Guest Submission: Meditations on the foot of the Cross: A Psalm of Deliverance

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By John C. Evans (John’s work can be found here).

When all my troubles stand as night,

Before the threshing floor of my dreams,

When dusk beats grimly on my brow

And for my faults, my spirit burrows through fields of harrowing,

You, who bear in your palms the living scars

Which purchased for me the fruit of grace,

You, the architect of the worlds and tides,

Come to me, pierced through for my deliverance.

And with one breath, you dispel the storms

Rebuking the furnace of my thoughts.

You set my feet upon the rock of your unfailing word

And with Your loving Name enthroned upon the alter,

I pour out my songs of praise to you.

Behold, I empty my mind and laden soul of dismay,

And into Your mothers’ arms, I commend my patience,

As if my tears were costly spikenard   and my    melodies a Magi’s dance

As if any gesture of my impoverished spirit might suffice,

Here, at the crossroads of eternity and present,

Here, at the wounding of a lance

In blood and water, that flows from your tortured side

Through the torn veil of your body

Rent that my own might be mended.

Make me whole, even as you long me to be

And guide me not to lean on my own understanding.

For no greater wisdom has there proved

Then your own, crucified for love of fools

That these, in time might learn that you are The Way

And learn in grace what no tongue may steel

That You, though you were surpassing rich

Emptied yourself for us to the end

Becoming poor upon the dark beams of The Tree

In order that we, wretched and forlorn

Might receive mercy through your offering

And not perish in Adam’s place.

I the greatest of all fools

Thought I knew a sage’s name

Until the day, I first looked on you

And beheld   the victory above all triumphs

Disguised in the    garments of defeat.

You, being God, the eternal Word

In lacerations crimson, in pardon    unhesitating

Have put to death every friend and foe

Have chained the serpent and the lion to their undoing.

It was not the anguish which bound you to that cross.

It was not the nails which so kept you,

But love of me   and for my blemished soul

That in You, I might be ransomed.

© 2019, Anthony Stine. All rights reserved. You may reuse or copy this post by giving credit and providing a link.

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