Monthly Archives: December 2011

darkness dims

darkness dims as light’s unfolding
wrapped up in my Savior’s love
Son of God am I beholding
resting in His might above

cherish, o, those words so tender
as He softly speaks my name
at His image I remember
not my sin or dark of shame

at the right hand of the Father
judging saints and sinners all
from His precepts never wandered
from His grace never to fall

saved from that dark pit infernal
getting not what I deserve
son of God and heir eternal
at the feet of Him I serve

sharing heaven with my Savior
life not ending, glory found
resting in the arms of my Lord
resting where pure joy abounds


Olive Press

He holds me in place, gently yet firmly, knowing I won’t run.

I refuse to struggle against his grip – the ever-obedient son.

After all, Father knows best, even when I can’t make sense of it.

I just can’t help wondering, how will my suffering give anyone benefit?

As my hand brushes my skin, fear bumps swell in unison on my chest,

my face and heart involuntarily question the logic of my father’s request.


Why ask this of me? Why this? Why me? Why take what I might freely give?

Before my fears can grip me, rip me, I flip my tears away, or dam them where they live.


My adam’s apple’s swelling and getting harder to swallow.

But from Father’s eyes come peace, certainty, grace; my eyes follow.

Courage can mean a lot of things, but it does not mean fearless.

And what of Mother? Will she still laugh, or in her mourning remain tearless?

I try not to dwell too long on the coming scene, on how I will die.

I try not to think too much of the altar of twigs, of where I will lie.

Or even consider the cords that may bind my hands and feet.

My father will surely make it quick – finished before my first bleat.

So I rest on one knee, where the sacrificial oil will flow,

hesitating slightly, in case mercy he decides to bestow.


My weak body caving to my spirit yet willing:

Father, if you will, take from me this cup of suffering.


Nine Judges

Old trees stood nervously, swaying as one

arboreal chamber with walls of dismay.

Tarnished and yellowed, archaic and shunned,

limbs hanging tired in decrepit decay.

Bark fell off mangy and scabbed with disease,

rough like their voices, still churning out sneers.

Saplings and creepers, young scandalous trees,

sarcasm, ridicule, showing no fear.

Then all the trees to the bramble in scorn,

smiling and smirking, “You come be our king!”

Barbs, spurs, tines, points, prongs, spikes, prickles and thorns,

each red with tenderness after the sting.

Woven, suspended, intending no harm,

Thornbush fell wordless and stretched out his arms.