all the others I stood far away

And begged Him not to speak,

For every beat of my dark heart,

Pumping blood like Abel's,

Cried for condemnation.

“Touch and you will die,”

The LORD's voice swirled at Sinai.

After our rebellion

Time and time again,

After all the prophets, all His pleas, our sacrifices then

Silence.

If my conscience dared

Or my ache allowed,

Would I have cried, “Speak! Speak, LORD! Speak!”

And banged upon dark clouds?

He was silent for four-hundred years

Leaving Sinai's song ringing in our ears

Until at last the Sunrise

Set the sky ablaze,

And God's new song resounded strong and sweet, His final Word for always:

Jesus.

And as His blood streams golden

Like a melody,

It speaks a better word than Abel's could,

From wide-armed Calvary,

A round and full and certain word -

Forgiveness of our sins.

The risen Sun of righteousness

Bursts warm from out the clouds

Singing back to God His holy song.

With tender mercy, loud,

He over sickened sinners sings

And flies with healing in His wings.

More Thoughts on Seeing God

And you, child, will be called the prophet of the Most High; 

for you will go before the Lord to prepare his ways,

to give knowledge of salvation to his people 

in the forgiveness of their sins,

because of the tender mercy of our God, 

whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high

to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,

to guide our feet into the way of peace. (Luke 1:76-79)

      

     One thing I love about winter is the coruscating frost in the warm morning light like God's very own glitter. It is good of Him to give us light when days are short and cloudy. I love how the frost covers everything on the ground, little plants and dead things too, and how joyously the light dances through the cold wetness, like the glistening, merry eyes of someone laughing. And in December mornings as I drive to church with sparkles in my eyes, I think of Christ, our Sunrise, who brings the forgiveness of our sins and light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.

      How do we write about or even think about these things? God reveals Himself in nature, but according to Romans 1 it is His eternal power and divine nature that we see. We don't open our front doors or wander out in fields and receive specific messages from God. The final word of God is Christ, a light whom the darkness can't overcome (John 1:5). In the Scriptures, God has spoken with finality of the forgiveness of sins in Christ. Yet I don't think it's wrong to see the beauty of God in creation not just abstractly but symbolically, viewing the creation as shadows of true things He has already revealed in the gospel in His Word. God Himself uses creation metaphorically all throughout the Bible to make the realities of our sin and salvation in Christ more clear to us. Yet beauties we see now in creation are not direct messages or even purposeful symbols at that moment from God Himself. We can see reminders of the gospel in them, but they are not signs from God.

      I guess it is easy for us to, on social media and through creative outlets, but also just through our daily lives, use creation and even our own selves as demonstrations of sorts without ending with Christ, the One we're supposedly pointing toward. The whole point of figurative language is to take what we can see and use it to see what we can't see as well. We even devalue metaphors when we get hung up on the symbols or shadows themselves. Again, I have to wonder, if we are trying to see Christ and point others to Christ, how is that done?

      Ultimately, we cannot see Christ unless it is in connection with the law and the gospel. This is how God reveals His Son, who is the precious goal and object of our sight. This means that when we spend all of our energies thinking of His provision of good things, like food or farmland or family, without turning our eyes to our need before Him as sinners and His greatest provision of true food and true drink – Christ's body and blood – we are not honoring Him as we should. Perhaps we are even turning our hearts and the hearts of others to idols instead of the true God and Savior. Should we put so much focus on living our lives before believers and unbelievers as though our lives were some great portrayal of Christ, or should we focus on pushing others to Christ through the law and gospel? Showing Christ through the law and gospel doesn't really have to do with having cute houses or bringing the best beer to the party. In fact, our nice families and moral, supposedly happy lives are not how we are to point others to Christ. Our morality (though we may fail greatly, we will still fight against sin, bear fruit, and do good works) is not what attracts others to Christ. It may convict them as they see their lack of holiness under the law, and this conviction can drive them to Christ, but when we are pointing others to ourselves and our lives as the end goal, we are offering them false saviors and helping them to hope in themselves and earthly things instead of Christ.

      Christ is the Word of God. The gospel is presented to us in words. Words are so important in sharing the truth, much more important than our lives lived out before others. This is comforting for me, because I do a poor job loving others and pointing them to Christ as an example. I am far too unlike Him. But I can use words and say that I am sinful. I can go to Christ and be loved by Him in front of others. I can receive forgiveness and grace from Him in front of others and serve others as a result of that mercy. I can exhort others to turn to Him when they have need and sin. Our God is so powerful. He will receive glory in His people even in our sin, because He will still be there to save us. And it will be so sweet to stand in heaven with so many other justified and even glorified sinners who sin no more and see that He carried us the whole way and that His mercy was so expansive, enough for so many people.

      I want to learn more and more how to use words like God uses them, how He uses metaphors and figurative language to point us to Christ, and how Christ is God's final word. Christ is our end, whom we see through the law and gospel laid out in Scripture. If earthly things can help us understand these things more clearly, they are valuable for us to use, just as God Himself uses them. And it is beautiful to me, more beautiful than the earthly blessings God gives, that He loves us and shows us mercy even when we abuse these blessings and focus on them instead of Him. It's beautiful that when we live the glory story and point others to ourselves, Christ stands able to save us and others. We would wrap ourselves in shadows, but our Father sent Christ, the sun who rises with healing in His wings, to bear away our sins.

