Jan. 22, 2011
Praise to the God of the multiverse, whose law
is love in every diverse world He’s made.
In only one universe the fatal flaw
infects creation – star, human and glade.
In all infinity, this heavy blight
lasts just a moment before He wipes it clean,
destroying every darkness with His light,
His peace replacing the chaos that has been.
Only a few reminders will remain –
holes in the hands of God, a song of grace
the rescued can’t forget – but no more pain.
No tears detract from the joy that fills all space.
“No eye has seen, no ear has heard” – the scope
of God’s love is greater than anyone’s greatest hope.
Jan. 10, 2011. Inspired after reading “Christ of the Klingons” in the December issue of Christianity Today.
If we indeed are atoms on a string
on Your guitar, what sort of melody
do we mar whenever it’s our turn to sing?
Do angels cringe when they hear us so off key,
our universe vibrating out of tune?
One third loosened the knob. This notch that man
made wrecked our part in the chorus far too soon
(barely after our perfect world began).
You will keep playing till all know the sound
cannot be worked into a pretty song,
cannot forever just be played around.
Remade, our praise can never more go wrong.
No music could ever match what You’ll play then –
all strings together cry out a loud “Amen!”
Jan. 8, 2011
Sometimes I feel Your strong arms bruise my skin,
when I rebel, frustrated to be free,
forgetting that the grip You have me in
is the protection of my liberty.
You know if I broke out from Your embrace,
the enemy would swiftly gun me down.
I am not bulletproof, and on Your face
I see the scars left from a brutal crown.
When I relax and slip my hand in Yours
and feel the hole left from when You reached out
to rescue me, the proof there reassures
that You are Good, and God without a doubt.
My squirming struggles and my restless will
calm as You whisper softly, “Peace. Be still.”
Jan. 14, 2004
The clouds stretch wide across the blue sea-sky,
not thick, but thinly spread out over miles,
and small and round, but pulled—so distant-high
in scattered groups of hundreds, almost files,
yet random just enough so that they seem
a white and bubbly sea-foam without roar.
They catch the edge of sunlight dull and gleam
as just below the surface, off the shore.
How I would like to be there jumping waves,
Letting the slow sun press me to fatigue.
But it is January. She who craves
the beach is only fooled by sky’s intrigue.
The winter wind is not always so kind
to bring a summer-picture to the mind.