I.
Ideas are useful idiots
Memories, delusions
Truth is not secret but silent
And speech is the language of dreams
II.
In the absence of grace plans arise
And substitute prejudice for knowledge
In this land of shadowed hearts
The purposed cures still make us ill
III.
Wisdom is shown as foolishness
Reflections, mere simulation
The past, the future, both pollutions
Know this: we are here now
Near Bethany there was a colt
Never used, never useful
No one but God knew why
Could it be that
He was born to
Give the Lord a ride?
A simple thing
A single moment
Don’t we wonder what we’re for?
It seems to be human
To want some explanation
Why oft we feel we’re just standing around
While it it true that
Something may be coming
Or there is yet some shining moment
It would be amiss
To waste the day
Wondering if this is it
Blue sky and a bird in flight.
You say you have no comfort,
But at least I bring you hope.
That the liberty we suffer
Need not be cause to stumble.
Do not grieve these felled idols,
Now joy is fast approaching.
If you can not take my comfort,
Grant me bring you hope.
Even now what breaks your heart
Struck then the great apostles.
But when dawning ages turn,
Now freedom to, then freedom from.
For in Him is our comfort,
And His promise is your hope.
The bread He gives is real food,
From His well He draws true drink.
The Son of Man in glory
Will then break death from life.
Fearful wars and terrible seas
Imprison us within walls of doubt
Will it fall on me; or will I lose my love?
What food will my children find on the table?
The sounds of our grumbling stomachs
Drowning out the sound of silence
Thankful hearts quickly return again to greed
He said watch out for deceivers
The worst ones are in our own hearts
We say to ourselves, “I am He”
And we follow the piper of our tune
We drink to numb ourselves to false peace
And we dance the frantic dance
Because we believe only the still are dead
hat-tip: A Desert Seeker
This is another one that’s not mine. I’ve been rediscovering Stephen Crane. It was quite a surprise to find that some of my poems bear striking resemblance to his work.
I saw a man pursuing the horizon
I saw a man pursuing the horizon;
Round and round they sped.
I was disturbed at this;
I accosted the man.
“It is futile,” I said,
“You can never–”“You lie,” he cried,
And ran on.–Stephen Crane
He said the strong do what they will
Clinch the tools in mighty fists and strip out the soul
The glint in their cursed eye is rebellion
Ruling by force, they cannot rule themselves
Tearing apart mountains with ferocious machines
And the weak suffer what they must
Hand chained to foot, reduced to mere means of others
To live is to dare to stand within the stampede
And burn like trees felled in the fire
Mercy, mercy, mercy me
But the holy walk through a world of prayer
Not blindly does wisdom know it has foolish plans
For them to love is to fight a battle worth the loss
Drinking deep of the well, they water the world with grace
Obediently they bleed
I do not love God because I do not love my brother
My sister is unknown to me
And my father now estranged
I have seen men die and still not known compassion
Who will sing hymns for me when I pass through the grey?
Some seek solitude for prayer and to walk evening-tide with the Lord
But for me it was that I might not bespoil His images
They are safe for my loneliness
Exhausted in sin the labors of the cross look easy
Now knowing grief for the slow death of my pride
But I am chained to my broken heart and tears cloud my eyes
So then I once was a great man of ideas
But ideas were idols my thoughts bent towards in worship
And I am learning to wonder
Why I have been told just to be
When being this is what I am
Gaze into the mirror O man, O mortal one
Has the image of Caeser yet been etched into the face
Or perhaps some hero of this empire of dust
Is there the countenance of mother
Or father
Dare ask if man and beast be mistaken
Consider then not a face but a life
Who’s life does it imagine
That of the powerful glittering gold of fools
Having a robe of fine linen
Or tossed about shoulders a purple cloth soaked in blood
Some may have the glory of the imperial command
But who looks like the leper
Or the cast off
Or a child
Shall I crush my own heart by speaking plainly
Shall we conform to her image that is most like unto His
Or hope to resemble the assembly of those who came after
Can we even pass for ourselves
While we wear these masks
Of horror and shame
May Him who knows mens hearts write an inscription
His name alone enough to fix our jaw
Brighten our eyes
And fill our nostrils with life
