Giving: Part One — The Cross and Sacrifice

Giving 

If rays of light break through thick clouds,
Where does the light come from?
Certainly not the cloud-hid sun.
If words of light break through my mind,
Where does the light come from?
Certainly I’m not the one.

The first draft of Giving was written in the early 1980’s while I was coming out of a time of dark confusion by finding light, joy and meaning in Jesus. The poems endured. When Giving was finally published in 2018, it won a gold medal for excellence. But only thirty-six people bought the book.  

I felt sad, because I longed  for others to read them, but was unable to “sell” them. A psychiatrist once told me that marketing is antithetical to my very nature. So—with wistful (and somewhat melodramatic) hopes that maybe I’d be discovered after I died (“Dum-da-dum-dum”), I shelved the book—until— a couple of months ago, when I was surprised by the desire and grace to edit the poems in Giving and publish them here.

So, here are the first ten poems,  Part One. “The Cross.” Giving includes something for almost everyone—even those who don’t like poetry. I hope you will browse through for a poem or line that touches you. And when you find something you really like, please pass it on!

PART ONE — THE CROSS AND SACRIFICE

God’s Plan

Before Jesus’ heart was broken
before the soldiers pierced His side,
before His blood and water flowed, *
and exposed and bound,
He died—

Long before His birth—
and long before His Father said,
“Your day has come to live on earth.”
He’d already agreed.

Disrobed and bleeding,
He would not, could not,
did not try to hide from shame:
He accepted torture’s every pain.

His horrible hours
inside His Father’s plan
crossed every deep divide
that tries to stop or hide,
God’s love for man.

Healing and forgiveness flowed
through every drop of  blood
that ran through Jesus’ wounds of love.

Upon the cross
hung understanding hope
for every human shame,
for every broken woman,
and every hurting man.

• It is interesting that both blood and water flow at childbirth
and that Jesus died in His body that we might be born again by His Spirit.
__________________________

Jesus, the Christ

Flesh?
Ab-so-lute-ly. Yes!
Muscles, hair,
songs and sorrows—
roars of laughter, tender glances,
robust feasts and holy dances.

His sacred heart was bleeding,
His grief and pain weighed down,*
right through His fingers and toes,
through his very real elbows,
His blood caked nose,
through every real temptation
all man defined was there—
in human skin.

Spirit?
You bet!
Love that spoke and set the stars to sing,
Power that hurled the planets into space,
Merciful kindness, the source of all  grace
shine forever from His face—

This Love, Who  glues all worlds,
once came to earth,
Bringing angels to sing praise
in welcome of His human birth.

Humbled beyond all humbling,
God gave Himself—
a madly sane blood sacrifice—
of birth and death for you.

* “His sacred heart, now bleeding, His grief and pain weighed down” are from the lyrics of the hymn
“O Sacred Heart Now Wounded” which is attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux (1153) and was translated into English by James W. Alexander in 1930.

An earlier version of this was published in Meet Me at the Cross, Given Word Publishers, 2000.

__________________________

Communion

I give my life to You.
You gave Your life for mine.
Covenant cup upon a tree,
Your blood for me,
I give you mine.

Blood mingles
In communion wine.
Eternal life pours into time.
My life is Yours,
and Yours is mine.

In covenant promise
We’ve combined.
Our bodies Yours,
And Yours our bread,
Your blood is now our wine,
Your spirit ours in living vine.

Part of this was first published in Meet Me at the Cross, 2000.

__________________________

Alone

I will not leave you comfortless and alone like orphans. I will come to you.
John 14:18 (adapted)

When You hung there,
all alone,
Did you know
Your love atoned?

How lonely was it on the cross
without Your Father’s love?
Hurt and hanging, cursed,
lifted up above the earth,
feeling every separation,
unloved children know from birth?

Your love atones.
The cup was empty.
Your Father gone.
You hung alone.

