Category Archives: Poetry

Journeys

A journey shares some common traits

With every other journey.

They start somewhere

They end somewhere

They all involve some change.

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But just as there are common traits

Each journey is unique

No two see the same event

Through a single set of eyes,

A single mind, a single heart

Or just one point of view.

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Destinations can be known

And destinations can be unknown

Journeys cover miles and miles

Or sometimes span through time.

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A place, a task, a feeling,

An age or an accomplishment,

A change of heart, a change of mind

A record broken, breaking walls,

Getting away, drawing closer,

Finding something, finding one’s self,

Losing someone, losing one’s self,

An inner growth, an outward gain,

Pains forgotten, stress escaped,

Knowledge added, memories had

New things tried, and habits made.

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A journey can be all of these

When things don’t stay the same

The essence of the matter is

You navigate some change.

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Your journey has been authored

By the Author of all Life

And yet your daily choices

Factor in as wrong or right.

You have control of some things,

Every choice you own alone.

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Sometimes you’re in the rapids

And your choice is holding on.

Sometimes you’re up the creek

Without a paddle, in the swamp.

Sometimes you’re on a lake in life

With winds that push and burn

Despite your hardest efforts

You can’t quite get to shore.

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No matter the conditions,

No matter what we face,

No matter the goals reached or not,

No matter what the pace,

Our journey is both ours and His.

It’s not our job to write it,

To create it, change it, fight,

And kick and wish it weren’t this way.

Our job is to accept and go, or do, or wait.

We work, or walk, or wait, or run,

We fight, or rest, or carry on,

We grow, we strain, endure some pain,

Because we embrace the value of the journey,

Because we trust and love the journey’s Author.

He stirs together joys and aches

The good, the hard, the pace, the stakes,

All for our good and His glory.

In this sense, every Christian journey,

Different as they be,

Ends the same, all loose ends tied,

Before His throne, all kneeling.

hiker

 

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Finding Joy

Joy is not in people,

Not in being thought of

highly, or at all.

Joy is not in having,

Not in holding,

Not in owning.

Joy is not in buying,

Not in gaining things,

And not, for certain,

Not contained in

Money’s empty call.

Joy is not in praise,

Is not in numbers,

Not in goals achieved or lists.

Joy is not in climbing to the top

Shift by shift.

Abundant life in Christ our Lord

Is never found in stuff.

This life of joy is found in finding Christ–

All in all,

“More than all in Him I find,”

My Infinite-Enough.

finding_joy

 


The Gift of Grace

How to talk,

   When the One with whom you speak does not reply?

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How to see,

   When the One you want to gaze on,

   Hides beyond these realms my human eyes can’t see?

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How to hear,

   When the One – whose thund’ring voice I need to hear from –

   speaks, instead, through letters, prophet’s words,

   And promptings in the soul?

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How to cling to Him,

   A Spirit like the rushing wind?

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How to approach Him,

   This One who’s always, fully, there in every place,

   Yet is transcendent?

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How to trust,

   In One whose actions we can’t see, hear, touch, or test?

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How to know the truth,

   When, on our own, knowing is a flimsy hope at best?

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Grace.

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Logic will not lead you here.

Reason’s womb is barren.

Proof is stuck in pudding still,

And Hope is just a helper.

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Christian child with questions, or wand’ring soul without,

In the faith with doubts within, or searching all this out,

One thing, and one only

Will connect these crazy dots.

The gift of grace is free,

Simply ask, and it is yours.

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thought-maze-1


Saul’s Success: Prize or Poison?

Saul was quite the servant-man.

His father’s will was his,

Be it plowing fields or tending herds,

He worked and served with strength and focused will.

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Humility adorned his thoughts,

While he was no one big.

The son of Kish, a no-name youth,

Why should he be a king?

It seemed, to him, quite far from what he’d earned.

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His strength and height were assets

When it came to farmer’s work.

His trust in God’s instructions

Through the prophet was secure.

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The oil didn’t change him,

When anointed as their king.

In fact, God gave His Spirit

As a guide to live within him.

A Spirit who, if followed,

Would empower him with strength –

Strength of will, strength of courage,

Strength of purpose, strength of mind.

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So, what was it in Saul’s life

That led him to a turn –

A turn away from humble strength,

To self-exalting, insecure, and hurtful fits of pride?

How could he go from “who am I?”

to “I know better than God!” ?

