Snow on St David's Day

It was meant to be the first day of Spring.
Early daffodils promised warmth,
Their yellow beckoning the sun.
But now they are frozen to the roots,
Submerged beneath chilly white dust.
You can never tell with the Welsh.
Always awkward.

Eight days later

We saw him.
He is risen.
Don't believe you.

Dust remains dust.

But it was him.
He lives.
I must see to believe.

Dust remains dust.

Thomas,
Probe my wounds,
It is I.

See and believe.

My Lord and
my God.

The first man was of dust.
The second man was of heaven,
A life-giving Spirit.

Blessed are those who
have not seen,
and yet have
believed.

Christmas antonymns

When the Word was made flesh

The omnipresent One was enclosed in space
The omnipotent One embraced weakness
The omniscient One became ignorant

The eternal One entered time
The invisible One appeared

The unchanging One became transient 

The impassible One was stirred
The blessed One knew grief
The immortal One tasted death

The Creator became a creature
The Provider became needy
The Saviour needed deliverance

And yet

He became what he was not without ceasing to be what he was.

Christmas wrapped up

O Father, what love is this?

You sent your only Son

forever wrapped in love

to take our bone and flesh

born of woman by the Spirit's power

and wrapped in swaddling bands

to suffer and die for us

the just for the unjust

that we might be wrapped

in his righteousness.

O Father, what love is this? 

Pause

Rush halted by rest,
but not for the mind's
endless cacophony of thought.

Pixels form into text
which the eye scans,
never tired of seeing
to satisfy the mind's hunger.

Rest halted by rush,
as the patient returns and
life's rich detail is reduced
to a smudge by
the machine's motion.

What love is this?

O Father, what love is this?

You sent your only Son,

forever wrapped in love,

to take our bone and flesh,

born of woman by the Spirit's power,

and wrapped in swaddling bands,

to suffer and die for us,

the just for the unjust,

that we might be wrapped

in his righteousness.

O Father, what love is this? 

Jacob's age

How old are you, Jacob?

Only one hundred and thirty.

My age is but a passing shadow,
the years of my life have been few.
My fathers Abraham and Isaac 
were old men and full of days. 
Soon I shall be gathered to them. 

I have seen evil along life's way,
a brother's murderous intent,
an uncle's devious schemes,
the bickering of jealous wives,
Rachel buried, Joseph lost.

All things seemed against me,
but now I have embraced my
beast-torn son I shall die in peace.
God turned all evil to good
to save many people alive.

I am a stranger and pilgrim
and my journey nears its end.
Bury me in the land of my fathers,
the dust dry Canaan that will 
one day flow with milk and honey.

Long weekend

Devon

traffic jam

log flume splash

skimming stone cool

fireworks thunder flash

long to rain over us

traffic jam

Home.

Jubilee

Blood is shed,

atonement made.

Let the trumpets sound.

Proclaim liberty

throughout the land.

Slaves go free,

ransomed by sacrifice.

Lost inheritance restored,

redeemed by blood

in year of  Jubilee.

The Door

I am the door,

that beckons you 

to light and life 

to the full.

Knock and 

I will open.

But don't delay,
for the day
comes when
I will forever shut.

The sky bled sunlight

One grey January day,
as we trod the

 banks, barrows
and ditches of
 Bratton Camp,

the White Horse below 

slowly greying to the 

town's shame,

the granite sky split open

and bled sunlight.

Night falls on Shearwater

Night falls 

on Shearwater.

Like a prophet 

the silhouetted tree 

portends the 

world's descent to

dark oblivion. 

The Lord of Time

Chosen in Christ

before time's dawn;

not for my works,

but in your grace.

Sovereign Lord,

I praise you.

Redeemed by Christ

in time's fullness,

his blood shed

to set me free.

Loving Lord,

I praise you.

Crucified with Christ,

a time to die.

Baptised into death,

sin reigns no more.

Mighty Lord,

I praise you.

Risen with Christ,

a time to live.

Fullness of life

from empty tomb.

Living Lord,

I praise you.

Seated with Christ,

a time to reign

in heavenly realms,

more than a conqueror.

Exalted Lord,

I praise you.

Made like Christ

at time’s end,

raised immortal

by his voice.

Jesus, Lord,

I'll praise you.

A benediction

Grace of Christ
freely granted
at blood-bought price
be with you all.

Love of God
dazzlingly disclosed
in Jesus' cross
overflow your hearts.

Fellowship of the Holy Spirit
extravagantly bestowed
by nail-pierced hands
give you peace.

John 14:6

"I am the way" he said
as he strode towards
the cross. The way
home would be hard
and deadly for him,
but life for us.

"I am the truth" claimed
the man who was
crucified as a liar.
"What is truth?" asked
his judge. Truth was pierced
for our transgressions.

"I am the life" spoke
he who was lifted up
for all to see as a corpse,
and then buried out of sight.
But what he laid down he
took again, and lived.

