You were just a boy when you came to us— a gentle soul— an artist— with a big smile. We gave you food and water and let you feast your eyes on blue skies, stone mountains, flowered meadows. We led you to the gates of life, unlocked them, pushed them back on creaking hinges, just … Continue reading Choosing Death
When I pray, blindfold me— shut the windows, cover my ears, and numb me— because awareness of burdens still unchanged unnerves me— I don’t have the heart to pray if prayer means nothing. But You are invisible. And, more often than not, Your works are invisible too. So black out my perceptions that I may … Continue reading Blindfold Me
We come to Him in terms of eloquence. Pledged in poetry to build cathedrals out of words for housing adoration. And if we can, we should— words have their place in love. Jesus loved in words— but sealed that love with silence, nails, and blood. We can transliterate ourselves, rising on the wings of words, … Continue reading True Love
Most people come in prose— masterpieces that the world could not do without. But when You wrote me, you wrote poetry— imaginative, concise, and rhyming You. And when I look around, I see glory where others see cliche— bits of poetry sprouting in the grass, jumping trees with squirrels, resting moon-like in the clouds. I … Continue reading My Poet
No Map Needed
I spread the map before the King— the best route circled on the page— a line that joined points A and B. But He said, “Put the map away.” Aghast, I wondered—didn’t He know? Travel by heart is dangerous art for hearts will often tell you lies. “Yes, my child, and so will eyes.” Then … Continue reading No Map Needed
I like drawing hearts— crude but satisfying reflections of the bubbling swirl of warmth and determined goodwill inside us when we love. But if I could draw hearts forever, sketching galaxy to galaxy across the universe, I could not capture, even in part, the breadth of Jesus’ love. ❤️ .
What Would Have Been
The clench of pain, the darkness pressing; the future robbed, all longing wasted; the music quenched, the pleasure hollow; the loves in vain, the friendships fading; all losses sealed, the grief unbroken; all hope unknown, all roads unsteady; a failing breath, and death forever— if Jesus had not risen. .
Why does it hurt so much— this life? Designed for glory, but ignoring the instructions of the Engineer, we feasted on forbidden fruit. ... Built for one thing, used for another— no wonder we are broken. .
Little hopes grow like weeds— looking pretty in the grass. Must we weed them out? Pull them up today, and they’ll be back tomorrow, anyway, whimsical as ever. Of course, they may die some time, but so will the flowers. I’ve a mind to let them stay— a yard full of color in a dull … Continue reading Little Hopes
The Poetry of Beginning
Words— strong words— calling worlds out of nothing. • Words— hopeful words— breathing light into darkness. • Words— skillful words— carving skies out of the water. • Words— artistic words— sketching land and all her foliage. • Words— adorning words— racing space-ward, hanging lanterns. • Words— accomplished words— birds in flight, and fish that swim. … Continue reading The Poetry of Beginning