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Through God’s pow’r and by design,

Saul had tasted something strong and potent

for the first time:

The prize and poison that is success.

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He looked at his accomplishments

Which God had brought about,

And credited himself instead of,

Giving praise to God.

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In pragmatism’s twisted vines,

He reasoned how to work his plans,

Hoping God would get in line,

And follow him with weak, submitted favor.

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The glory long designed for God

Was robbed, and so God cut the ropes,

And Saul began his long and painful fall.

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Success.

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A poison or a prize?

A tool to use to bring God praise, for sure.

But many more have had a taste

And chosen to exalt its thrills

As god of all their hearts and wills

Instead of living for the God

Who gave success to us, a gift.

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We take the gift, the joy-filled prize

And make it lethal poison when

We make it all of us, not all of Him.

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Lord, when I hear “well done,”

“Good job,” or “I am so impressed.”

May they never overtake,

The promised joy of this one sound:

The sound of your “Well done, my child,”

When I kneel before Your throne.

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Tune my heart to live for

Just those words upon my ears,

Protect me from the snare of pride,

Through all my days and years.

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Prize-or-Poison_Sauls-Success


A Shepherd’s Prayer

Dots of white are scattered ‘cross the hillside.

Flocks of souls are grazing as they roam.

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Left of here lie cliffs along the ocean.

Misty winds there keep the grass

A lush and tempting green.

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To our right, the burning Eastern Desert

Lies just in sight beyond the rolling hills.

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To our south, dark jungle-lands,

With swamps, and bogs and ponds.

And northward, see the lands climb up

To jagged rocky heights of mountains cold.

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The sheep have all been gathered here

By shepherds wise and old.

These men have known the dangers

West, and east, south and north.

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Though gathered here, each year

The flock is losing many sheep.

The older shepherds tire

And begin to look to me

And all my kin to take the torch.

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And as I survey out across

The scenery of these moors.

I quickly come to realize,

That I cannot do this task that lies before.

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In my brief, short time of training

As a shepherd/sheep for God,

I’ve seen, heard, and observed,

Some shifting patterns in the flock.

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My calling is to help them feed

On Grass of Truth from God,

Seems simple, and it is.

Simple, yes. But easy? Not.

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Every place I look

There are other tempting grasses,

Grasses I must first resist,

Then lead them on in trust to do the same.

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Some sheep strangely wander

To the Desert of the Right.

They find a curious comfort

In the heat and burning light.

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They go there for the leaders of that place

Are loud and strong.

They talk and shout about pure grass.

But little grass is grown.

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The burden there of growing

Tends to weigh and burden down.

The sheep end up assigned great work

Which sheep were not designed to do.

And never will get done.

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Many sheep are also lost

Along the Cliffs of Left.

The heights are risky, edgy,

And uncertain for the hoof.

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But sheep will brave them merely

For the tasty grass afoot.

Not knowing that the grass is lush

Because the shifting tides and winds and mists –

Which will trap them, get them lost, or worse

Push them to their deaths –

Are the reason for the green.

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Still other sheep,

While not sucumbing to the Left or Right,

Will sneak down from these foothills

To the Southern Jungle’s Night.

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Here, they play their chicken games

With predators and snakes,

Feeding on the thrills and spills,

The Jungle’s lethal stakes.

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It usually isn’t long before

A trap or snare is sprung,

Some poison is consumed,

Or a fatal blow is blown.

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Far too rare is ever seen,

An injured sheep along the path,

Making his repentant, long, return.

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And let us not forget the dangers

Lying to the north.

The Ivory Tower Mountains

Have the strangest of appeals.

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The sheep who leave the flock

To take these long and winding roads,

Often feel that they’ve outgrown

Their need of shepherds on their own.

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They hope to find a higher grass

That, when eaten, thus will grant

A new place of authority,

A higher “sheep-hood” than the rest.

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This strange allure of knowing more,

On scientific heights,

Often decimates the finder’s sense

Of belonging in the flock.

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It is not easy, as a shepherd,

Caring for your sheep,

Knowing all these dangers,

And the pressures that they bring.

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The anchor in the chaos

Is the grass beneath our feet.

While not quite as appealing

As some other dainty treats,

This grass here on the Hills of Grace

Is managed, not by temptors,

But by God, the Lord on High.

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The grass here, takes some work to find,

And tastes of bitter tones by times.

It lacks the pleasant, sugar coating

Many sheep now crave and hope to find.

