Posts Tagged: poem

Peter’s Darkest Night

I possessed no doubt. Your identity
secure in my arrogance like a sword against
the throat of my enemies. You are the Messiah! But
your kingdom came, not with a roar
of victory, but a depressing death cry of, it is finished!

We shared
the same ministry dirt under the nails.
Fished for men. You called me friend.
This death you hinted at—not
on my watch!

You capsized my boat. Wrecked my
expectations. Did I really know you? Hope lies
rotting in a borrowed grave.
I replay your 
ministry over and over in my head. Where did I 
go wrong? I called you Messiah!  Did I really know you?

My battle cry, so passionate, so confident, last night, choked
out by the cock’s crow of my betrayal today. You looked at me.
You knew I would betray you, and still, you chose me. “Why?”
Bitterness mocked, “I’ll
follow you anywhere!” 

I was ready to establish your kingdom.
The battle was in front of me. My heart pounded.
My nearest enemy’s ear lay on the ground, with
first blood of freedom. Who’s with me?

“Put your sword away, Peter,” you commanded. Put my sword
away? Didn’t you put this sword in my hand? Even as I was ready to destroy
you were ready to restore.

“Your kingdom come!” 
What kingdom has ever come through a cross…

Countless times, you knelt and drew in the sand.
Treated the self-righteous as heathens. I felt elevated. 
A part of something gloriously divine. Oh good,
the master will put these accusers in their place. I witnessed
your miracles, but restore an enemy? My knowledge of your royalty was robbed
by your humility—by your sacrifice.

Why did you choose me?

 

Poetry Testifies to What I’ve Seen and Heard

Hero words take up swords
and slice through false beliefs with the authority
of the one sent.
Poetry is a place to find refuge. You are here
in the observations of my soul. Reminding winter of
its boundaries and cultivating plump vines for harvest
in the desert of despair.

Sustaining Word

I love the way you invite
me to touch truth. I run my
fingers over your tangible promises like
oranges ripening in an infinite orchard. A tenacious
orchard unhindered by blight, drought, fire, or suffering. Each
morning, I pluck encouragement, understanding, and endurance from
your Word. I tear into the tender flesh of submission and humility. Your
Word fills me with satisfying joy as I
squeeze out the fresh juice of  Your Spirit and drink the glory of Your creation.

 

He remembers his covenant forever, the word that he commanded, for a thousand generations…

Psalm 105:8 ESV

A Counselor Familiar with Dust

You didn’t impatiently check your watch like
you had someplace more important to be.
A God who listens.
You didn’t stare down my vulnerability
in disgust as I poured out my broken heart.
You grabbed a tissue and sobbed with me.
A God who cries.

Your counsel didn’t come down from a distant marble throne.
You stepped into the crowd, looking for me.
A God who draws near.
ME—A single lost sheep.
You took my hand
into your callused carpenter’s hand
and walked the journey of hope with me.
A God who touches humanity.

A Griever’s Wish List

Sit here. In quiet
uncertainty, just be
present. Hold
me with your tears. Know my
pain when you don’t have to.
Listen. I’m not alone.
Your heartbeat, your inhale and
exhale, remind me that I can bear
this weight of losing. Sit here.

It’s enough.

The Rhythm of the Cross

Before the swell of gospel melody,

The steady scales of scripture

Are plunked out in daily practice.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

 

Before the crowd of miracles,

Prayer plods through lonely deserts

noting life’s measure.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

 

Before the timing of pharisaic dissidence,

Lessons in theory reveal the authentic

character of the world’s composer.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

 

Before the crescendo of resurrection,

there is a garden path of surrender

where I watch the winding procession of betrayal.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

 

Before the harmony of fireside discipleship,

I close my eyes and listen to the master play.

Tuning my heart to the rhythm of the cross.

I play my Father’s masterpiece.

The Mystery of Hope

I cradled hope like a fragile fledgling.
It shivered—tender
warmth against the concrete cold of
my anguish.

Hope is a wild, open-palmed expectation. Because
You are good, it will fly.

 

Immanuel Came

You didn’t hold Christmas back from my troubles.
You slipped into my dirty world on a crowded
night of cares, with a star and angels as a birth
announcement.

Chubby fingers curled around my broken
heart before I knew I needed you. The earthy
the fragrance of shepherds, a stable, a carpenter,
and a young girl seems an unexpected
entrance for a king.
You lifted my tear-stained cheeks to
take in the wonder of Your presence.

My soul, crushed by a million fears,
found joy and peace in a tiny dependent baby—
God dependent upon a woman, the words
twist in my mouth as sacrilege. Yet you
upended my every flesh-tainted notion
of your holiness.

God with me, so that
I know that I know my sorrow
is not in vain.

A tangible God, for a flesh and bones sinner,
nestled in strips of cloth. I can hardly take
the majesty of your complete love.

The Sweet Fragrance of Worship

Mmm, what is that sweet fragrance?

I am learning to crawl onto
the altar of trust,
daily,
and die to self.
Oh God, refine me.
In the flames of suffering,
nothing else matters but You.
Burn off all that hinders
until thoughts and actions renew.
And I remain
whole and pleasing to You.

Mmm, what is that sweet fragrance?

Worship.

Made in Your Image

 

Twisted by confusion and sin—
My body lay, crumbled, wearing rust
among the discarded and dispised things
of this world.
Worth. Purpose. What were those?
I was no longer useful.

Until you gathered my broken pieces
and welded my soul
into a reflection of your identity.
You gave me my wings of faith.
Now I soar with love, joy, and hope.

 

Suicide & Prevention Hotline

National Suicide Hotline

If you or a loved one are in immediate danger, call the National Suicide Lifeline at 988 or go to the website at https://988lifeline.org/