To Love Complete

To be a gallant soldier bold

Upon a distant shore

to see the Asian mountains old

Or hear the ocean's roar

 

To stand astride a tossing deck

above a roiling sea

to heed the grey horizons call

to seek eternity

 

To be a monk upon a mount

or kneeling in some cave

to swear my life my hope my soul

to hold some barricade

 

To forsake all else for all of time

to laugh at death at last

To be eternal, bright and free

One with the wind the sky the sea

To Love Complete, and joyfully

that is all I ask. 

For The Joy Set Before Him

 "A Star shall rise from Judah,

a prince for all the earth!"

Here come the Persian learned men

the magi with the ink and pen,

to chronicle his birth!

They bring him gold to melt a crown

and at his feet the wise bow down;

the end to all their search!

A crown He wore, but not of gold

for thorns infest the ground.

They claw and stab and prick and tear

they give Him a crimson robe to wear

for His red and purple back.

The crowds that laid their waving fronds

now spit upon His face,

He has failed to bring our promised land

and in His outstretched bleeding hand

the iron no scepter makes.

To such cosmic grandeur, vast divine

what treasures could entice?

What madness could infect a god

to come down and treat with sweat and sod,

for what sight could such entice?

We see a babe in a manger laid,

a carpenter, a comely maid;

He sees your face in paradise.

The Slave of God

 

I pray thee to grace my mind,

Oh Sovereign Slave of God! 

The Queen without a kingdom 

who stands above the world!

 

 Her eyes are eyes of sorrow

for she knows of love and loss

She bears the savior of the world

and sees Him bear His cross.

 

Born but human, yes like me

she was fearless in her faith,

where generals, kings and prophets quaked

only exempt is the gentle maid

from the angel's cry "Fear Not!"

 

Where the proud centurion

would dare not command Our Lord

 She pulls Him aside for a wedding's wine

Ignores His protests of predestined times

And bids the servants obey His word.

A little tender woman in a harsh and cruel world,

Twas not her lot to be wise and divine, 

no, still human in her heart and mind

her glory is in her words sublime:

"He will do with me as He wills."

The Man God

 I remember sitting on the last train of the evening

that pulled sluggishly from the city towards midnight

and watching with interest the girls in the car

who wore black leather jackets and not much else

 

until I understood that this girl of seventeen

was crying about what a coward had done to her 

in the public of a party

and her drunken friends shouted that she should not pity herself

because all men were swine and this was but a ritual

while her father called her unanswered phone.

 

I felt sick and turned my shameful eyes

and saw the devil sitting one row behind

and heard his whisper as he leaned over the seat:

"these pretty girls belong to me"

So I traveled far to where grim men stand

beneath the red flags of war

where the sweat drips free and the rifles clack

and I could stand with a straightened back

for honor was not no more.

But the devil was there-

where else would he be?

And he smiled and licked his long yellow teeth

and drank down their souls that they gave him for free

for pride is its own form of slavery.

So I was lost, for both glory and shame 

are just branching paths whose ends are the same

For the strong and the weak, the blind and the lame

the devil gets them all.

 

So I drank and I lusted and I cursed and I cried

And I toyed with the pistol that hung at my side

and I dreamed of a fire that never would die.

But one day in city of plastic and trash

Helping a pregnant sister move past,

she pulled me into a chapel of mossy old bricks

that was dim in the daylight and glimmered with gold-

From the halos of fools two thousand years old. 

They looked at me with eyes both grave and kind

They saw my anger, and my hurt little pride

And for the first time in my life,

I felt warm inside.

They called me to suffer, they called me to die.

To leave my wants and desires behind.

They just sang in their chants to my heart, not my mind,

and this is the best that I could later transcribe:

Come and drink the blood of the Man-God,

that was poured out for those girls on the train

Come and eat the flesh of the Man-God,

that was broken for those boys in their pain

Come and and die with the Man-God,

who tramples on Death and Shame

Come and Live with the Man-God

who forever in glory shall reign.