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But, tasting as it does by times,

The grass here is the Truth of Life,

It’s loaded up with vitamins,

And healthy stuff inside.

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And comforting to me,

One called to watch over this flock,

To make sure that they feed and grow,

To keep them safe and strong,

Is that this grass is guaranteed,

A covenant confirms its seed

And it will never fail.

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There will never, ever be a need

To wander south, north, west or east,

In search of better, surer feed.

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So while I rightly bear the weight

Of shepherding a flock,

The weight is never solely mine,

For Christ still Shepherds me,

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Promised in this grass we eat,

Is health, and life, and joy and peace.

On grace and mercy now we feast,

With need of nothing else.

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So my prayer is simply this,

As sheep and shepherd both,

Follow Christ as I do,

Though, imperfectly at best;

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Trust in Him to meet our needs,

And stay here with the flock;

Feed and grow together,

On these rolling Hills of Grace.

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sheep-shepherd-edited


Gracious, Bitter Cold

gracious-bitter-cold-1 .

Father, I come with an urgent plea,

For I see a slow, dull death

Creeping up inside of me.

A death, like mold, that spreads

And thrives in warm, stale climes.

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This death is such a subtle one,

Not easily discerned.

And I thank You for the grace to see

What many eyes – including mine –

Often miss, or simply just ignore,

Trading truth for dreamlands

Of sparkling, ignorant bliss.

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Like soldiers on a battleground,

‘Mid bullets, blood, and blasts,

Found seated, nice and cozy,

Warm and chatting by a fire,

Boiling water, though the canons rage,

To sip a spot of tea.

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This is the danger that I see,

The threat of warmth building up within me.

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That I might pursue, or worse, might find,

The American dream, which skillfully Invades the unprotected heart and mind.

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Life abundant, freedom wide,

And happiness warming the heart inside –

Things not wrong within themselves,

But all too often they distract me,

From the savage battle raging ’round me.

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Satisfaction kills my need for progress.

Feeling I’ve gone far enough,

Will only keep my feet from pressing on.

Feeling I’ve climbed high enough,

Will rob me of the views and vistas

Climbing on would bring.

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Father, guard my heart from feeling warm.

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Guard my eyes from blindness

To the need to press for more.

Guard me from contentment found In anything but what You have in store.

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Guard me from the kind of heart

That’s satisfied – while others die –

To sit and sip on tea,

To waste away the hours lost in fiction on T.V.,

To limit all my time to just one close, small group of friends,

Or chase the lie that money is the end to end all ends.

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We wrestle not with flesh and blood,

And yet, alas, we wrestle!

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Like standing in the ring, when

Our enemy is drawing back his final, knockout blow,

And we are texting, taking selfies,

Writing out our wish lists,

Or chatting on the phone,

Oblivious to just how much

The hurt is going to hurt,

When his well-timed blow comes down.

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God, I beg You, wake me up inside.

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Use the ice-cold truth of an awareness of what’s real.

Make the raw and icy cold discomfort

Drive me on to find what’s warm,

Yet, guard me from the fleeting heat

Of all besides Your arms.

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Make warmth my greatest goal,

But only warmth that’s found in You,

Found in working hard for You,

And found in loving others at great cost,

Found in furthering Your goals

For Your great kingdom here on earth.

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And, until my warmth is found in You, and You alone,

Fill me with a gracious, bitter chill down to the bones.

A chill that will protect me from a lesser warmth that kills.

A chill that will remind me

Not to stop and settle down,

But to move, to climb, to run and grow,

Until Your work in me, Your will for me,

And Your purposes for all this age of time,

Are fully done.

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The Hill

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There is a privilege.

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I find myself in common trains of thought,

A path well-travelled,

A trail that always leads me

To my pondering of this one tiny word:

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‘Why?’

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I’m not the first to climb these steps,

Or wander up this hillside.

Men and women, boys and girls

Have long since tread where I now trod.

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From Moses and David, watching sheep,

To Paul in prisons dark.

To Luther with his courage planted firmly in this place,

And many, many more throughout the ages of the past.

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Standing on this hilltop yields a view unseen,

From the valley of routine that lies below.

Here, time stands still.

One can step out of life for a moment,

And turn and look back on it from a vantage point above.

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This is the Hill of Truth.

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Privilege-Undeserved-Post

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Sometimes I love to come here for a quick refreshing pause.

And sometimes I come crawling back,

Desperate and muddled,

Needing deep, life-saving treatments for my thinking and my heart.

