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You are beautiful, O God
above all artistry or design
You are décor never before imagined, spendidly alone
You were before anything else was known
outlasting every thing or being or ideal
More than real, more than living
beyond any picture or symbol, color,
sound or sight.
You eclipse all light.
Undefined by any wavelength of any extreme
you blow away the spectrum.
You outweigh all gravity
Bear up every weight
fill every micron of space
hold all in one place—
palming the universe.
Yet, you painstakingly
watch out for your own, you care,
Aware of our pitiable states and woes
You interpose, intervene
Weaving random strands of broken dreams
into seams of amazing art
You can thread through
the tiniest needle of the most feeble will,
to make new the shreds of lives frayed, hearts torn apart
But that’s not what makes you so loveable:
You wade through our stench
bear up under our crudeness
filter away our hypocrisies
dig through our clay and bedrock mule-headedness—
all with one intent:
to find your divine imprint,
your deposit of treasure,
your aroma of resurrected soul,
to refine, then hold
against your breast and breathe
‘This is mine, all mine.’
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READ A THOUSAND MILES
I could read for a thousand miles, traversing a whole continent of ideas, cross mountains of lofty ideals or valleys of arguments won or lost, deserts of chilled-out mental overload.
I could do it a top speed, against great yet powerless opposing winds of doctrine, creating dust clouds of speed-reading and overusing, guzzling down gallons of dreams I liked and letting go of the others in the black exhaust of rejection. Continue Reading »
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In order for a society to continue peacefully and cohesively, there are certain foundational principles and practices which must be respected and followed. The Christian virtues of love, mercy, forgiveness, and charity among them. The Torah-derived values of justice, fairness, and restitution alongside those. Continue Reading »
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It’s not Creation’s making that enthralls me
Nor miracles of Heaven’s cosmic plan
The titles by his name or any mystery
But the little things that help me understand.
Like the farmer who brought roosters to the market
and lost one in the pressing angry crowd
And how he recognized its cock-a-doodle
But left it there for history to record
Or the stable hand who fumbled through the basket
and shaking, gave the Roman soldier nails.
And watched him as he put them in his pocket,
mumbling how the scoundrels never paid.
It’s not so much that soldiers stripped him naked
But the dice they rolled and cast with grubby hands
and the pencil Pilate used to write the message
or the ching of silver coins upon the tiles
It’s not the fact that multitudes accused him
But the Pharisee seen biting on his locks
And not how Peter cursed when he denied him
but the crackle of the fire as he spoke
Yes the most important things should be repeated
As long as earth remains until He comes
But some little things get lost within the story
Plus a million more that no one ever saw.
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I think, for all the deprivations, neglect, verbal and even sexual abuse I suffered as a child, I am all the better for it. For when I move, the arthritis of forgiveness touches me every time; the fractured bones of grace guide my steps, and the growling stomach of divine interventions fills my longings – all in ways difficult to explain. I believe that when we all find a destiny higher than our gender, race, nationality, and even our basest or highest desires, little else will matter. Christ transcends all of that. And as a matter of fact, he calls us to a higher place which will outlast all historical injustices or corrections, to goals which will supercede the noblest or the most strident efforts, and to outcomes which will outweigh the most weighty or ominous of intentions.
So, even if I die as a complete unknown, as a pauper, or ignominiously as a Joe on Skid Row, I want the world to know that Jesus is and always has been my hero, my general, my savior, and my friend, that pleasing him was my constant undying wish, and that knowing any action in my life glorified him in some small was worth it all.
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More Blood, Not Less
America needs more blood, not less
We’re all distressed from violence and war
and scores of rampages by the obsessed
All the killing and the spilling, oh my God!
It seems to be headed toward Gog and Magog,
where the blood rises to the horses’ bridles
and fills the boots of the horses’ riders
But still we need more blood not less
Not like the river Nile where it ran red a mile
Or the ruby-stained altars in Jerusalem
Life’s flow drained, yet it was never enough
Earth thirsts for more blood not less,
but not
like the butchery when Romans abused and trampled the Jews
or when it froze in Leningrad streets and church pews
or the most worst battles earth ever had,
when the Mongols purged the population of Baghdad
Or the Nazis’ two million at Stalingrad
Warsaw Uprising and Waterloo
World Wars One and Two
Yes, the world needs more blood, not less.
Not like Gettysburg, where boots sank down
in the blood of 50,000 that oozed from the ground.
