Adam's Lament

Where are you?
Come, though quotes construed
        in careless form,
                Let me see your face,
                your fearful frame.
Come, though trepid and terse
        your timbre trembles,
                Let me hear your voice.

Indeed, I know the apple 
        has fallen
        far from the tree.

Now to draw, not to drive,
        Seek ye I.
Near in judgment that provides,
        I come.

May I still address you, 
        Creator King,
        Covenant One?

Treading your turf,
        I'm afraid we've made hollow
        what was held hallowed
                even your sacred song.
        I'm afraid we've smeared
        the sacramental surprise
                of innocent encounters.
        I'm fearful
        of this naked nuisance
                nearness now brought to naught.
        I would weep,
        yet even emotion, 
        the oozing of heart through orifice,
                is an empathetic transcendence
                you've yet to make immanent.

Is there a way?
A way of reorientation
        that doesn't trail eastward?
A way of reintegration
        that keeps us intact?
A way of broken intimacy
        that will taste in the slightest
                like the Garden we now grope
                with grief and gore
                        maybe to grasp some inch of your greatness?

For all the ways we've wasted this lot,
You unleash Heaven's hell-bound plan,
Tutored in somatic song,
Lament is language you have taught.
And come now we, 
        broken, breaking, to be broken again before You,
        until you piece us back to peace.

Empathetic, horrified,
        Immanent now, with tear-filled eye,
                I curse the ground you mortify.
Hand-in-hand, leading I
        desire deep to rectify
                all-in-all from earth to sky.

And lo, though no longer in Eden, 
I am with you. 
        Still with you.

Verily Embrace the Dying of the Light

Do not pioneer into that good night,
Nor even ensue with impoverished sight,
Verily embrace the dying of the light.

Gushing headlong into Adamic grey,
Remember who seized his Son's faithful fall,
Vicarious, enfleshed, my sorrow today.
Verily embrace the failure of the night.

When bending sickle's compass came,
Dressed and draped in bloodguilt's plight,
Accuser of the Brethren yield:
Comes now the Christ encased the same,
to cleave to God in Preston's name,
Wherefore our Holy Dad delights.

Do not fall first into that fair night,
Fear not your frail and fickle frame.
Comes now he to give of his name,
Verily embrace the dying of the light. 1

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1 I owe partial poetic inspiration and structure to Welsh Poet Dylan Thomas' well-known work, "Do not go gentle into that good night." I also owe dearest thanks to Chesney Crouch who brought back to my attention a wonderful article by C. Baxter Kruger entitled, "The Hermeneutical Nightmare and the Reconciling Work of Jesus Christ," one of many sublime chapters in the book, An Introduction to Torrance Theology. 

Shall We Bend the Knee?

Shall we bend the knee to our
        reasons?
Multitude they are.

Shall we kneel before
        Lady Reason,
        dressed in red as she approaches the tower
                we once knew to be sacred?

Don't suppose to prevent presuming
on profane and not priestly.

Quickly.

Before I enshrine this fine line
        of wit over wailing.
Before I down my idolatry
        with the well-mixed wine
        of disembodied logic.
Before that which is immanent
        is the only remnant.

Remember.

Remember God is not confined to
        ordinary lines.
Remember he is closer than
        your heart beat,
        even thought it can't be heard.
Remember that through your rendering,
        he is the one re-membering you.

May we never lose our wonder.
        May we never lose our wonder and awe.
                May we never lose our wonder and awe and
                imaginative liturgies.

You are the God who dances and winds us up
        to love you.
You are the trinitarian poiesis,
        the fount of exchange.

Make of us a kingdom,
of priests and poets.

This Linen Heart

Please,
May I place my fleece
before You again?
You know, on the threshing floor?

You always know.

May I spread out a garment,
double-sided, twisted
inside out, and back again
only to find
You've unwinded
me?

Please, like my primal parents,
may I take something,
a twig, figleaf,
fashion for myself a covering,
only to find You
undressing my newly known nakedness,
and reclothing me
with a good thing?

But now I need to remove that
tanned varmit again,
not because I don't want it,
or need it,
or love its covering.

I need to test You.

I need to know,
beyond the shadow of turning and doubt,
that You are with me.
After all, is it not in Your coming with me
that I am great?

Please show me a sign of favor.
Once, twice, thrice over
and again.