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One thing tends to happen here,

No matter if my state is calm or troubled deep within.

When the clear, cool air and panoramic views of truth

Begin to sink down in,

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Perspective tends to broaden, yes,

And clarity ensues.

An anchor, like a stallion’s lead,

Tames the wayward wand’rings of my feelings,

Giving them the leadership they unknowingly,

Yet quite desperately need.

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And, without fail,

As the cool refreshing truth of God’s great Word,

Pushes out the fog of life

It also points me to this one amazing truth,

That defines and shapes the entirety of all the little

Details of my life:

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I am unworthy.

Unworthy to know His truth.

Unworthy to receive His love.

Unworthy to own His saving grace and mercy.

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Here on this hill and nowhere else,

I know who and why I am.

The confusing lights of culture’s pressures,

Can’t reach me here.

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I can look up to see the stars,

Trillions of reminders bright,

Undimmed in all their message,

Of how truly great You are.

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Standing here I learn anew,

Just how small I am.

And, without fail, my heart is moved

To ask a question then:

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Why?

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Why would God Almighty,

Holy Pow’r, Majestic glory undimmed,

Deign to call me His belov’d,

Move to save me from my sins?

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Why such grace?

Why such privilege undeserved?

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And every other ‘why’

I carry up that sacred hill,

Fades into that bigger ‘why,’

My troubled heart grows still.

 


A God of New Beginnings, Or a God of One Design?

Here’s a thought to dwell on:

What goes inside your head

When it’s time to start over?

What’s the part you tend to dread

And what’s the part you long for?

See,

There’s the “fresh start” side of things,

You get to try again.

And sometimes there’s the failure side,

That needs to be made right.

“Depends on the circumstance.”

“Depends on the season.”

“Depends on chance,” we muse.

“Depends on the reasons.”

By times we love a new, clean slate,

A chance to build again.

But other times we face the loss

Of all we’d worked to gain.

This is how the nature

Of a new beginning comes.

Some are bright and happy things,

While others weigh a ton.

Now bring the Bible into play.

Consider all it’s truth.

From the days of Noah

Saul and David, Ezra, Ruth.

Has God Himself begun anew,

Or tried a different plan?

Does God go back to drawing boards

To scheme, then try again?

Yes, He started fresh with cleansing floods

And Noah’s sons.

He hit the reset button

More than once in ancient times.

He told a generation

Who were stiff-necked, proud, and scared

That He would start again with all

Their children’s age instead.

He pulled the kingdom promise

From the line of Saul the proud,

And started over with a shepherd

with a heart of love.

But carefully I ponder all these

“Cleanings of the slate.”

In one sense, yes, He started fresh,

But does God make mistakes?

These “restarts” are all linked

To one great, grand design.

A plan that God will not abandon

Not for all of time.

So,

In that sense He never quits

Would never start again.

He promised us a Serpent Crushing

Seed to right our wrongs.

But,

He’s promised to restore all things

to Eden’s sinless rest,

So in another sense

The whole design is starting fresh.

But He didn’t fail, He can’t be blamed

Adam chose to sin.

And we, in Adam, fell away

From all His perfect plans.

All of scripture’s history

Can be described this way,

God, in mercy great is moving

To restore all things,

To start afresh,

To put things back,

A new beginning, free,

Which Christ secured for you and me

For all eternity.

So, as you stand upon the threshold

Of a New Year’s door,

this new beginning Christ has made

should drive your thoughts and goals.

clean_slate


Reckon

In His Word, the Bible,

God has given us a glimpse,

We see now through a veil,

but we still can see the hints.

And hear the whispers spoken

of what’s coming.

To the suf’fring Roman church

Paul wrote to build their strength.

To firmly anchor down their hope

He urged them to do this…

To reckon –

A term that comes from counting,

or from running through the math.

So run the numbers to their end,

and calculate the facts,

take stock of all your inventory,

see where things are at.

Place on one side of these

scales of comparison

all of your struggles,

heartaches and failures,

The heavy stuff of life

in the stressful here and now,

the dirt, the pain, the struggles long

through which our hearts must plough.

Before we count the other side,

Paul wrote another note,

a letter to Colossae

with a sister vein of thought.

He taught them to direct their minds

up from the muck of life,

to set their hearts on things above

and value knowing Christ.

Speaking of which, it was Christ himself

who told us, “seek ye first.”

