I watched You die in yellow

I watched You die in yellow

As green leaves rushed to inhale gold

In a whirlwind of yellow and orange.

I watched You die in orange

As Your open limbs blazed and dazzled

Like a wide, old, lavish maple

Sweating in orange and red.

I watched You die in red

As unstained blood

Burst forth from Your heart,

As crimson pulsated,

Spreading through Your veins,

Overtaking You

And all those sheltered

In Your sunset colors

Which scatter over brittle wheat fields

And corn stalks cut from sin-cursed ground

As winter's bleak uncertainty

Breathes upon its neck.

I watched You die

And watched You rise -

Your heart is beating -

Over the autumn earth.

Haiku

I.
Rhythmic water weeps,
Pizzicato raindrops. Sing
Sweet heartbreak of spring.


II.
I am Yours; save me.
I'd not be any other's.
Save me; I am Yours.

 

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"

January Trees

When sin is all there ever seems to be,

A dirty blood polluting all my deeds,

I'm comforted by what You want from me -

To fling myself on You in all my needs.

Though I feel like I don't know what to do,

Uncertain and alone, I know one thing -

A Surety still stands, a Savior, You.

With each note of my sin, still Mercy sings.

I know I'll dance my whole life to this sound.

As bright'ning January tree limbs yawn,

Like peach trees, pink-limbed, reach from snowy ground,

My heart here beats and flushes for that dawn -

The everlasting glories of Your grace

And the blood-stained beauteous sunrise of Your face.

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.

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.

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.

 

Some Autumn Leaves

Fingertips crush

geranium leaves.

The leaves grieve

pungent,

releasing roses

into the polluted air.

The rolling sky

lilts

between clouds

and sun.

Vibrant leaves

die

like a majestic

whisper

that it won't always be this way.

As Scripture says,

as surely as

we died

with Christ,

we live

to God

in Him.

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.

The Scapegoat

He laid his heavy hands on you,
and so you went
alone, outside the camp.

I wonder if you stumbled down
a cloudy mount,
for this day's full of clouds,

Cloaks for things we cannot see,
we cannot see.
I wonder, do you live?

And as you roamed that wasted land
or cloudy mount,
did your heart burn for home?

And did you bear my sins away?
My heart recoils
as I smell still crackling fat.

Azazel.

For since the law has but a shadow of the good things to come instead of the true form of these realities, it can never, by the same sacrifices that are continually offered every year, make perfect those who draw near. Otherwise, would they not have ceased to be offered, since the worshipers, having once been cleansed, would no longer have any consciousness of sins? But in these sacrifices there is a reminder of sins every year. For it is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins. [...]
 And every priest stands daily at his service, offering repeatedly the same sacrifices, which can never take away sins. But when Christ had offered for all time a single sacrifice for sins, he sat down at the right hand of God, waiting from that time until his enemies should be made a footstool for his feet. For by a single offering he has perfected for all time those who are being sanctified. And the Holy Spirit also bears witness to us; for after saying,

“This is the covenant that I will make with them

after those days, declares the Lord:

I will put my laws on their hearts,

and write them on their minds,”

then he adds,

“I will remember their sins and their lawless deeds no more.”

Where there is forgiveness of these, there is no longer any offering for sin.

Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that he opened for us through the curtain, that is, through his flesh, and since we have a great priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water. Let us hold fast the confession of our hope without wavering, for he who promised is faithful. (Hebrews 10:1-4, 11-23)

**picture from https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:William_Holman_Hunt_-_The_Scapegoat.jpg

A Septet on the Father of Lights

I'm all steadfast shadows,
Double-minded, turning where my doubt blows.
Bent as I've been on turning,
Your tender heart is yearning
With an endless morn of One
Never setting Sun.
     I awake, and I am still with You.

7 My people are bent on turning away from me, and though they call out to the Most High, he shall not raise them up at all.

8 How can I give you up, O Ephraim? How can I hand you over, O Israel? How can I make you like Admah? How can I treat you like Zeboiim? My heart recoils within me; my compassion grows warm and tender. (Hosea 11:7-8)

40 I will make with them an everlasting covenant, that I will not turn away from doing good to them. And I will put the fear of me in their hearts, that they may not turn from me.

41 I will rejoice in doing them good, and I will plant them in this land in faithfulness, with all my heart and all my soul. (Jeremiah 32:40-41)

5 If any of you lacks wisdom, let him ask God, who gives generously to all without reproach, and it will be given him.

6 But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind.
7 For that person must not suppose that he will receive anything from the Lord; 
8 he is a double-minded man, unstable in all his ways.

16 Do not be deceived, my beloved brothers.

17 Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. 
18 Of his own will he brought us forth by the word of truth, that we should be a kind of firstfruits of his creatures. (James 1:5-8, 16-18)

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.