Was it the loss of Abba’s love,
Your lonely ache within,
the lost communion caused by sin
that broke your heart?

Or did it crack with passion?
With suffering love for me,
with longing for God’s family—
Your future bride-to-be?

Your love atones.
The cup was empty.
Your Father gone.
You hung alone.

How did You survive
the moments, lonely moments,
when Your final hour had come?
Before You called out, “It is finished!”
Before Your earthly work was done?

What  .  matters  .  is  .  that  .  You .  obeyed.
Hanging up upon that cross
You stayed in love with Abba
and with us.
You loved us both enough.

When You hung there
all alone
Your love atoned.

Note: The last verse is in a longer poem in Meet Me at the Cross.

__________________________

 

Hope and Trust

Jesus—
hewn and hanging on that tree
like splintered wood,
forsaken branch,*
a tree chopped down
and dragged away,
cut from His Father’s roots that day.**

Once, I too was hewn,
splintered crudely, too,
a branch forsaken,
all alone,
hanging on betrayal’s tree—

Every nail into my flesh
drove me tighter to Your Tree
and every mockery of me
cleaved me to Your energies.

I never truly hung alone
I always hung with You.
Pressed through the wood
I died—
to come out on the other side,
ever more alive***

What tree is You? What tree is me?
Your flower, Your fruit,
Your green-grown leaves—
Your honey from sweet honey bees.
All of You and none of me.

* A shoot will come up from the stump of Jesse; from his roots a branch will bear fruit. Isaiah 11:1 (NIV) Bible scholars say Jesus is the branch from the stump of Jesse, who was King David’s father.

**My God, My God. Why have You forsaken Me?

In Matthew 27:46 Jesus quotes this question from Psalm 22:1 (NIV)

*** I have been crucified with Christ; it is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave Himself for me. Galatians 2:20 (NIV)

__________________________

A Twentieth Century Psalm

Almost a decade before writing this psalm, a Shepherding Movement pastor told me to burn all my creative writing and write only needed letters, grocery lists and Bible verses. I obeyed—until I took a Bible College class on worship and the teacher assigned psalm writing. This “Twentieth Century Psalm” was the result.

O Lord!
My heart cries for You.
My longing is for You.
Without You, I am alone,
defeated and lost,
worthless, worth nothing,
without You, I die.

Without You, hatred fills my heart,
bitterness, pain and resentment
torment me day and night.
I have no friends, no future,
only haunting memories
and the daily screech of demons
demanding dues from slaves to sin.

But You are God.
Clean, pure, holy righteous and beautiful.
You’re lovelier than every spring
or any song.
Sweeter than all my honeyed dreams,
You satisfy all longings.

You are God,
an all-consuming fire.
Burn within me.
Burn, Lord, burn!
Consume me, Lord.
Let Your pure, holy fires
lift sweet odors
as you seize my heart
and hold it, flaming,
on the altar of Your love.
May I, too, like You,
be burnt offering,
an acceptable sacrifice to God.

Note: The final lines were published as “Acceptable Sacrifice” in Meet Me at the Cross.

__________________________

Burnt Sacrifice

I climb up on the grate—
or am I placed?
I crawl across the top—
or am I led
from edge to edge?

Expecting to be burnt
by the glowing coals below,
waiting for hot flames to flare
and loss consume my soul,
what a surprise to find
God’s heat is kind.

His fires energize
His flames consume all chains that bind.
His burning coals transform our minds.
With warming love He realigns
each life given to His designs.

Climb upon His altars,
surrender to His fires.
He burns all false device
if we give our all to Him
to be burnt sacrifice.

An earlier version was published as “Altars” in Pursuit, p.30.

__________________________

Theology

A SubjectiveStream-of-Consciousness-Irrational-Dialogue
from a Tired Mind, Tired of Itself, in a Poem that,Once upon a Time, Many Years Ago,
was Affectionately Dedicated to a Theology Professor.

