Immensity cloistered in a womb

I love this Christmas sonnet by John Donne:

Salvation to all that will is nigh,
That All, which always is All everywhere,
Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear,
Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die,
Loe, faithful Virgin, yields himself to lie
In prison, in thy womb; and though he there
Can take no sin, nor thou give, yet he'will wear
Taken from thence, flesh, which death's force may try.
Ere by the spheres time was created, thou
Wast in his mind, who is thy Son, and Brother,
Whom thou conceiv'st, conceiv'd; yea thou art now
Thy maker's maker, and thy Father's mother,
Thou hast light in dark; and shutst in little room,
Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb.

Let It Be Said of Us

Let it be said of us that the Lord was our passion,
That with gladness we bore every cross we were given,
That we fought the good fight, that we finished the course,
Knowing within us the power of the risen Lord.

Let the cross be our glory and the Lord be our song,
By mercy made holy, by the Spirit made strong
Let the cross be our glory and the Lord be our song,
'Til the likeness of Jesus be through us made known.
Let the cross be our glory and the Lord be our song.

Let it be said of us: We were marked by forgiveness,
We were known by our love and delighted in meekness,
We were ruled by His peace, heeding unity's call,
Joined as one body that Christ would be seen by all.

~by Steve Frey
download the song here

The Gospel of the Grace of God

A new poem I wrote today:

The gospel of the grace of God
Was planned for Jesus Christ's applause;
The end of grace, the end of sin
Is sinners making much of Him.

Unblinding light, a death that saves,
Immortal placed inside a grave;
Wisdom that confounds the wise
And opens doors to Paradise.

The brilliance of a plan so bright
Alone could shatter evil's night
And wake the deadened sinner's heart,
A view of glory to impart

The sun in all its radiance shines
Barely a glimmer next to Thine
Whose glory outranks honor, fame
Of every earthly favored name

The gospel of glory divine
Makes grace forever, always mine
To join with countless, freed from sin,
Enjoying making much of Him.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind

In 1717, Alexander Pope wrote a poem, "Eloisa to Abelard."  In the poem, Eloisa mourns over her lost love Abelard, finally coming to the realization that the love of God is sweeter than the love of Abelard.  Even still, she struggles to let go, and looks forward to heaven.  It's an amazing poem, and I commend it to you.  Here is the turning point of the poem, where Eloisa realizes that experiencing God's forgiveness and knowing the certainty of heaven is the highest of all joys.


Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue,
Renounce my love, my life, myself-- and you.
Fill my fond heart with God alone, for He
Alone can rival, can succeed to thee.


How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each prayer accepted, and each wish resigned;
Labor and rest, that equal periods keep;
"Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;"
Desires composed, affections ever even
Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heaven.
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whispering angels prompt her golden dreams.
For her the unfading rose of Eden blooms,
And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes,
For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring,
For her white virgins hymeneals sing,
To sounds of heavenly harps she dies away
And melts in visions of eternal day.


What happiness and joy it is to know the eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, a conscience cleansed by the blood of Jesus!  For me the heavenly Bridegroom prepares the bridal ring, for me the unfading rose of Eden blooms, for me there is pardon and rest and accepted prayer.

Satisfied

This is a free verse poem I wrote yesterday, meditating on Isaiah 51:17 and 22. It was a really intense two hours for me as I struggled for words to describe the cross and the wrath of God, and all that those things mean. The poem is titled, "Satisfied."


~~~~~~

Stand up, O Jerusalem,

you who have drunk from the hand of the LORD

the cup of His wrath,

who have drunk to the dregs

the bowl, the cup of staggering.

~Isaiah 51:17

~~~~~~

Stand up, people

Get on your feet

Move on, assemble:

Your Maker addresses you.

Your King has summoned you.

God Most High speaks.

From the hand of the LORD,

from the hand that opens to satisfy

the desires of every living thing--

from the hand that guides, fashions,

makes, creates--

from the hand of the LORD--

a cup.

But not a cup of blessing.

It’s a deserved cup,

an earned cup,

a cup we’ve worked for

and asked for.

And we haven’t deserved,

we haven’t earned,

we haven’t worked for,

we haven’t asked for

a cup of blessing.

This isn’t a wishy washy God who holds the cup,

this is no friendly God, “me-and-Jesus” God, safe God.

This is not a tame lion.

But oh, He is good.

Good beyond reckoning, beyond comprehension.

Absolutely, fully, completely, ever and always

good.

And that’s bad news.

Because I am bad.

Rotten to the core, corrupt in my

inmost thoughts and outmost deeds.

Shot through with lust and lies and vicious

pernicious mischievous strangling hold of sin.

