A Sonnet of Praise

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.


Out of Tune

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!”

The Grip of Grace

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.”

Dreaming of the Beach in January

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.