Way, Truth, Life.
He alone can bring
wasted sinners back
to the warm embrace
of the Father, whose omniscient eyes
look for the prodigal's return.

Why?

Son from eternity, ever bathed
in your Father's smile,
you delighted to do his will
and came in appearance as a man.

As your human consciousness
grew beyond milk and breath,
you knew that you were his.
Son of Mary and Son of God.

Your father's business was not
in the chisel and plane of the
carpenter's shop, but in the
temple talking of Abba and his ways.

As Jordan flowed over your head
in baptism, he assured you,
"This is my beloved Son,
in whom I am well pleased."

He lovingly poured his Spirit in
full measure upon you and enabled
you to work as he works.
Father and Son, one in act and glory.

Even bent under the enormity of
his will at Gethsemane you still
called him Father while he held the
bitter cup, pressed hard to your lips.

But in the darkness, made sin for us,
nailed to a tree for our rebellion, Abba
who was always with you drew back,
abandoning you to the incomprehending
"Why?"

How much your Father must
have loved us poor wretches,
that he did not spare you his
absence, that he might make us
sons, never to leave or forsake.
Undone by his love, we too ask
"Why?"

Christ in the heart

Love

in all your

string-theoried

dimensions,

Come

take your place

in my heart.

Make it new.

Wisdom

in all your

treasure-rich

understanding,

Come

take your place

in my mind.

Make it true.

Christ

in whom dwells

love and wisdom

infinitely,

Come

take your place

in my soul.

Make me whole.

The Preacher's Risk

Words prepared in study silence
with books read and texts divided.
Will they burn on lips with a holy flame
of consuming fire,
Or will all be dust and ashes?

The preacher rises to his pulpit,
the stained wood
enlcoses him like a coffin.
Will he die once more,
Or will the quickening Spirit give life?

The Wind blows where it wishes
and cannot be controlled
by man's art or sweat.
Will the free Spirit come and
release me from my chains or not?
That's the preacher's risk.

Edward Taylor on God's overflowing love

Following on from my review of the Donne biog below, here is another metaphysical poet, the Puritan Edward Taylor. See here for more info & poems.

Meditation 1

What Love is this of thine, that Cannot bee
In thine Infinity, O Lord, Confinde,
Unless it in thy very Person see,
Infinity, and Finity Conjoyn'd?
What hath thy Godhead, as not satisfide
Marri'de our Manhood, making it its Bride?

Oh, Matchless Love! filling Heaven to the brim!
O're running it: all running o're beside
This World! Nay Overflowing Hell; wherein
For thine Elect, there rose a mighty Tide!
That there our Veans might through thy Person bleed,
To quench those flames, that else would on us feed.

Oh! that thy Love might overflow my Heart!
To fire the same with Love: for Love I would.
But oh! my streight'ned Breast! my Lifeless Sparke!
My Fireless Flame! What Chilly Love, and Cold?
In measure small! In Manner Chilly! See.
Lord blow the Coal: Thy Love Enflame in mee.

Thanks to Paul Helm for drawing Taylor to my attention. His blog has two new posts on Word and Spirit in Conversion & Analysis 8 - The Gifts of a King on justification and sanctification.

A Barth poem

David Congdon has challenged theology bloggers to write a poem about Barth that is loosely based on Albert Piersma's excellent poem on John Calvin:

Make of me no Calvinist,
God of Calvin and of me,
Cause me not to follow him
Who would follow only Thee.

Make of me no Calvinist,
Swallowing each word he penned,
Make of me a thinker, God,
As was he, Thy intimate friend!

Make me, God, as Calvin was,
Now, while yet in days of youth,
Delving from the Depths of Thine,
Sovereign, soul-exalting truth.

Make me like the Christ,
O God, Give me not a Calvin's ire,
But withhold from me the spark
For a new Servetus-fire.

Make me like a Calvin, God,
Just as humble, just as brave,
Like a Calvin who refused
E'en a stone upon his grave.
--Albert Piersma

As readers of Exiled Preacher will know, I'm not really a Barth man, but here's my tongue-in-cheek entry, which, it's fair to say has divided the critics (here) :

Make of me no Barthian,
On some things he was quite wrong,
I don' t want to follow his lead,
Proper Calvinism's what I need.

Church Dogmatics don't make me read,
Those tomes will make my fingers bleed,
I haven't time to read that stuff,
Dogmatics in Outline is quite enough.

Like John Calvin I'd rather be,
He taught electing grace so free,
For sound doctrine he's the one,
Calvin's the better theologian.

Make me like Calvin, Lord,
A man who loves your holy Word,
I offer my whole heart to you,
Give me grace your work to do.

If you would like to contribute a poem, visit David's blog and send him an e-mail. The deadline is 4th July, after which voting will begin to decide the best Barth poem.