Seek the treasures of that kingdom,

not the joys of earth.

So on the other side,

on these scales that measure worth,

should we place the glories of the Heavens,

all the joy and mirth,

streets of gold, and mansions,

life eternal without sin,

a city filled with peace and grace

for time without an end?

“But just a minute.

Something doesn’t seem to sit quite right.

I thought these things – the joy,

the peace from trials, were the birthright.

I thought the worth of things above

was the things above.

Why ask if they should don the scales?

Would they not measure up?”

The simplest answer is a ‘yes.’

They’d surely outperform.

The scales would tip decisively,

But that is not the problem.

The problem is that in this counting

measurements of worth,

the source of value has not yet

been factored or brought forth.

Each one of Heaven’s joys

has value without measured price.

That value, though, is not intrinsic,

all their source of worth is Christ!

If we could somehow know the wealth of Heaven

without Christ,

the value in our treasure gained

would fully be deceased.

Our peace will come from knowing Him,

the perfect Prince of Peace.

He will be our joy

He will be our hope

And He will be our light, our wealth, our song!

So, tip the scales! Rejoice,

despite the heaviness of life.

Reckon.

Take an inventory.

You own, right now,

a treasure beyond worth in Jesus Christ!

One second’s worth of peeking

at the glory of His face,

will “all the toils of life repay,”

and “sorrows all erase.”

girl-counting-coins


The Cross

Made of wood and nails

and roughly built to stand

a place to nail the feet

and a place to nail the hands.

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No finely-sanded surfaces,

no molding work or trim,

just two rough beams of lumber

cut to do their duty grim.

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No cool, secluded corner

there to suffer in some peace.

The crosses lined the busy roads

outside the city gates.

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Hours and hours of burning sun

on skin already torn,

the sting of sweat in open wounds

would add to how it burned.

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But first, the beatings, whippings,

so the subject would be weak.

the torture and the mocking

meant to bring them to their knees.

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A bleeding, stripe-marked back,

His beard torn from it’s roots,

His brow marked, not by gold or jewels

but by a crown of thorns.

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The all-powerful Son of God

reached the somber end

of what His body could endure

because He bore our sins.

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The cross was laid there on the hill

and Christ was stripped down bare,

His shredded back was laid upon

the splinters without care.

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The soldiers fought and cast their lots

to win His seamless robes,

perhaps the garment of a famous

prisoner could be sold.

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They laughed and joked while working

binding hands to hold them firm,

while raising hammers to the sky

to drive each nail in turn.

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When all was ready

with their victim firmly nailed in place

they drug the cross to where a hole was dug,

and then they braced,

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They worked together raising it

to slide down in the hole.

And as it slammed down into place

His wounds were torn some more.

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Their work was done.

The Son of God was hanging on display,

treated just as if He’d lived

our lives in every way.

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The wrath of God was rushing

from His throne of justice high,

was heading straight for us

to judge our sin and selfish pride.

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But Christ absorbed the fiery blast

while hanging on that tree.

His Father’s separation

was His greatest agony.

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The nails were painful

and the mocking scorn of enemies,

but there was a greater pain

He suffered over these.

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To look to His Father

whom He loved in perfect unity,

both members of the Triune Godhead,

the Holy Trinity,

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where never once in times unmeasured

had there ever been

a break in fellowship,

an inter-relational split,

or any cause to be displeased.

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As the Father looked down

on His Son upon that cross,

He chose to see us there instead,

our sins and all they cost.

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This weight of the removal

of His Father’s fellowship,

Caused Christ to cry out

in vuln’rability and fear.

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Then, the final breath

as He yielded up His life.

He took the penalty of death

for all our sin-filled lives.

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This is the cross.

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The cross – where Jesus put our death to death,

where He breathed in what should have been

our fleeting, final breath.

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With Him, and in Him, we have been crucified,

buried, and then raised to live again,

a life that’s pure and new,

a life designed to always bring His glory into view.

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When I believed by grace,

Christ and I were unified,

He in me, my hope of glory,

I in Him, my living Head.

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His new life now lives through me.

A startling truth of joy and peace.

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I am not mine now anymore,

It’s here I’ll daily come restore

my thinking and my heart.

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We have not now been left alone

to make these truths work on our own,

His Spirit lives within,

turning us from sin,

to walk in this new life,

To walk in this reality,

to claim this new identity,

and give our all to Christ.

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reflections on Christ - crucifixion