I’m tired of great big vacant words—

abstract concepts,
metaphysical speculations
go unheard
in hurting hearts and real relations.

Give me a table,
(if you are able),
a chair,
and maybe a wand—
to dispel despair
and wave against all want.

What? No wand?
Witches, wizards, fairies and magicians
play in lies, you say?
All try to control?
Turn thin air to answers
that really can’t be there?
And brew deception?
Not conception.

Oh? You suggest prayer
‘cause darker myths and magic
will one day will disappear in air?

Prove it.
You talk, talk, talk,
not walk, walk, walk.
You’d put my Bible on your shelf,
fill me with footnotes
and give me lists
and rules
and laws I can’t obey anyway.
Please let me figure out true faith myself.

Give me a table,
a chair,
and a pair of eyes to see
what could never be
material.

A doc-u-men-ta-ry?
In serial?
With weeks or inter-missions in between?
With notes to review?
Not for me? Or God? But you?
Like school.

You think I talk in circles.
You want sequence?
Each age a chapter, each life a page?

As dispensations change,
what truth remains?
Pain spirals in my brain—

NO!
Round in circles
I don’t go.

A table—and a chair
will satisfy my prayer.
Corporeality.
Concrete reality.

Oh. And maybe a crust of bread, a glass of wine and . .
and . . . thou? *

No. No, thank you. No.
Not now.

How about a fire? —oh—
and lots of chocolates for me to eat—
and heat—warm feet—**
and lots of DVD’s and MP3s?

My mind is splitting me in two—
O Holy Spirit? Where, Oh where, are You?

In the darkest huts of human need,
facing hunger and disease,
you’d teach me to preach what’s not there?
And lead me to stare through tragedy’s lens
and travesty’s scope
without practical hope?
Trying me with words I do not understand?
Words removed from needs so huge
that only dying, serving love
can meet our Savior’s last commands?

Why not ask the Holy Spirit what to do
and then resolve to see it through?

Don’t be difficult. Don’t fall asleep or stare!
Tests are quarterly.
Theology is orderly.

Mind! Listen up.
Grasp the dull material.
Conceptualize the serial.
Organize yourself to understand.
Submit and pass this test from man.

Each age a chapter.
Each life a page.

But cereal is wanted—curds and honey,
or broken bread and fish—
not academic wish.

My rational reason refuses
to create a muddy scene.
Mind!  Please plead your case on love that’s been.

Flash a cross,
pan to the blood,
zoom in on the feet,
linger over tendons taut,
nails tearing against flesh.

Stare?
Where?
There.

Hold the camera steady—
do not change the screen—
His agony upsets—
little children might get scared
if you show it on the air.
Since His death can rend (or end) the conscience
of a grown successful man
you’d better keep it bland.

So— the feet alone will satisfy—
dusty from the road,
caked with sweat and blood,
tight pressed to the wood
to lift His heaving chest;
He’s making space for every breath
till His release—
Ah, then
sweet peace.

His agony is ended—all is well.

(But no?)
(The textbook says
that next—He goes to Hell.)

But wait— it hasn’t happened yet.
You look too far ahead—
to when He’s dead.

Don’t look up
while He still hangs,
you might just sense His pain,
or catch His eyes—
seeing down the centuries
looking fully into yours—

you just might die with love
or fright
or wake with nightmares
in the night.

One image at a time
is all my human frame
can hold in mind

Serial? Or cereal?
Yes.
Broken body,
Broken bread.
Then burial.
Yes.

—But not for long.

For all is well;
He did not dwell in hell.

See there,
a picnic table,
a folding chair,
and Jesus, wearing coveralls
grilling fish beside the sea.

Or

at an executive’s desk
in spotless fresh-pressed shirt
counting
compassionately
sheep.

His data entries
incomplete,
His longing heart
forever searching
For lost lambs.

His loving arms
forever shearing
those He’s found.

