The Maker of the Universe, Lyrics. By Phil Keaggy

Still my favorite Easter song.

Gerald the Writer

The maker of the universe,

as man for man was made a curse.

The claims of law which he had made,

unto the uttermost he had paid.

His holy fingers made the bow

that grew the thorns which crowned his brow.

The nails that pierced his hand were mined

in secret places he designed.

He made the forest whence it sprung

the tree on which his body hung.

He died upon a cross of wood

yet made the hill on which it stood.

The sky that darkened ore his head

by him above the earth was spread.

The sun that hid from him its face

be his decree was poised in space.

The spear which spilled his precious blood

was tempered in the fires of God.

The grave in which his form was laid

was human wrought his hands had made.

The throne on which he now appears

was his…

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/

Ah, the in between. Hope differed.

Gerald the Writer

Leaning toward Sunday,

Tilting away from Friday,

Today is a back-slash.

A hyphen won’t suffice.

An and/or proposal,

Crux of a both/and scenario.

This end of a Holy Week,

Feels likes an ellipsis…

This Saturday,

Post back lash,

pre punctuation scars.

This in-between

where faith hyper ventilates

and doubt choke holds.

Where a stone weights

the wounds of the world.

Friday/Sunday

Before/After

Death/Resurrection

Both/And.

/

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Stationary

Gerald the Writer

Waiting at the station,

the platform held me at attention.

The iron lines lie parallel

and secure with rusty spikes.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

Twin rails, identical, dependent

like a yoke to carry a burden.

Similar tracks would guide

into Auschwitz–Birkenau.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

I stood, head down, hands behind

my back without cuffs.

Thoughts of freedom ring

like scraping of iron on iron.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

There were stations of crossover.

Humans standing, gazing

on the Via Delarosa,

their eyes like two rails.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

It is a Good Friday to stand in a nave.

To look on the One who bore

the railroad ties in juxtaposition.

The oxidized nails set.

Underneath were white stones

large enough to kill someone.

Stationary, I am to remember…

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Why Two Days Changed My Fussbudgetness.

I read this again. Wow. That was a rough go. God is good.

G. Allen Barrett Poet. Writer.

Lucy, from the comic strip Peanuts, was often referred to as a fussbudget. Over the past few years I have become a fussbudget, my heart traipsing around the landscape of complaint, unbelief, and fear. Recently I described it to someone as brooding. I can’t seem to nail down a solid description of my state of mind. Needless to say, my silent grump grump aint helpful to those in my proximity.

Then two days, one right after the other, a couple of weeks ago, shook me out of my inward sourpuss self. May 17th two of my children decided to take a giant leap…out of an airplane. Be honest, what do you think of first when skydiving come to mind? Exactly. What if the chute doesn’t open? I don’t see this thought as pessimistic, but realistic. Planes have wings to keep humans up there in the wild blue yonder, unless…

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Pressing On

I can’t describe the journey and faith of Bill and Mary Sweeney, but here’s a post to read for yourself. So encouraging.

Unshakable Hope

Happy New Year!

I believe 2020 will be a great year.

Regular readers of my blog know that I’ve had ALS for twenty-three years. I’ve been on hospice for the last fifteen months, and in that time, I’ve had three close encounters with death. I don’t mean to make light of this, but I think you could say that I have one foot in the grave, and the other is on a banana peel. Knowing this, and reading that I’ve declared that 2020 is going to be a great year, you might be questioning the state of my mental health. I get it, but please hear me out.

I’ll admit that my mental health is not as good as it once was. I recently watched a movie for twenty minutes before realizing I’d seen it before. I don’t know if this is related to the ALS or just getting old…

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Monday Morning

Monday Morning

 

Coffee and creamed,

truth and grace,

or so it seemed.

 

That mixture of

strong and soft,

and how oft

 

I wanted to slip

into a week,

geeked and tweaked.

 

But it’s Monday.

A do over day,

to pray, play, slay.

 

Another new mercy say.

although nothing new,

but everything.

 

“I’ll never forget the trouble, the utter lostness,

            the taste of ashes, the poison I’ve swallowed.

I remember it all—oh, how well I remember—

            the feeling of hitting the bottom.

But there’s one other thing I remember,

            And remembering, I keep a grip on hope:

 

God’s loyal love couldn’t have run out,

            his merciful love couldn’t have dried up.

They’re created new every morning. (Even Monday morning)

            How great your faithfulness!

I’m sticking with God (I say it over and over).

            He’s all I’ve got left.

                        Lamentations 3