I love liturgy, the ancient rites
Striking chords at the heart of man,
The depth of sin, the cost of grace-
Where we stood, where we stand.

Ageless insights passed age to age
Tools to clarify the timeless Truth
A bulwark to the aged man,
And caution to impassioned youth.

Stumbling and halting

Over my faltering confidence

You stood me up once,

And I’ve thrown me down since

Like a child in the throes

Of tantrum and rage,

So blinded by self

I can’t be engaged.

But the waters will still,

The fever will break,

The fervor I feel

The Sculptor’s hand slakes.

Ashamed again,

Of my all things supine,

I throw my face to the floor

Before The Divine-

The Almighty and Compassionate God.

I always loved Luther,

But I assumed I would be

An Erasmus or Melanchthon

In my own theology.

But now it distills, I see

The terrible gravity of sin.

I can in no way diminish

The utter depravity of men,

Which diminishes the cross, the cross!

We must first die to be reborn.

Look down, self-satisfied generation,

Into your sinful heart and mourn.

Throw all you are into the cross,

Keep nothing for your own,

For when God the Just has punished there

All you are is now atoned.

Put away the talk, the thoughts,
The clatter of self-righteous profanity
Orbiting abilities and results-
These things are vanity.

Put on the cross, the means of grace,
That crushes to death the heart of sin,
For we are a peculiar race,
Whose means justify our end.

Existence is a raging bonfire:

Risk, love, thought, desire.

Devouring more to reach ever higher

Consumption of all it acquires.

Some memories are pallid ash

Light and flake, swirling mass

Clinging, climbing upward drafts

Dissolving into the dark and vast.

Others hiss and spit and spew,

Unprepared to burn all through,

To yield to fire and to flue.

They die neither silent, nor subdued.

Whatever remains in the great ash heap,

When every ember falls to its sleep,

Refined by fire, purest of deep,

Is forged alone for the eternal keep.

Hurry now, hurry!

The wind is vicious

Tearing off the little petals,

Scattered as embittered wishes.

Each petal crashes hard, hard

Weighing down this solid stone,

This earth of dirt and time

Of teeth and tear and groan.

Who will gather the crushed petals,

From every corner trod?

Who can build the rose again,

Save alone the Hand of God?

Not because I need to speak,

To stand, to be seen or heard,

But because when I am weak

You stay strong and true to Your Word.

Not for my purpose,

But for Your affections.

Only You could work this

Dead mess to resurrection.

I am here for You alone,

And what pleases You is all

That makes me feel like home;

Your company alone enthralls.

Use me, hide me, either way

Don’t leave me to the hands of men.

Walk the unbroken union every day,

Speak unto my soul again,

Your words, not mine.

And if I am to stand

I won’t push myself up

By my two filthy hands

Palms pushing earth pushing palms.

If these words must erupt,

Control the burn and balm.

Write this story, and if need be

Use me-

For Your glory.