Category Archives: Poetry

Shaped for thanksgiving

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It is not an end
That I would receive
You, and all the things
You give to me-
The daily blessings,
The sustained life,
My identity, my purpose,
Provision which goes
Way beyond the material
But which always meets
My needs there too.
No, there is an end
Far more glorious
And satisfying which
Can be so elusive
To my misshapen heart
That only revelation
And the experience
Of knowing it true
Would bring to me
The deeper truth
Of the glorifying,
Perfecting, completing
End of how you
Have remade me.
This end is an end
As it is preceded
By your presence,
Your provision,
Your redemption
And sanctification.
At the culmination
Of these things-
At the consummate
Moment of fulfilment,
My heart reaches out
To you in thanksgiving-
The overflow of
Its infilling and the
Perfect end to the
Perfect process which
Confirms that I am a son,
And I have the Son’s life.
As I am shaped like Him,
As I am shaped for You,
So I am, like Him,
Shaped for thanksgiving.

“And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.”
Col 3:17

“Give thanks always and for everything to God the Father in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ”
Eph 5:20

The Worrier

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Her cold still body
Gave no clue as to
The intensity of the
Pressure which so
Violently halted her
Heart, as it burst
Like a pressure cooker
Blowing its valve
Releasing pressure
And with it draining
Away strength until
No pressure meant
No life, dead. Done.
The irony now lost
On the worrier was
That it was the fear
Of her worst fear
That gradually, steadily,
Built up until her
Body gave up being
Constantly on red alert,
And switched off
Realising that a
Mind of fear has
More power than
A body bent on
Playing the part
Of the worrier.
Everyone could see
It coming, even the
worrier, though she
Was unable to change
A defining pattern
Of her life, where
To worry was to
Be alive – to have
Purpose and something
To occupy the otherwise
Banal existence of
Being ‘refined’ like
An emperor with no
Clothes, always chasing,
Never secure, worrying
To feel safe with insecurity.
The eternal weight loss
Diet of brie mixed with
Cholesterol reducing,
Money wasting drinks,
Seasoned with enough
Salt to turn her liver
Into cured pate, and
Pureed into slurry.
Highlighting the blatant
Inconsistency and lack
Of control, as what she
Ate was eating her,
One blocked artery
At a time, until the day
When the perfect storm
Of fat, pressure and
Worry, finally combined
Like a chemical bomb –
Exploding both the
Myths of denial, and
The flesh which tried
To tell her it was all
A ticking time-bomb.
So she got the last thing
She wanted as the
Last thing to happen
In her life, a fitting finale
To the perpetual
Pessimism and fear,
Obsessed with the most
Unimportant things
From her waking hours
Into the long hours
Of the sleepless nights
Lost to worry, and the
Worry of worrying too
Much to sleep!
Rest in peace worrier –
There’s no point
Worrying now, just
Be still in your death
And let the pressure
Be stopped for us too.

Stolen

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It was never meant to be this way;
The gifted opportunity
For strength in numbers
As we all came to terms
With our shared loss.
Taken from us, yet still with us
Her life switched from living,
To dying and dying.
Even now the frame lives
But the being is diminished.

Lucid glimpses give way
To common confusion.
The mind once full of
Endearing trivia, now scrapes away
At fading memories which
Portray a life now viewed
Through a lens refracted.
Existing or living? The question
Perpetually put through the
Slow, steady changes which
Mark the narrowing
Of days and hours until
The clock will tick its last,
And what remains will not be
The mum we knew, and can
No longer know, leaving us
To remain; not she the remnants
But we, to decide whether
To piece together what has been
Broken.

Scandalised by the loss,
The scandal spilled over;
Commoditised care and rationed
Time meagrely offered
To placate the demons of
Guilt – commanding that
“All must play the game”,
And all are bound by the
Rules which quantify love,
Like a money lender
Working the exchange rates
To maximise their gain and
Minimise their loss.

“Shame on you” if you
Will not play; will not join
The chorus of pious pity,
Where blind consensus
Determines the standard of
Truth against which
All will be measured.
All must earn their right
To be that which can come
Only through birthright.
Usurpers bear their teeth
Unashamedly; snarling at
Any who approach the gate
Without the recognition
Of who the top dog is.

Judge and jury in joint refrain,
“Fair is foul, and foul is fair!”
But in the courtroom,
None escape the long shadow
Which casts at the late hour
Of day as evening approaches,
Hurrying the sunset which will
Leave us all in darkness.
Hidden shame provides
Temporarily relief until
The day when everything
Will be brought into
The light of The Light.