 

So come all you beggars, you bastards and kings

you harlots and spinsters with arms wrapped in slings

Hell has been plundered, join me and sing

to the Man-God who offers us a far better thing

 

 

 

 

Five Hundred Hours of Midnight

 

Five hundred hours of midnight 

Would not count my paces ere the dawn

Back and forth I walk and wonder

How God will tear the sky asunder

Rend the storm and come down. 

Stand, you weak-kneed children of commerce

Find your fire and stand! 

If not here, backs to the last patch of daylight, 

Facing the oncoming sheet of midnight

If not now, then where?

Your fathers were fat and lazy cowards

Who hesitantly raised a flag against the world

And stood, with scowls at their own achievement

Humbled emperors in their raiment

Laid low the mighty in their hour in heaps untold

But for all their failings; greed, avarice and shame, 

They clasped their swords with hands unyielding

Fought and lost and were sent reeling

And fought again and won, this little land

And we who eat from vineyards we did not tend to

And fields we did not sow

Now found again where they left it:

A rusty sword, a defunct musket

And the call to march, and stand!

The Girl with the Shy Smile

Around the new years, when I was beginning to think that beauty was something we invented to survive as a species, a young woman crept up on me without warning and taped this poem to a hole in my sleeve. I wasn't able to get her name, but I think I will recognize her if I see her again, by the way she smiles. 

Her eyes are clear like crystal,

Her brows are straight and true,

Her lips are as full as the summer moon,

and as soft as the summer dew. 

She wears a shirt of satin, 

and a jacket of dark green,

and she walks beneath the shadowed trees

wherever a star is seen. 

 

I dreamt that I walked with her,

and she whispered words to me,

words of love and longing, 

of faith and loyalty.

 

I woke then and I wept then, 

that she was not in my arms,

but still I know she walks alone,

in my dreams and in my heart.

Beneath a Star in Bethlehem

While traveling in the east, I was received by some good people who insisted that even though I had just celebrated Christmas, it was actually time to celebrate the birth of our Lord a second time two weeks later. Since they were providing cookies and cake, I obliged them. I even got this poem as a gift from a mysterious figure calling himself 'Father Frost'.

 

Beneath a star in Bethlehem,
A king is born tonight
To lift the weight of all the world
A babe sleeps sound and tight.

Beneath a humble stable roof
A Virgin mourns her birth
Her son has come to bleed and die,
To bear a cross and tear the sky,
And bring heaven down to earth.

Above the stars of Bethlehem,
The angels sing for joy
Let shepherds quake and kings bow down,
The gates of hell shake at the sound,
Of this sleeping baby boy.

Up until this morning

Up until this morning, 

My entire life along, 

I told myself I could be trusted

and it was the others who were wrong. 

I divided the people in my heart,

the bad on the left, the good on the right, 

The good to be trusted and welcomed, 

the bad to be turned out to the night. 

And lo and behold, 

Though the years took their toll my face, 

the list of the bad got longer, 

and the pain I could not erase. 

And lo and behold, 

I was struck with the guilt of my sin, 

I had kept my brother out, 

and let the devil in. 

Because I made hatred my armor

and rage the sword in my hand,

I had rejected the cross of my savior,

and spat at His outstretched hand.

I had looked at people as objects, 

I had scorned the kingdom of God, 

I had schemed to be Captain and Master

to seize fortune and glory abroad, 

To spend my whole life running

From the Man with the blood-red hands

Who was killed and then conquers and calls us

To let go of our wretched plans

And give all the fear and anger, 

and the rage that burns in my heart

To the sky that is blue eternal 

and the wind that cries "Thou Art!" 

As far as the east is from the west,

so shall that bright sky blow

and carry away like a leaf on the wind

That list I had always known. 

And with every passing morning

when the sun rises with the day

Christ will be seen carrying 

my sins far and away

The man who was sleeping shall awaken

and the sinner who was dead shall die,

And the King who is alive within me, 

shall walk to The City in the Sky. 