Sheep?
Where?

There.
Look over His shoulder
The books are open—tallied—
Not numbers on computer clouds,
or files from AI —
listing all who got a cut of pie-oh-my—
up in the sky

See?
Names—written on His heart,
written in His blood—
souls from countless poor and humble stations—
from every race and tribe and nation.

No. It’s not imagination.
See the Lamb’s Book of Life?
On line after line,
He calls His own by name.

Oh? You’d ignore such faith?
Think it insane?

Huh? Century after century
the devil’s con’s the same.
Shuffling lies to play
its own controlling games.

Good Lord,
help us to discern deception.
Garb us in truth
for Your reception.

Reception?
The Wedding Supper of the Lamb?
My chance to meet Moses and Abraham?

Right,
but first a lot of fright on earth—and night.
[This rhyme gets tired and trite,
begging balance with bright light.]
The actuarial truth is—that,
considering the latter days
are lattering on and on,
it certainly won’t be long until the countdown.

Down?
Sheol?
“Though they be hid from my sight
in the bottom of the sea”
Amos 9:3
No mermaid princess or hero-man
will mythically rise to greet
the redeemed
in mega-magical commercials
calling crowds of seekers,
to friendly, warm rehearsals.

Rehearsals?
The wedding again.
How glorious it will be!
Truth and beauty wed
In mercy, with reality.

No waiting for next acts,
just the final facts.
No more serials

New material—
new birth.
When God folds up the earth
like a garment,
my table and chair
won’t even be there.

New chapter
Thereafter—
Last laughter
and Love.

I may love Theo-
but ologies can bore me.
I want to meet Jesus—
the dearness of Him—
to feel the warmth
and the nearness of Him.
I want works that inspire,
His words to catch fire— not tire.***

• A crust of bread, a glass of wine. . . and . . . Thou! echoes a poem by Omar Khayyam translated by Edward FitzGerald that is titled after the line “A jug of wine, a loaf of bread and thou.”

** My reference to lots of chocolate for me to eat and warm feet is from “Wouldn’t it be Loverly”, lyrics by Alan J. Learner in the Learner and Loewe musical, My Fair Lady.
*** I did pass theology (with A’s) and much of what I learned was alive.

__________________________

Creation

Was earth formed from turtles’ eggs *
by rainbow sliding gods,
whose smiles beamed sunshine,
whose wrath blew rain
from selfish motives—
silly games
growing out of deprived brains?

Or was earth formed (as some may say)
by theories in men’s truth-dead heads—
replacing reason’s natural revelations
with ego’s mental speculations.

Worship of whats, and whens, and hows,
erases all love’s why’s,
Mutes out the Spirit’s song of Life,
our species’ high instinctual cries?

Or was earth formed by words of love?
By the Son of God who came
to share our human pain?
Whose death forgives our selfish minds,
Whose truth renews our depraved brains?

* Turtles and turtle eggs figure in the creation myths of many people groups.

__________________________

Epiphany

But the natural man does not receive the things of the Spirit of God,
for they are foolishness to him; nor can he know them,
because they are spiritually discerned 1 Corinthians 2: 14 (NKJV)

The mysteries of earth’s inner fires
are hid in depths below;
enigmas of vast outer reaches
hide inside the blackest holes.
Secrets from beyond the end
of all unknown dimensions
explode in human minds and hearts,
as Spirit laws transcend
all limits known to earthbound men.

Fires of holy revelation
surge through time-bent frames,
fusing love, the glue of matter,
into human brains.

The natural man
can never understand
God’s eternal plan
of sending Jesus from His throne,
from the beauty of the sapphire stones,
to the mockery of death upon a tree,
and then—incredulously—
moving through matter
like light through air,
like song through space,
defying known dimensions
in His ascension—

AND THEN—as planned
before the earth began
—no end—
He sent the Holy Spirit fire
to love inside His friends.