Lent: Man of Sorrows 5

I cannot stop the tide of life:
                                       it moves
at speeds I cannot calculate;
                                            it twists
and turns and undulates. It thwarts
my best paid plans, my stern-set goals.
         Nothing in
this life bends to my will;
my trunk is buffeted too bluntly by these waves;
my fists smart from clenching at the sea.
                O take me –
      too sure of my own currents, too
   accustomed to storms – take
my drifting self-assurance; pilot
headlong all my debris and
    the flotsam, jetsam of my days
        into Your streams of praise.

Lent: Man of Sorrows 4

Lay me down –

slow me down and lay me down

upon the Cross, in Jesus’ hands.

Slow my heart and silence all

the numb self-serving of my pleas;

stifle pride, unlock the clench

of fists deep in this fickle dust.

Lay me down, my soul;

lay down

my soul in Jesus’ hands. Their scars

have room enough for me.

 

Lent: Man of Sorrows 3

Obedience is a crown of thorns.
The earth’s the Lord’s;
He does as He pleases,
and it pleases Him to wear these thorns.

Joy set before Him, He endures;
joy not instantaneous, I yield.
Obedience is a crown of thorns,
and I despise this crown.

Go into the wilderness; see
all earth’s kingdoms laid at your feet.
The dilemma lies: your feet will crumble beneath the burden;
the true crown comes with thorns.

God does as He pleases and
it pleases Him to wear this crown.
Joy set before Him, He obeys;
the meek will take the earth.

Lent: Man of Sorrows 2

My God, my God:
head full of wounds, You cry.
My God, my God:
what rupture in the godhead
makes perfect veins now burst?
What depth of love plumbs so low
that even earth shakes at impact?

My God, my God, have mercy.
I wound my head and choose these depths;
yet, Man of Sorrows, You came down
that I might soar the heights with You.
If, dying now to self, I must
cry beside Your cross-shaped throne,
let me rejoice as well to know
what sorrows deck Your crown.

Lent: Man of Sorrows 1

What fuels my pride is nothing like
what You gave up – true God, true man –
when you bowed as low as bowing goes,
    as low as heaven spans.

What strikes my face is feather-like
beside the spear that pierced Your side;
my burdens roll onto the floor
     beside the death You bore.

What mercy waits, my God, my God,
at bleeding, nailed, twisted feet,
is life abundant; this is death
     which, dying, we call life.

Lent: Humility 6

Teacher, they say, grant us whatever we ask of you.
Assumptions rich in self, they see
a throne, and seats on either side;
surely theirs? For what other reason do they fight?

Yet His kingdom is not of this world;
its great ones do not presume, nor grasp.
Losing and finding self, they serve,
seeing the king Himself on His knees.

Here it begins: on knees;
and it ends here too, for humble delight
is eternal delight, having nothing to lose but the object of its joy.

So far to go, I cannot go further than this;
I kneel, confess, rip off my face.
If worship is bowing, then see, O my king,
this death of self now as my song.

Lent: Humility 5

The lie entwines with half-truths:
it pleases the eye, and wisdom seems good,
yet that which seems deceives, tears apart at the seams
the fine-woven fabric of image and praise.

Who are we? Like God, yet when
we grasp at fruit to be like God,
the image dies; the garden turns to dustbowl.
O what have we done, what become?

Grace rearranges, but grace demands
no hubris, no self. Leave haughty chins at the gate.
Raise heads, but only to trust;
raise hands, but only to pray and praise.

Surely you will be like God; yes, and only when,
like God, you know yourself in Him alone;
only when, in perfect alignment with Father,
you lose all face to win a kingdom.

Lent: Humility 4

Dust I am, precious Lord.
Though well-adorned in rags of self,
underneath I am dry bone.
Daily I wander in search of glory:
fine silks to wrap my pride;
jewels to garnish ears that do not hear;
softest leather to shoe rock-still feet.
What can clothe a heart of stone?
What perfume can disguise rotting flesh?
O Lord, I am but dust; I cling
to the roof of the earth, a cloying taste.
O gather my dust; assemble my rags;
Only in You can life be made.

Lent: Humility 3

The serpent bites deep;
venom lurks where least expected.
The heart has chasms, labyrinths, unknown even to itself.
What way out have we but to weep?

Deceitful beyond all things,
the heart’s lie is more twisted than you ever thought.
Good intentions pave Destruction’s road;
who will rid me of this body of death?

Follow the trail of tears;
enter the wilderness where, sweating blood, He kneels.
Kneel too beside Him, where spirit wills but flesh resists.
Word-made-flesh, His flesh transfigures humbled dust.

Lent: Humility 2

Bow at His feet.
You did not come here by yourself:
your knees are weak and buckle under pride,
and joints stiffen when left to self.

The road is narrow.
You must bend and bow to walk its curves;
it will not bend itself for you
and, puffed with knowledge, you will only make it burst.

Consider Him who bore
such shame, who fell such distance,
plumbed such trenches with His perfect grace,
and all the while knew joy.

Not greater than your master,
the mountain-side is no more yours than His.
If He descends, then so must you;
low, be lower still.