In our hour of exposure
Will we see our finest
Or recoil at our foulest?
Will we see our gain
Measured in silver pieces,
Or our loss in the broken
Pieces of a family torn
By self-interest and
Callous disregard for
Open wounds and
Vulnerable feelings?
Will sick satisfaction of
Battles won give way to
A pyrrhic victory of the war,
Or will the trenches be
Dug deeper, the sludge get
Heavier underfoot?

Forsaken.
Forgotten.
Betrayed.
Stolen.

(For D&M)

Insurrection – resurrection

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In my being,
Right there
In the centre,
In the darkness,
Lies a cold,
Hard, dead heart,
Which stands up
In weak defiance
And rebellion
Against the One
Who made me,
And loves me.
My lifeless heart
Confirming the truth
That I am dead
Through my
Insurrection.

The Father calls,
The Spirit breathes,
My heart awakens
To the beauty
Of the Son,
And as I believe
His grace moves
And that which is dead
Quickens to life,
And rises up
With strong conviction
And deep certainty.
My beating heart
Confirms the truth
That I am alive
Through His
Resurrection.

Because I live, you also will live

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In the darkness
Eclipsing not just nature,
But drawing death
Like a cloak over
The Light of men,
Life is crushed,
Weighed down by
Hard, lifeless hearts.

Hanging there,
Hanging on, until
“It is finished”,
Life gives way
To the death
Which brings death –
The curse of ages
Which loves the darkness.

The lost call out,
Even in His dying hour,
“Jesus, remember me
when you come into your kingdom.”
The Life knowing that through His death,
He would have life and that life
Is life for all who believe;
As He had already spoken,
“Because I live, you also will live.”

Few gasps of life become fewer
As the darkness thickens,
The blood runs ceaselessly –
Draining the life of the one who is Life.
Ever trusting; “Father!”
“Into your hands I commit my spirit!”
If we share in His death, then
We share in His resurrection.

Wounds

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Wounds
So deep, so long lying there as a space, a gap between us.
It’s you – your everlasting and eternal majesty,
My God, my creator, my life –
It’s you who meets me in that place of unknown pain
Where wounds so deep have scarred my soul,
And in my pain I have scarred you.
Yet you received it,
And on the cross your deep wounds
Are meeting mine now.
In the meeting of my soul with you, the wounded one,
Do I see my real pain,
And only in the overwhelming and crushing experience
Of the knowledge of your eternality;
In the face of this truth –
Your face which is The Truth,
Do my wounds yield to allow you in.
Come in Lord, come deep, and place your wounds on mine.
Let it be a meeting place, of your grace and compassion
With my scarred and damaged soul.
And there let me yield to you, to your mercy,
And so let me be healed.
With you and I in that place together,
I am healed.

Isaiah 40:27-31
Why do you say, O Jacob,
and speak, O Israel,
“My way is hidden from the LORD,
and my right is disregarded by my
God”?
Have you not known? Have you not
heard?
The LORD is the everlasting God,
the Creator of the ends of the earth.
He does not faint or grow weary;
his understanding is unsearchable.
He gives power to the faint,
and to him who has no might he
increases strength.
Even youths shall faint and be weary,
and young men shall fall exhausted;
but they who wait for the LORD shall
renew their strength;
they shall mount up with wings like
eagles;
they shall run and not be weary;
they shall walk and not faint.

The Vulnerable

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We speak out for the vulnerable.
We stand up for the voiceless.
We hate injustice and are angered by it.
We believe that the weak must be helped.
We make provision for those who can’t provide for themselves.
We believe in support for the disabled and the disordered.

And yet we kill, clinically and surgically,
Our own children, when they are most vulnerable,
When they can’t defend themselves
Or express their needs.
We kill our young because we can’t manage,
Or manage to fit them into our lifestyle.
We kill because it’s not the right time for us,
Even if it’s the right time for them.
We kill because they are physically or mentally weak,
Or because they have more chromosomes than us.
We decide that a short life lived is worse
Than no life at all.
We decide there is a quality of life,
And yet deny some the chance to experience it
Because it doesn’t match our own.

When we speak out for the vulnerable, we are judgmental.
When we stand up for the voiceless, we are irrational.
When we hate injustice and are angered by it, we are emotional.
When we believe that the weak must be helped, we are unscientific.
When we make provision for those who can’t provide for themselves, we are denying rights.
When we believe in support for the disabled and the disordered, we are cruel.

I may be all those things, yet for the vulnerable, I will speak.