From Operation Barbarossa’s losses back to
to Via Dolorosa’s three lone crosses
Yes! That’s the blood the whole of humanity and history needs
Where one man bleeds. In silence it flows down
from his feet, his side, his thorny crown
Just a thimbleful and we tremble till we see
that it was enough absolution, the sanguine solution, for the guilt-ridden world:
From the primal garden wedding to final Armageddon,
from Eden to the end:
that’s the only blood that matters
that which spattered over weeping widows, Pharisees
and Caesar’s centurions, the mockers, and the curious
the blood that went into the Holiest of All
and covered the mercy seat and sprinkled the walls
brought humanity back from the fall.
They pierced, yes, speared the Son who came up from Egypt
where blood once smeared and stained the lintels and door jams
from slain but innocent, perfect little lambs,
yet the firstborn son of every bloodless home was damned.
They needed more blood, not less.
And there was Abel (the first victim of slaughter and gore)
His blood cried out from the ground for more
creating the Avenger and the art of war.
No, the carnage would never stop
not till it got even to heaven’s door and heaven’s Son Himself:
The Lamb, slain from the foundation of the world!
Friends, even still, it’s not less blood spilled we need, it’s more!
So, let the signs in Ferguson read,
Let the banners in Chicago decree,
Shout it out from the housetops of Baltimore
America needs, not less blood, but more
More blood to lift the stain from Columbine
to sift out the pain in South Carolina
More scarlet spread for Charlotte’s dead
More flowing from Emmanuel’s veins
A rushing fountain gushing up, cascading out onto us all
Only blood can wash us, and sweep away
the anger and rage from history’s every page
Know this! Only that crimson fluid
can reverse the curse – undo it –
unravel the injustices of the gavel,
pick the wounds clean of the dust, dirt, and gravel.
There is power of that blood is in it’s virtue, not in how much
and Mary was told that a sword would pierce her soul
A cold blade that chased the innocent babe at Herod’s command
and assailed infants
as mothers wailed and wept and afterwards never slept –
Mary’s child would live, and another day, bleed.
More blood, not less, is what the whole world needs!
More of His saving fullness see
More of His love who died for me!
Yes, blood will wash America one way or the other
Let’s take His blood and not our brother’s.
The blood began to run in Jerusalem long ago
A woman clutching her son to her breast
red, dripping down his head to his chest
as it soaked through crushed flesh and bone and skin
then flushed through the dark of the soul and sin
as it rushed in a flood through heaven’s curtain, then
spread on the altar, there forever glazed
beneath the wings of seraphim and the astonished gaze
of heaven’s host –
and in its mystical powerful ways
still cleanses us today by the Holy Ghost.
Yes, yes, yes!
We need more blood, not less.
2016jlh
Posted in Patriotic, Poetry | 1 Comment »
G.K. Chesterton said “despotism is a tired democracy.” I see a tendency toward fatigue in America today. We are tired of policing the world, weary of patriotism, exhausted from defending the family, ashamed of justifying the wealthy, red-faced over political wrangling, and basically sick of leading the free world. The Greeks passed the banner to Rome. To whom can we pass it and give our arms a rest?
What worries me about America is that we will lose our freedoms and institutions born from those freedoms not because they have become weakened, but because of their very greatness. We are made to feel guilty, somehow undeserving of the powerful pillars that hold up this temple we call home. We are made to think America is great because of her exploitation of people, races, and resources and not because of her leadership and stewardship; that our wealth comes from greed and not from our graciousness and magnanimity; that our liberties come from the licenses of government and not from the laws of God; and that our indomitable spirit comes from a stubborn unwillingness to recognize our debt to the environment and the animal kingdom and not from a legacy of uniquely-created beings charged with domination and given the ability to face down catastrophes and forge new frontiers.
A guilt-ridden nation is a helpless nation that will not rise to her own defense. Will we accept the fires of rage as a cleansing agent within our cities? Will we acquiesce to looting in the name of redistribution of wealth as a natural measure of justice? Will we offer up as a sacrifice symbols of greed to satisfy the drooling masses whose stomachs churn with envy?
Should we believe the lie that says there is nothing more powerful than an idea whose time has come, when that idea is destructive, horrific, and final?
I say we must not, and we never will.
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I’ve lost my wheels of inspiration and so I’m dragging all my stuff, including the poles and skins of my house behind me. Because when I’m not divinely infused, I simply ooze out on the path I’m meandering down. Blobs of self, heavy moccasin prints, pole-marks on the path.
“How!” I say to everyone I pass!
A typical Indian greeting? No. A question – “How do I get back?” Back to hope and carbonation, air and buoancy, shine and effervescence?
You know, I’ll just drop everything here in the dust, and before it settles, kneel down, look up, and wait for breath from heaven.
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