It is the sound of tears falling,
Steadily, uncontrollably, but consciously;
It is a weeping, not just on the outside, and not just of grief.
It is a mixture of broken pieces,
Inside out and nothing left to hide – emptied out;
Every shard a testimony of grace and gratitude long sought.
A day dedicated to love –
Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s for the abuse of love or its celebration.
The Love I know is blood-red and disfigured,
Lacking the sweetness of chocolates and the beauty of red roses.
The Love I know is naked and priceless,
It’s value hidden in virtue, not in the price-tags of fancy red dresses.
The mysteries of divine irony:
That an ancient symbol of shame
In one day became the ultimate symbol of hope;
The price was a life so pure that shame fled.
The crying cross that weeps blood,
Lamenting at the silence of the Saints –
Silent in comfort, but powerfully verbal in persecution –
Blood-marked men wrung through the wheels of suffering
Their robes made white by a thorough washing in Blood.
On rocky shores I pitched my tent
She stayed the waves, she clasped the earth
Vicars were made of men, faint but helped
Light abounds in this mystic cove
Life and dignity fill my pews
My Holy Orders were regal
And Hades’ gates could not prevail.
I’m unqualified to write about fatherhood,
I have enough trouble just being a son;
Yet the thought is one that weighs heavily on the mind…
I realise I’m caught in a cycle where sons become fathers:
How would it feel to have a son today,
Who treats me like I treated my father yesterday,
And treats his son tomorrow like I treat him today – blessing or curse?
Take me to the Place where the saints gather,
To the convention of the just made perfect;
Where the clouds of glory settle and tongues of fire dance;
To the atmosphere so pure that I come undone to be refined.
It is where David dances and Solomon sits to be taught;
A place whose gates Sampson’s strength does not qualify him to guard.
Worship is me – good ol’ me, lying late and rising early
Thinking and writing about worship at the break of dawn;
It is you reading my words and reflecting on the nature
Of the worship you’ve offered and desire to offer.
The setting is a long stretch of road
Strewn with pearls and diamonds and rubies.
It smells of freshly baked dainties and ripened fruits;
Bright as the noonday sun and straight as a ray of light
With inscriptions engraved at every step:
Beauty for ashes; No more tears;
The message has always been one.
“Come to Me, with all your cares and burdens;
I am able, and desire to give you rest from all shackles;
To take away the stained wrinkled rags that cloth with shame;
These chains you carry do not befit My bride.
Draw close to Me; Abide in My presence patiently;
I want to share secrets and mysteries with you;
Wait on me to receive all that I have for you,
Gifts I’d prepared since the foundations of the earth.