there's a spring in my step
and I mean the season of blooming the season of showers and sunshine the season of weeding and pruning the season of the smell of manure and dirt maturing into a fresh floral fragrance the season of birds singing and bees buzzing the season of hummingbirds and butterflies i'll wear flowers on my feet, my hair, my heart and let their petals be tousled by the wind that ever-playful wind that whispers melodies whistles heavenly mysteries and dances dances in and through living things to shake them loose of stiffness and propriety and usher in an abundance of joy There's a different kind of blood on my hands,
It doesn't stain, it washes me clean. There's a new kind of blood on my hands, It restores and renews every broken thing. There's a fresh kind of blood on my hands, It is your blood, my king, and it sets me free. A friend one time invited me to a wedding,
"Who's the couple?" "Well, come and see. You'll learn along the way." I had things to do already that day, "Maybe another time. Maybe the next surprise event. I can't just drop everything For something I don't fully understand." Another day a stranger came, Stopped by my office, had something to say, If it weren't for the earnestness in his eyes I might have turned away, but his burning Heart nearly set my chair on fire, Another wedding, another feast, I still didn't get it, why was I wanted? Why did he go out of his way to invite me? I still can't come today, Besides, I don't have on wedding clothes. A young girl came dancing down my street, Leading a whole parade of all kinds of people. I saw the joy in her steps, Heard the humming uniting her heart With the hearts of all those going with her, I half-wondered but then I knew, I knew where they were going, They were going to the wedding. My heart cried, "Take me with you!" And she saw me, paused, and came To offer her hand to me in friendship, I hesitated. Was it still right that I was invited? I've turned the offer down before -- "What does your heart say now, In this moment?" she asked me. "I want to know the bridegroom. I want to see his face. But I feel undeserving." "Will you accept his grace?" "I will. Yes. I do." "Come with us. Join the song." I take her hand. She smiles. Her grasp is secure. Then she dances, and I dance with her. We are going to a wedding, a feast, We are going to honor the generous host, The bridegroom-king, We are going and by his grace We are made beautiful. “Jesus is the Son of God!”
The demons cower and say, “We know.” The humble weep and say, “We receive Him.” It is good armor, yes,
But it wasn't made for me; I fight differently. Move freely, sing all the time, Sleep under those numerous stars That sing back at me and remind me Where my help comes from: My help comes from the Lord, Maker of heaven and earth. I'm the youngest, yes, But not all wisdom comes from age. I look back at other younger sons, Jacob, Joseph, Judah, Moses, Moses was a shepherd, too, Who led the Israelites out of Egypt With a staff in his hand And the Name of the Lord on his lips, The same God who goes before me. So, no, I'm not afraid of this Philistine. I've slain bears and lions more cunning, Who is he against the Lord Almighty? My brothers, why are you so afraid? My brothers, do you have so little faith In the right arm of our God? I will go out with my sling and a shout And the Lord will give us the victory. Oh Israel, get ready: the Lord our God is one. I like this old coat.
It's been with me through all kinds Of weather, sure it's got its holes, But that gives it character; It's got big pockets, too, for holding things. Yes, they've got holes, too, but just small ones, Only something like a pearl would fall through. Look here, it's a good coat; It's been in my family for years. Patched up and stitched back together Over and again by work-worn hands, The sweat, blood, and tears of generations Invested in this old coat that's still a coat, Yes, sometimes they were cold wearing it, But they powered through and now I'm here, Why should I ask for anything different? Who's to say what you have is better? Who's to say if I take this coat off for a second You won't take it and run, Leaving me uncovered. Huh? Who's to say? Who's to say that multi-colored, woven thing You're offering to put on me will hold up In a blizzard or a dust storm or a war? You say it's made of wool and gold, Tested by fire and flood, and brand new. Brand new. Well, who paid for it? I'm not trying to mooch what I haven't earned, I worked hard to inherit this coat, Who paid for it? How much does it cost? It's free. Pfaw. It was paid for by a king. Sure. What's the catch, huh? I knew it. I can't keep this old coat if I take the new one. And what if the new is not as good as you say? Paid for by a king, oh the king, what kind of King just gives things like this away? The bride will become more beautiful.
It is written. It is done. The bride will become more beautiful. She will set her gaze on the Son. All the chaos of the world Cannot stop His wind-like whispers, Cannot quench the fire in His eyes, Cannot dry up His voice like waters. Voice of God, come quickly. Voice of God, be released. Voice of God, tear our hearts. Voice of God, restore all things. I keep losing my masks,
The pretty and patterned ones, The ones I purchased for myself, I keep losing them; I am not a forgetful person. As a poet, this feels like an easy metaphor, That the masks remaining in my pockets Are the simple white ones I got for free, The ones fulfilling their purpose with humility. I keep losing my masks. You keep reminding me: Grace is a gift and not earned, Service is the heart of the king, Simplicity in faith is what you ask of me. You want to see me clearly
You want to know what I'm about You want to know why there were always these crowds Why all the sick people and outcasts dared come out to see me You heard the voice from heaven saying "I have glorified My name and will glorify it again" You asked Simon Peter if he knew me You stood near the centurion who declared "Surely this man is the Son of God" You saw me die Days later you passed by Mary on the street You were nearly blown over by her joy None of it made sense to you, not quite Not quite But you can't get the image out of your head Of those seven baskets left over of bread You haven't stopped trying to understand You still want to know what I'm about Well I am here before you now You may ask me Face to face You may come close Come close Come and see |
AuthorI write to process. I write to explore. I write with the hope of sharing truth greater than my own. Archives
February 2022
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