The shape of passion,
not of getting, but
giving.
A crossroad of wills,
intersecting between
I and Thou.
Centering the crux
of the matter…
Relationship,
where my flat-line
crosses His up-line.
Good News.
Cruciformed
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Tag Archives: Crucifixion
Stars and Stripes
The Bright and Morning Star wore His stripes
on the greatest day of independence in history.
He hung on the crossroads of freedom and bondage.
Liberty was lifted high for all to see
and healing was within everyone’s sight.
The bombs didn’t burst
but rockets red glare descended
from hands and feet and side and
rested in a reflecting pool of crimson.
The Calvary rode the dawns early light
as a two thousand year long shadow,
and now we can gather under the shadow
of His wings as eagles.
Come now, let us respond to
His freedom given, for with Freedom
comes response ability.
Mother Mary. A Mother’s Day Reflection
She pondered these things in her heart.
Mothers do that quite often.
She kept all these things.
My mother did too.
An angel told Mary.
The power of the Highest will.
An overshadowing of foreshadows.
“For with God nothing will be impossible.”
All mothers are infused with possibilities.
They lay down their self dreams
and rest folded hands upon
their distended bellies.
Mary carried wonder
full term and delivered hope.
There was blood and water and child.
All mothers hold pasty skin to chest with awe.
My mother held each of us close for a moment.
A snip of the umbilical and the separation
began a journey of contemplation.
What will? What if? Life.
Mary’s path was set.
From empty womb to empty tomb
the realities of motherhood were multiplied.
The gestation in her heart left stretch marks of spirit.
Near the end Mary drank of the cup no mother should.
She wept just like Jesus and red drops fell
as sweat on her brow as she prayed.
Blood fell on her and for her.
No mother should lose a child.
My mother was ten for ten when she died.
She was spared Mary’s anguish under a broken sky.
Jesus spoke living words. “Woman, behold you son! Behold your mother.”
Even in death he loved her so and knew hers was an acquainted grief.
I wonder if Mary was one who anointed his body.
Those things she held in her heart poured
on and massaged in his skin.
Then came the first Mother’s Day.
Sunday he was birthed again to Mary’s arms.
The Rose of Sharon was given from her loving Father.
She then held him close and smelled the fragrance of redemption.
Stationary
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 a Way
beyond my ability to suffer.
I fell on the platform he laid
hoping to carry His burden for a moment.
Underneath were white stones
large enough to kill someone.
Instead I grasped a stone
to hurl at an innocent Jew.
He turned the white washed
piece over in my palm.
Underneath the white stone
was written a name
and on it blood fell.
Traditionally Good Friday is a day where Christians observe the Stations of the Cross. I researched it a bit and found a rich reserve of images on which to meditate. The death of Christ need not be observed as “I know this already” but fresh and heart breaking. Gratitude and brokenness melted my heart this morning. I may never fully grasp the the greatest act of love in history, but today I will try again.
Cross Stitched
He was sewn in time,
as are we.
Strips of cloth
upon his reception.
Strips of cloth
when he left,
and stripes
in between.
Naked he wore
lacerations
tightly to his soul.
Wounds cross stitched .
He was clothed
so we could be
naked without shame.
Cruci-fiction?
Would I touch the open wounds of Jesus
if he were to stand in the lonely places
of my heart?
Would I dare thrust my hand into his
side like a spear?
Would I gently place my fingers
in the palms of his hands?
There are places where crucifixion
wasn’t fiction at all.
The suffering of the cross cascaded
down through history,
it being the pinnacle of paradox.
The place where love and hate intersect.
So now we sometimes use innocent
suffering and death as a crucible
of the non-fiction Christ.
We read history books to numb any
existential wandering in our own
back yard.
There are crucified hearts laying,
one by one, without a beat,
hoping loosely for a resurrecting
touch, look, hug.
Will I look at the whole worlds suffering
and lose their own soul?
I don’t want Your death to be in vain
when there are opportunities to
touch the open wounds of those
near by.
The Maker of the Universe, Lyrics. By Phil Keaggy
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 from everlasting years,
but a new glory crowns his brow
and every knee to him shall bow.
The maker of the universe
The maker of the universe
The maker of the universe
From the album Way Back Home by Phil Keaggy.
This is one of my favorite Easter songs.
Gerald the Writer 