A Poem for Wee Rascals

 I found this poem written with chalk on the concrete path leading up to someone's house. It was a sunny winter day, where it seemed that Persephone had broken out of Hades three months early and was dancing across the light blue cloud-scudded sky. As such, I did not mind walking down this path to read the poem. Since it was written with chalk, I figured somebody ought to copy it down before the  elements blissfully washed away any proof of it ever having been there at all. 

A Poem for Wee Rascals

No need to stab at me with your swords;

Keep them within the velvet sheath of thy paw;

One look from you, no words;

and my heart is pierced with gentleness and awe. 

Aztec Gold

Here is a poem I found scrawled hastily on some line paper that was stained with a great deal of sweat and smudged with dirt.

Aztec Gold

In the haunted Aztec Jungles - there is a lake of Gold!
Wrapped in skeletal embrace, they are old, old old!

The Spaniards who hug those treasures - they are cold, cold, cold!
They strode as gods on bloody temples, and they coveted the gold!

Conquerors, Adventurers, proud men; bold!
Heavy were their wages, and down they pulled!

Beware the call of Glory - know the price it holds:
We have sung their story, now let them keep their gold!

The Big Muddy Mountain

Once there were two grunts who were marching somewhere because they wanted to be warriors. There was a whole column of grunts marching this day, but these two were at the very back. They were marching up-hill and they had big heavy packs.

One grunt tried to wipe sweat from his eyes but just got more sweat in them.
"This sucks." He said.
"Things will get better," said the second grunt. "You'll see. When I look up ahead I think we are close to the top, and soon the path will level out. We just have to be strong for another five minutes."

The two grunts began to march harder and put pep into their step. As they neared the top they smiled and began to pass other grunts. They were Positive.

Then they reached the top of the ridge, and it was not the top at all. The path turned and went straight up the hill again. The two grunts began to march very slowly now and did not feel so strong any more. It would take more than five minutes.

Then it started to rain.The grunts got cold and the red clay path turned slick and slippery. The first grunt slipped and fell down, and was all orange colored by the time the other grunt was able to help him up.
"This sucks." said the first grunt. "The path is still going up the hill, and now we have to be careful not fall down in this slippery mud."
"Things will get better," said the second grunt. "don't worry. I can hear a big river up ahead and it will be swollen with rain. When we reach the river bank, the officers will have to stop and let us rest until the storm is over. All this rain is a good thing."

The two grunts marched fast again, and they smiled when they saw that the rain came down in blinding sheets. They were feeling Positive again.

Then they reached the river. It was swollen and fast, but somehow the officers had crossed it and wanted everybody else to cross it too. The water came up to their chests, and they had to hold their rifles above their heads.

Now the two grunts walked slower than ever. The column began to march through a thick forest, and even though they were at the back somehow there were lots of thorns and vines that popped up in their way and grabbed at them.

"I don't think I can go much further," said the first grunt. "this trail keeps getting harder and harder."
"Things will get better," said the second grunt. "Trust me. We can't see how close we are because there are trees blocking our view, but when we turn the bend I see the trees open up and then we will see how the path gets easier."

The grunts hurried along towards the open area and tried very hard to be just a little bit positive.

Then they reached the open area and looked: The trail did not get better. The trail went down a little bit, but then went straight up a huge muddy mountain that seemed to block out the rainy sky. Even though it was mostly covered in big boulders and thick forests, the grunts could see that the path would cross not one, but two rivers. And when they could see the trail it was a bright orange-red mud that would be slippery and cold. They did not feel positive at all.

An officer noticed the two grunts and came to yell at them, but instead of hurrying back onto the trail they walked slowly towards him with their shoulders slumped. "We want to go home." said the first grunt.
"We thought we could be warriors," continued the second, "but instead we are weak and slow and feel nothing but disappointment after disappointment. You had better replace us with strong fast men who like to march up muddy mountains."

"What's this?" asked the officer. "You feel disappointment? That means you live in a real, dangerous world where things don't live up to your best hopes. That's why we need warriors. And weak and slow? That means you are finally pushing yourselves harder than you ever did before."