Let me see Your fire devour my dinner,
let me lay out this pitiful,
beautiful, messy, and put together again
rag of a heart.
Drench it with the patience of Your kindness in my uncertain searching,
my careful regard,
and in my inscrutable dumbfoundedness
at the glory of Your response.
And yet I know You love this dialogue,
You hunger for it,
because it honors Your great worth,
and heals my heart, Your son,
now made strong.
Please dry this war-torn heart and soul,
dignify me with distinctions of grace,
and flood its surroundings
with the peace of Your presence.

May I know You, the Father,
with whom there is no shadow or variation
due to
change. May I know You, and that
You go with me, before me, and behind me,
and have sent me with full blueprint,
full steam ahead,
where only adventure, grace, healing,
and praise awaits us both.

Let me lay this fleece before You again.

You have my linen heart.

Condescend Again

Your years, they never change.
Never change.

You, whose years endure,
can condescend?

Yes, yes, you ascended, I know,
that I confess willingly.
Maybe even to say you ascend continually,
bearing my fleshly presence in your own
before Papa.

But condescension?
Doesn't that undermine who you are?
Wouldn't you be too close?

Please, don't come too close.
I've barred off some parts I'm quite sure
you wouldn't bear to see.

You see, this is for your own good, God.
I know you have holy ears,
so I want to protect you from my filthy, hurting speech.
I know you have holy eyes,
so I want to protect you from my writhing, body in anguish.
I know you have holy smell,
so stay away from my rotting corpse of a soul.
I know you have holy taste,
so please don't let your lips meet mine.

And yet.
You know whats best.

You know all along,
my fight and struggle was merely
an ignorant reaching,
a feeble prayer,
a pathetic plea,
to the God I know is Salvation.

And now, as then, you condescend.
Pro Nobis, and now En Nobis.
You enter into my reality,
and bring me to share in your own,
Triune God of the gospel.

Would you grant,
most merciful Papa,
that sweet legacy
may cut through
the vanity?

Would you see to it
that your faithfulness,
manifested in this charismatic life,
may bear fruit,
powerful, poignant fruit,
that cuts through the white noise
of our day?

I feel your breath,
I see your hand,
I anticipate your leading.

Come and condescend again.

The Feeling

Its really just the feeling.

You know the feeling,

        

        when out of nowhere, everything hurts

        

        and nothing makes sense. 

The strange and sudden feeling, 

        that everyone around is 

        unfaithful. 

The feeling, 

        that those closest and most dear

        are out to get you

        as even your perpetrator of old. 

Why is this ancient narrative

        reenacted in ways more horrifying 

        than even Golgotha?

Why are our streets filled

        with the rape-screams of innocence scattered?

Why do the bounds of perverted intimacy

        in Your fallen garden, O Lord, 

        know no end?

How long O Lord?

How long til your perichoretic power

        pervades the filth of our nation?

How long til Word made flesh

        is spoken so closely, 

        that Holy Breath is perpetually felt?

How long til songs and sonnets

        no longer serve as sacramental lament, 

        but are freed unto their ancient mirth?

And yet you remain. 

You remain the Source of holy desire, 

        when my heart can't feel it. 

You remain the Bread of life, 

        when my mouth can't taste it. 

You remain the River of living waters, 

        when my soul can't drink it. 

You remain the Tutor of my theology, 

        when my mind can't savor it. 

You remain the Light of my creativity, 

        when my being can't express it. 

You remain the Flood of my emotion, 

        when I am overcome. 

Son of God, son of man, 

You are that truest feeling, 

        that remains. 

Dare I Say

A conduit that connects, this intimacy
now runs dry.
I'm not so sure
this soul-cleansing channel
that builds and binds
can be open for business anymore.

No.

The stream once riveted toward longing
and sacred desire...
Dare I say...
has long been dried
for quite some time
and only now I perceive it so.

Stop staring into my shame-filled
eyes.
They dry up from crying
and I am...
Dare I say...
enraged.

Contempt has long been my
secret savor and power
to defeat shame or...
Dare I say...
to simply self-medicate.

I am only at the onset of
this scary surprise.
Perhaps I have...
Dare I say...
Some healing yet to happen.

Painful to be sure.

I will walk through this flame...
Dare I say...
In the heat of your gaze.
I will not look away.

Sear through my sin with the
clean light of your holy eyes
my Lord.

I promise I will allow
your sight to
pierce mine.

Dare I say...
I will not look away.