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.