The grunts did not say anything.
"Now you will march up that trail with your column," ordered the officer. "and you will not think of the end, or how good or bad things are. You will not wonder how much farther you can go or when you will stop. You will march because you are strong and your hearts are steadfast and because you will be warriors."

Then the two grunts did as they were told. They did not think about how tired their legs were, or make up stories about how they were going to stop soon. They did not imagine how many more turns the path would take, or try to count how far they had come.

There were more than two rivers to cross, but they did not think about this at all. They did not wonder when their legs would get too heavy to lift or when the officers would let them rest. The path got steeper and steeper and their legs burned with pain and their breath grew ragged in their throats, but they did not wonder when the mountain would stop rising in front of them. They no longer thought about the future or fantasized about the past.

And then suddenly, they were at the top. The column was allowed to drop packs and rest. Grunts sank onto their packs in exhaustion, but the two who had been at the back walked to the edge of the top and looked to see what was ahead.

Before them, the path wound down the mountainside, through rivers and boulders and up and down lesser ridges. Then it sank down into a deep dark forest and finally entered a wide flat valley where a town full of strange people was gathered. The road went straight through the town and back up more foothills until it disappeared over a cleft in two mountains into the blue lands beyond.

But the grunts did not care. Things were going to get better, because they were strong and stubborn, and they were going to be warriors.



  

Who are you

Who are you,
When your last bottle is emptied
When your last fan goes home
When the stage lights dim
And no one calls the phone

Why do you,
When the rain won't fall
When you've got no hope
When your dreams are exposed
as hollow jokes

Where are you
When its the same old gutter
And the same old shame
And the same old hustlers
calling your name

I hope at last you're on empty
And I hope at last you're broke
I hope at last you're out of gas
And you know your drugs won't work

It's only at the bottom
You can really see where you are
That's why there's a floor on the world
to catch you when you fall

It's not about climbing back up
and showing the world your scars
You gotta start filling with a better gas
if you don't wanna be back in twelve hours

You've been running on fumes
about Your Hopes and Demands like a will
Stop trying to barter your precious life
and enjoy it as the gift it is still

You don't have to prove that you're Good
You're not, and you're precious to me
I've got no list for the cheap and the gold
You're all the same quality

Quit medicating your pain
with a thousand snake oil lies
Just give it to me and see where you are
when I lift the fog from your eyes

I know you're in a dry and weary place
no matter how you dress it up
This desert was always here
and I can tell you it stretches as far as you fear
but through me you'll find the way out.

So trust me if you dare
and believe against your eyes
You'll see who you are and where
When you give to me your why

Some jumbled prose

While I was cleaning up an apartment that I (incorrectly) believed I had been invited to tidy, I came across some roughly folded papers that had formed a sort of sedimentary layer at the bottom of a bag. After I managed to excavate the area and unfold the badly damaged bits of papers (mostly receipts, bills, and warning letters from an institution) I discovered that somebody had written bits of poems on them in a fading blue ink. Unfortunately, the owners of the apartment returned before I could properly transcribe them, and I was evicted - in all fairness quite politely- from the premises.


I was young and foolish when the road first called to me
I thought if I ran fast enough I could glimpse eternity,
just beyond the horizon as far as the eye can see
The setting sun and the rising road beckoned dreamily.

The wind has wandered far tonight,
and it must rest 'neath twinkling stars

the wind is weary, worn and spent
and settles sweet its beating heart.

The moon is old and wise and wary
of the vows it hears youths swear
for Love is ancient, strong and doughty,
and cannot be summoned by empty air.

The wind breathes hard as it runs its race:
a sprint above the world around
but keeps up straight its determined face
towards the end - if it can be found.

I am young and foolish still and the road still calls to me
though where I go I do not know for it bends most dreadfully
My favorite tales are grim to read where the end is hard to see
I only hope this winding road will one day set me free.

The Man in the Whirlwind

The Man in the Whirlwind

Out where it's flat I see a man walking
No trees grow on the plains
The grasses bow for a storm is brewing
The winds ride wild with the rain

The sky grows black though the sun's still shining
the clouds speak death for the man
His path is long and the day is winding
The winds run free in this land

Lightning cracks but the rain won't pour
Fires have swept o'er these lands
The man won't flinch though the heavens roar:
He's holding a bird in his hand.