And this is a deserved cup.

A cup of wrath.

Furious, lightning bolt anger,

white hot and ice cold

melting my heart and freezing my blood.

This is not displeasure, or bad mood,

or disappointment.

This is despair-of-your-life, run-to-the-hills, call-for-rocks-to-crush-your-skull,

nightmarish, vengeful, retributive,

blacklisting, hunting, holy hate--

a thousand million billion lifetimes of

concentrated apoplectic rage fermented

down to the dregs of well-deserved death.

This is my cup.

A cup of staggering

strangling

haunting

hellish sadness.

O my God, I cannot bear

to take this cup that I have bought

with a costly lifetime

of purposefully

willfully

skillfully

stealthily

boastfully

recklessly

misplaced love.

One drop of this potion

will send me staggering to an infinite death.

And in this cup I see a bottomless ocean of red,

each drop screaming for my blood.

O my God,

if You permit Justice’s sword to fall

upon my guilty guilty guilty head

I am undone

undone

undone.

Is there another way?

Remove this cup from me!

~~~~~~

Thus says your Lord, the LORD,

your God who pleads the cause of His people:

“Behold, I have taken from your hand the cup of staggering;

the bowl of my wrath you shall drink no more.”

~Isaiah 51:22

~~~~~

Stand up sinner

Get on your feet

For your Maker, your Creator,

your Savior answers you.

From the hand of the LORD--

the hand strong enough to save,

to meet and arm-wrestle

and overcome justice and meet holiness’ demands--

from the hand of the LORD--

a cup.

It is my cup.

Taken from my hands,

and given to Another.

And this other hasn’t deserved

hasn’t earned,

hasn’t worked for,

hasn’t asked for

my cup.

And yet He takes it and in this moment we see:

This is not a wishy washy God who holds the cup.

He is not a tame lion.

But oh, He is good.

Good beyond reckoning, beyond all comprehension,

absolutely, fully, completely, ever and always

good.

And suddenly, spectacularly, surprisingly,

that’s good news.

Because He has my cup.

It is a cup of wrath, and watch, suddenly:

it tips, it hovers, He cries,

it spills, He drinks.

Furious lightning bolt anger nailing Him to a tree

until His heart bursts and blood flows like water.

Horrible, wretched, screaming, bloody agony

as the dregs of my death boil over,

a violent, gruesome, mangling grace.

“Is there another way?”

Stony silence.

“Remove this cup from me!”

Heaven closes its gate,

bars the door,

shuts the window.

And the prayer that from my lips

evoked the thunderous, resounding, earth-splitting

Amen of atonement--

on His lips, rejected.

“Why have You forsaken me?”

Forsaken Him?
Forsaken Him?

O my God-- You’ve forsaken Him?

But it’s my cup, not His--

my nightmare, my curse, my gore,

my horrible, wretched, screaming, bloody agony

on His lips

as He drinks my cup.

You’ve forsaken Him--

why in the world Him,

when You should have forsaken me?

And yet there He is

staggering under the weight

of doom

of malady

of grief

of death

of despair

of mourning, sickness, crying, pain,

rebellion, treason, murder, treachery,

of a cross.

See Him stagger under the cross!

O holiness--

terrible, frightening, demanding holiness

that blinds my eyes and burns my heart

and would require THIS as payment.

This is not a wishy washy God.

This is a God who would rather scream

under the mountainous, crushing, humiliating weight

of His own astronomical standard

than let one white lie

one lustful glance

one greedy thought

one moment of less-than-perfect love

go unpunished, unanswered, undrunk.

And so He punishes

He answers

He drinks it

Himself.

Trembling, terrified, broken,

I come to the cross,

to the cup--

my cup, my cross--

and behold, it is empty.

Down to the dregs, every last drop

of rancid, calamitous,

raging rebuke

has been swallowed, consumed, drunk, finished,

satisfied.

Satisfied.

Satisfied.

Justice, holiness, wrath and love--

oh sweet and tearful,

bitter and joyful,

mysterious, wondrous, glorious,

impossible, immutable, unchangeable,

availing, pleading, saving love--

satisfied.

As Watchmen For The Morning

This is a poem I wrote this morning, while meditating on Psalm 30 and Psalm 130.  It may or not become a song at some point-- I haven't figured that out yet.

Psalm 30:5-- "Weeping may tarry for the night, but joy comes with the morning."

Psalm 130:6-- "My soul waits for the Lord more than watchmen for the morning, more than watchmen for the morning."