The Sunrise

Though we sit in darkness

And in death’s shadow lie,

Mercy comes from heaven,

The Sunrise from on high.

See the baby Jesus,

Who in a manger lies.

He’ll speak peace to sinners

When on the Cross He dies.

Because of tender mercy

He cannot lift a limb.

For this He left His throne and

All the seraphim.

In joy we can’t imagine

Jesus used to dwell,

But He comes from heaven

To take upon our hell.

He does not belong here;

He is far too pure,

But for wretched sinners

The Cross He will endure.

This babe dispelled the shadows

We for ourselves had made.

He conquered death forever

When down His life He laid.

 

For the Love of American Sycamores

The sycamores peel silver as

A man who, weak, old, wrinkled, has

Seen autumn's chill and settled in

To Christ who cleanses of all sin.

The wind births in their limbs a song.

Leaves rustle crackled, crinkled, strong,

And trembling, warm and soft they sing

As if they're falling into spring.

Man Curved Inward on Himself

Homo incurvatus in se,
like a top-heavy sunflower
hanging its head.
This gravity pulls
like a current too strong,
and my efforts only tighten the noose
that I've tangled 
and tangled 
around my own neck.
I curve hunchback from the weight
of myself, sin, and works.

But You are.
You will carry,
You will bear,
and You will save.
This cross is not too heavy
for such a priest as You.

You. You. You. You.
    You. You. You.

Your blood runs too strong for me,
and I am pulled, unfurled, and freed
by insurmountable grace
that I must bow and receive.

A Few Thoughts on Dependence

      Summer is so fertile and alive. Soybean fields stretch in green ruffles, corn grows up into a forest, farmers pile hay into beds, and there is green on green all over. Green soybean leaves against green trees and green vines and green bushes and green grass. And all the green and all the crops and all the world hangs on Him who waters “its furrows abundantly, settling its ridges, softening it with showers, and blessing its growth. You crown the year with your bounty; your wagon tracks overflow with abundance. The pastures of the wilderness overflow; the hills gird themselves with joy” (Psalm 65:10-12).

     God is gracious to strip us of the things we use to secure our good. It doesn't always feel like grace. It can feel like panic, like loneliness, like drowning, like “evils have encompassed me beyond number; my iniquities have overtaken me, and I cannot see; they are more than the hairs of my head; my heart fails me” (Psalm 40:12). We cradle high thoughts of ourselves, unwilling to admit our guilt and helplessness. Because we fear being left entirely to Christ and His work, we sing lullabies of lies to quiet our consciences. When I think about my sin, I fear, because I can't fix it or control it. If I am worried, I tell myself the gospel not so that I might believe the truth, but so that I might control my unpleasant emotions. Polluted, I use Him to feel better, and I'm sinning just as much. Nothing I do is good enough to please Him or secure joy for myself. Nothing you do is good enough. We ruin everything, and sin spirals out of control. As I think about my sin, sometimes I want to pull out my hair, and sometimes I want to run outside in the rain and let it pound and sting and clean me. Eventually, we come to the end of ourselves, and there is no where else that we can go but to Christ. (The whole Christian life is a continual coming to the end of ourselves and coming to Christ.) “When iniquities prevail against me, you atone for our transgressions. Blessed is the one you choose and bring near, to dwell in your courts! We shall be satisfied with the goodness of your house, the holiness of your temple!” (Psalm 65:3-4)

      In every chloroplast, sunbeam, and raindrop, He has wrapped us up in reminders of His goodness and our dependence. And it is the safest, most beautiful thing to hang on Christ who atones for our transgressions, the sin that is too strong for us, that has gone over our heads. He takes that sin and rains down blood instead, blood that is so different from our polluted efforts, pure and sufficient blood that can cleanse our consciences from dead works to serve the living God (Hebrews 9:14). 

 

Paintings, "Landscape at Auvers in the Rain" and "Haystacks Under a Rainy Sky," by Vincent van Gogh, accessed from Wikipedia

Good Friday

I drove by a lake cloaked in fog and imagined a man drowned there. Sometimes doubt cloaks my mind, far heavier than fog, thoughts that You're a miser, a sadist, a tyrant. I like to pick my scabs to the irrational scarring of my skin, blood under my fingernails, bitten low. Perhaps it's the control. Sometimes the sight of my own blood makes me woozy, like the thought of drawing it out with a piercing needle. Maybe that's control too. I want control and I want freedom and the two are like oil and water.

There was a heavy weight on Your shoulders, far heavier than I know. Did it feel like You were drowning when You hung there so, pushing Yourself up, scraping Your raw back against the wood, struggling for a gasp of air, for life, His smile? I will never know it, never bear it. What was it like for you, a free bird, to be bound? As the blood flowed out and Your heart beat frantic, did water gather around Your heart in sacs full and ready to burst? You were thirsty.