A black-eyed sparrow in the palm of his hand
He'll see her safe and sound
With the wind and the fire he understands
There's death for a bird on the ground

The dust and the sand are stinging his face
He cups his hand to his chest
He leans as he walks and quickens his pace
In his house the man may find rest

The fires come racing over the plains
they dance to devour the land
But the whirlwind leaps and blows them away
the man is the wind's oldest friend

The fires burn past save for a small patch of grass
There's a man in the heart of the storm
creatures too small to have survived that at all-
They're alive around the man in the storm
 


No tree grows where that man goes, for the wind and the fire are strong,
But still he walks with his timid flock, though his road be dark and long.
 



 
 
 

Where I belong

Where I belong

Late one night, while gazing at stars

that blazed like eyes of ancient fire

And trembling ever so slight

from wintry cold and lost desire,

I turned my face up towards that swathe of light,

and asked my King if I would find

A place where I might rest at last.

For not in the citied coast do I find comfort, 

not in its smells, or idols that steal the mind away

from any world beyond its cramped and shrinking borders, no. 

There men dream of better days, like swine in a pen they cramp and lie,

fancying far off exploits of their wild kin until the grimy metal truck arrives,

and they die. 

"I am an animal with no wood," I cry, "save a pleasant city park! 

I rushed from edge to edge and saw

the neighborhood rise up like walls, and it is growing dark."

'Be still,' I heard my Captain whisper,

'And know that you belong with me.

'In this moment cease your shaking and feel at last some certainty.'

'A wanderer I made you, a beast that shies from common roads,

'Blessed or cursed to see no farther than the bend beyond your nose.'

'Listen for my heartbeat child, and find comfort in that endless song,

On any sojourn you are no stranger, 

For by my side is where you belong.

Horizon

I found this poem dotted onto a sun-bleached hankerchief that was kept on the dashboard of a massive rusty tractor-trailer with an inordinate amount of spikes. The name of the poem is

Horizon

I've been trapped in a prison of faces,
all of them look just like mine:
hollow eyes for empty places-
masks for shame and wistful smiles.

Round and round I make my paces,
the door unbarred to gall my pride,
no chains could chafe or be more hated
as those that hold me back inside.

A ruined street, a single rebel,
the stage stands still for my ticking heart,
my wardens approach and cast long shadows,
my will and hopes to quickly thwart.

But Lo! I'm headed for a new horizon,
opening below the virgin sky,
gold-white salt flats and a dawn vermillion,
rise up to meet me as I travel by!

Dawns turn to days that turn to midnight,
and I fear my resolve may flicker,
Lord that I might travel towards your light,
and travel stronger, quicker!

There was a bowl of bracken water
in my prison, foul to taste.
And though it seems this desert empty-
I know I pass from strength to strength.

In my dungeon the air was breathless,
and black the ceiling hung low to crush me,
Here I gaze into infinity,
pursue the endless with felicity,
feel the winds caress and kiss me,
and chart my progress by the stars.

Lo, I see a new horizon!
A desert golden-white and bare,
some say I will die of thirst
in pursuit of empty air.

Others that I should have never left,
my prison was in fact a haven;
better to be poisoned, broken, craven,
than wander to an early death.

But I believe in new horizons
just beyond the reach of human eyes
and I will gladly traverse this desert
until it lead me to paradise.

False Dichotomy

"I know it's hard to accept the Facts, but the Truth is that there is no god."

The crumpled logo on his T-shirt moves as he waves his arms about. It tells a very funny joke if you happen to watch the tv shows he watches and believe the things he believes and studied Science as much as he has.

He has a beautiful face; pale but intense, with articulate, sensitive eyes. It's too bad that he doesn't believe he's beautiful. He doesn't believe in Beauty. Secretly, he wishes he were a knight in 12th century Europe with a sword in his hand and his eyes hardened behind the slit of his great helm as he faces off alone against a pillaging army of rapacious mercenaries. But he's born in the 21st century, and he's been taught to know better. The internet and some movie writers in Hollywood have explained to him that there were no righteous knights.