More than watchmen for the morning

I will wait for joy to come

More than watchmen for the morning

Though weeping tarry long

Out of the depths, the miry pit

My soul waits for my God

In His unfailing word I hope

And wait for joy to come

More than watchmen for the morning

I will wait for steadfast love

With God is plentiful redemption

So I will wait for joy to come

His promise is my power

His grace, my only plea

So armed with faith's assurance

I know joy will come to me

My sackcloth turned to gladness

My mourning into song

As watchmen for the morning

I rejoice to see the dawn

He has marked me with forgiveness

Forgotten my iniquity

My soul will sing Your praises

For joy has come to me

As the watchmen for the morning

I will see the final day

The dawning of Your glory

When every tear is wiped away

The Lamb will be the glory

And Christ will be our light

For joy comes on that morning,

The end of weeping's night

Soul, arm yourself with power

To believe God's word is true

Though night is long, 'tis nearly o'er

And joy will come to you.

Such As I

This is a poem I wrote early this last summer, after reading Charles Spurgeon's Evening devotion for May 27th.  The devotion is based on 2 Samuel 9:8- "What is your servant, that you should show regard for a dead dog such as I?"  Spurgeon writes, "If Mephibosheth was humbled by David's kindness, what shall we be in the presence of our gracious Lord?  The more grace we have, the less we shall think of ourselves, for grace, like light, reveals our impurity... At best, we are but clay, animated dust, but viewed as sinners, we are monsters indeed.  Let it be proclaimed in heaven as a wonder that the Lord Jesus should set His heart's love upon such as we are.  Dust and ashes though we be, we must and will 'magnify the exceeding greatness of His grace.'"  Pondering on that astounding and humbling truth, I wrote this poem called "Such As I."

Such as I, filthy unclean

One who cov'nants with the grave

Such as I, can You call me

Even I, condemned depraved

As one who cov'nants with the grave?

A worm and nothing more am I

And less, for I a sinner be

A rebel transgressed a thousand times

And all the curses fall on me

For I a cursed sinner be

How then can One so holy, pure

And set apart from mortal's death

Bear my curse and own my blame

Taking punishment from wrath,

Who stands apart from mortal's death?

Such as You, O Son of God

And gracious, incarnate Son of Man

Could e'er unite such great divide

And rescue me from Satan's hand

O gracious, incarnate Son of Man

Such as I, once stained with shame

Now spotless, blameless, faultless stand

Robed in white and washed in red

Before the holy Great I AM

I spotless, blameless, faultless stand

Eternal Power, Strong To Save

Here's another poem, one that I wrote a couple weeks ago in the midst of listening to John Piper's sermon series, "Spectacular Sins and their Global Purpose in the Glory of Christ" (which, by the way, I highly recommend for a worldview-reorienting study)

Eternal power, strong to save

Which once raised Christ up from the grave

Justifying godless men

And cleansing sinners from their sin

Oh the power of the Gospel!

Quickens deadened hearts to life

All the glory to the Giver

Of our sight, to see His light

Brilliant wisdom from the first

Saw and ordered evil's birth

To bring the cross, first Adam fell

Yet God still has done all things well

Oh the wisdom in the Gospel!

Plans above the minds of men

Bringing wickedness and trouble

To naught and glory in the end

Christ the wisdom and the might

Using darkness, bringing light

Great the strength He now displays

When hardened rebels full He saves

Oh the glory of our Savior!

Who took our place our praise to win

To buy us back so we could know

And love the God who cancels sin

As The Deer For Streams Of Water

One thing I do occasionally is write poetry.  More often than not, the "poetry" turns into a song, but sometimes it stays the way it is, without musical accompaniment.  For the music, you can visit http://brendanbeale.dailyverseonline.org (songs eventually find their way over there).  For the poems, I figure that I'll post them here every once in a while.  The point is not to show off a skill at crafting words; my hope is that you will be encouraged and pointed toward the glory of the Savior in new ways.

Here's a poem I wrote tonight, based on Psalm 42:1-3, Jeremiah 2:13, and John 4:14, called "As The Deer For Streams of Water."

As the deer for streams of water

Pants my heart, O Lord, for Thee

For the ever-flowing river

Living water come to me

Thirsty for a satisfaction

Which evades these cisterns poor

Worldly comforts dry and broken

Drive me to Thy fountain, Lord

Tears have been my only portion

Salty streams from barren heart

Grief and bondage, dust and ashes

Will such idols e'er impart

Yet in Thy river grace abundant

For this chief of sinners gives

Pardon for my earthly lusting;

All my cisterns You forgive

So bring my longing to the Source,

The fountainhead of life divine:

The cross, where multitudinous mercy

Makes Thy glory ever mine