On my way home that day it started to rain, the heavy spring way. It was Good Friday. This day, Father, You did not spare Your Son. This day blood rained down from Your forehead and into Your dearest eyes, and there was no one to wipe them for You. This day life poured out of You. This day, like the water and blood that ran freely from Your pierced side, the floodgates of free love ran pure and clean and just, clean wetness running, rushing, as a river from Your open side. This day You spared nothing. This day You gave everything. This day You purchased my freedom; I'm no longer under law but under grace. This day the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. This day is for freedom, for knowledge, for nearness. Keep me in this freedom of knowing; to know You is eternal life.

On a River in a Valley

Morn after morn

the sun comes blood red
over the mount

to the Valley of Trouble,

Muddy and turbid.

Lamb after lamb -

You break its neck, and it breaks your knees

to stand in the land with your hands

Covered in blood of the innocent dead.

The acid stains eat at your peace,

Feast at your peace with God,

and burn up your skin

into festering sores.

What hope is there

for the leprous soul,

the adulterous soul,

the traitor of God?

“Lord, if you will, you can make me clean.”

The blood of the Son flows in rivers of red,

as He drowns in the wrath of God.

His heart is spilling,

Dousing the sinning in

Cleansing blood.

“I AM WILLING!”

He rises and

the Valley of Achor

is a door of Hope.

When Beauty Swallows

i stir a pot of orange and cloves
boiling rapidly up on the stove,
a steady, anxious heartbeat.
while spices dissolve, wet warmth rises to meet
the air as dry as my cold and cracked elbows.
a Rose unfurls in a vase on the window, 
and as winter melts in surrender to Spring
May i wither into You.

Zephaniah and an Unexpected Song

     We grow up performing, and we want to be safe and shameless. Though we don't trust Him or seek Him, we, like tired virgins, lie to ourselves, ignoring the judgment we know we deserve, the judgment that is coming upon all men (3:1-2, 1:12). Because of the very nature of performance, a fake, outward layer of “goodness” keeps us from the joy of being fully known and totally loved. He weeps and wants us to come close to Him, but so often we reject an offer so precious. His jealousy burns and will bring a just holocaust, a fiery jealousy and flaming wrath that will consume the whole earth (1:17-18, 2:1-2). Like self-righteous Judah, we may think we'll escape His wrath and that our false hopes will give us good, but such people will stand with the Pharisees, estranged and outside of His sacred camp forever, unclean.

      Our idols cannot save us. He will “famish all the gods of the earth” and they will bow before Him (2:11). Will those whom He will famish satiate our hunger? In a delusive security, we have shamelessly exulted in ourselves and the gods we have made and said in our hearts, “I am, and there is no one else.” How dare I. How dare you. How dare we.

      The I Am who is Everything will not let us mock Him with a crown of thorns forever. He will pour out His indignation, all His burning anger, and consume the whole earth in the fire of His jealousy (3:8).

      And then He will sing, over me, over you, over us. He will save, drawing the lame to Himself, humbling the “proudly exultant ones,” and putting a song of joy in the souls of the needy, for while we were still sinners Christ died for us (3:11-20, Rom. 5:8). What we truly need is safety from His wrath and whole nearness to Him. Sinners who come to Christ are safe, secure, cared for, known and unashamed. The LORD, the I Am, takes away all of the judgment against us by placing it on the back of His precious Son, and in Jesus our Hope is secure. So much more than our defeated gods, our Jesus can save and He does save. He is with us, knowing yet loving, knowing and loving, singing an unexpected song of pleasure in His children. His voice must be so strong and so tender, so fierce and so pure, so full and so golden. In open Calvaried arms of immovable love, we are quiet and at peace. His "heart is a song that our Jesus sings."*

*from Showbread's "Sing Me to Sleep"

A Little Poem

The weeds,
the hollow macaron shells are
worthless objects of a massive mercy,
a Waterfall of Mercy,
a Rage and Rush over the needy.
Fill me.

Quote: Precious Communion

"No happiness that all the glory of this world could produce is equal to that of a broken heart at the feet of Jesus. It is sweet to creep into the very bosom of Christ, while we feel how utterly worthless and unworthy, yet how welcome, we are." 

"I think, if I had ten thousand hearts, I would give them all to Jesus!"

From Walking with Jesus by Mary Winslow (italics mine)

Sacred Communion

It is still and sacred,
This opening of me to You;
This opening of dirty hands;
This table of surrender, bread, and blood;
This giving, giving, giving that You do;
A grace from open, gracious You.

It's a reckless river,
This cleansing blood that's coursing through
The darkest depths of all of me;
This cup of water poured out pure and fierce;
This quenching for a burning soul from You;
A quiet gift from lamb-like You.

It is open access,
This curtain that's been torn in two;
Your broken body blessing me;
This opening of wounds then presence pleased;
This drawing near of prodigals to You;
A bread so beautiful it seems untrue.

But You are true
    and certain.
And as I finger signs and seals
Your heart pours into mine what's real-
Our sure
     though unseen
Union,
Me + You,
Communion.