"You may not like it, but what the Bible is teaching is clearly my point of view, where God just made sinners to burn in Hell because they didn't cognitively assess their eternal options and pick the most beneficial and profitable choice like I did."

He tries to look serious, maybe a little grim but also passionate. It's hard to look grim or passionate in a pair of (ironed) khaki slacks, with a little white collar poking out of the top of your (monochrome, earth toned and expensive) woolen sweater.

 He's leaning forward, which does help you look engaged, if you are leaning forward to thump your fist on a battle map and affix your generals with a zealous eye. We're all awkwardly leaning forward to see each other's faces because we've placed our folding chairs in a loose circle, with large gaps in between us to fit our purses, coffee cups, and sense of security because we don't actually know each other that well.


How boring it must be to fit the entire universe into a cramped white-walled office-space lit by a florescent light. To be able to collar God with a necktie and use it as a leash, ask Him to show some respect and keep quiet while you review your church's financial quarter.

How tiring too, to eat of the Forbidden Fruit, only to discover that Rebellion means living a virgin in a basement somewhere watching videos of fake women pretend to love men with more muscles than you, unless by some lucky chance you manage to enter a 3-month marriage to some girl with daddy issues who's willing to exchange (safe) sex for emotional support. (The exchange rate is typically about 8-12 hours of listening for 1 3-second rush of Dopamine. Endorphines and depression reduction varies on how much self-worth you put on your genitals.)


Aren't we tired of this yet? Aren't we all sick, ready to vomit all over our leather-bound study bibles we open once a week?

We're all marching in step to the booming loudspeakers that tell us which side we're on and which side to hate, two identical armies bleeding red human blood for control of a world as colorless and claustrophobic as a tomb.

But stop listening to the loudspeaker for a minute. For one second, stop taking this war seriously. Because its purpose was never to motivate you, but to block out the music we've been hearing since we were born.

Do you hear it now? The winds of heaven, blowing down off the slopes of the mountains of God? Those roaring, buffeting winds that strike a frequency in our hearts, causing them to sing?

Can you hear it now? the pattering and thundering of God's rain on the roofs we've constructed to keep it out, the slashing monsoons to this thirsty world?

Can you taste it yet? The brine from that crashing, endless sea? The grey, aching horizon that calls you to leave all behind?


I'll be damned if God isn't actually bigger than the fortresses we've created to wall ourselves off from the world. Maybe the reason it's gotten so dull in sunday school is because we couldn't fit God in our newly purchased youth building.

And if the Facts point to a meaningless universe where we drift aimlessly to our deaths, then try and stop me from wandering to every corner of it, play-acting at being a hero for my invisible God.

Because if there's one thing I do know, is that this world we've constructed is one huge cattle-schute, to funnel us, heirs to the Infinite Kingdom, away from our destiny. And I choose to believe that our destinies will find us the day we stop being controlled by our fears and false desires.

I'm just one little boy-man with gossip issues who inspects his biceps in the mirror and finds them wanting. But from this day forward I don't want to keep accepting the role of a gagged wooden puppet, pretending to be perfect and have all the answers.

Since all men die, I'd rather die gripping my King's banner in the free air than lie embalmed in a flowery casket. If I'm going to live for God's love, than it's real love, all the way. The love that gives this world color and and breaks down our strongholds and chains and sets us free from the suffocating identities the devil tells us is our destiny.

Destiny

I found this poem at a busy intersection, where the signal lights were confused, the drivers seemed to be (mostly) unaware of the intersection at all, and as I consequence I nearly was run over half a dozen times. The poem, which was written on the back of a crumpled boarding pass, was lightly dusted with sand. I have a deep suspicion that the author is either dead, or will not complain if I publish it here.


Destiny

Whether in joyous love or thirsty hate,
to be consumed, we yearn.
Not for the cold ground and touching cold gold, are the God-children born.
No, if there is one thing I trust for certain,
one thing I have learned;
in the heights of heaven or the depths of hell,
men were made to burn.

Eye Contact

This is a poem which was written by a man who wanted to believe he possessed the qualities required to become a free-styling rap singer. The meter and structure go out the window in this one, but maybe my rapping friend could argue that is the soul of 'free style' . Judge for yourselves, my readers.

Eye Contact

He always says nothing; but he has a mountain to say,

he feels helpless knowing that she'll go away,

he's angry at himself and her, in a way,

because deep down he wishes she'd sit down and stay. 

They meet when he's strongest; 

For me it was the day,

When he's strong he's ashamed 

of the part that he played:

He's failed yet again, and knows who to blame. 

She takes many forms: friends, crushes, sisters,

oblivious of how his mind has been twisted,

how dark the places that last night he visited. 

He lashes himself with his own sense of Honor,

after so many failures his mantra seems hollow,

But denial tastes bitter and a tough thing to swallow. 

It's sad just how easy he can say that "I'm broken."

It's freeing at first, after that's spoken. 

But then it seems that the gates of his pride are ripped open,

leaving him free to sink in his poison. 

Dammit! He curses, there must be point to this shame,

surely there's a purpose for disappointment and rage,

surely dreams and ideals have not passed from this age-

can I ever live wholly, can I ever live free, 

is there a chance that I'll always want to be clean?

Wanting. Now there's the stuff. 

What we desire controls us, it will shape what we love. 

If I want to climb higher, will that be enough? 

Christ knew this in a world of hard iron and stone,

that evil is inside us when we think we're alone;

That it is in our own hatred where the murder is done,

and we fail and betray Her with the lust from day one. 

God save me! he cries, maybe this time he means it. 

The Lord works in our weakness; He cleans and redeems it,

Given chance after chance, at last he'll wake up and seize it. 

It's hard to be clean without wanting to change,

It's easy in the pigsty to stay just the same, 

But once from all his addictions he tries to escape,

The prison collapses from this leap of faith. 

Leave it all behind, every last indulgence!

the small ones are seeds for their unstoppable parents

If this leaves you alone - become a knight errant,

those demons will scatter once you take up forbearance. 

They'll seem like good friends- with which you had fun,

reliable mates with whom you've had a good run-

Damn them to hell, those devils are lying;

they were sucking your blood and your true life denying. 

What he really was chasing

when he bought all their lies

was a word with that lady 

and to look in her eyes. 

To be a man to his woman,

and a son to his God,

to win the battle for honor

 he did not realize he fought.

Oh yes I know how heady are the drinks Satan serves,

but I've tasted sweeter things in Christ's endless reserves.

Once you've felt the free air hit your face with sting,

You can't just go back to hell's stale gathering

of the objects and toys that broken men buy 

because they're ashamed that they won't look Her straight in the eye.

Awe

One time,
when my eyes were very large, and filled with tears I could not explain,
I saw you.

You showed yourself to me, for a half a second, for eternity. My heart could not bear up the wonder of your story, nor my mind cache your glory. There are fractured images, cartoonish now in memory, and that feeling, that caused me to weep with awe.

Bare arms with a golden arm ring, light flashing off your mail. You are victorious, naught could stand in the end against your purity. There was love, and sacrifice; a thousand times rewarded. There is hope, carried through a thousand dark nights until at last it blossomed in light and joy. Your hair is tossing in the wind, crimson now like the blood you had shed for love. There is a wind blowing off the mountains, and where it touched there is no fear.

But most of all, I was comforted. I had been sick with despair that you were small and fake, imprisoned in a few deluded imaginations or confined to a screen or a page. But in that moment when my eyes were opened it seemed you were huge, real, in ways that I was not, nor could explain. I felt flat and two-dimensional compared to you, in that eternal moment I realized you were looking in, and I was looking out.
 I was a creation, finite with limits and boundaries. And you, with all your mighty descriptions, hero of the infinite mountains, could see me. You are personal as you are infinite. You are more real than anything a thousand human minds could ever hope to compose. And I will one day rejoice to see you face to face.