“Start Again”
9/29/10
Whenever you awake,
instead of playing dead,
you kick-start your remaining strength
to coax yourself from bed,
and wish with spirit growing thin
that you could start again.
So few the years behind,
so many stretching out.
You find no reason left to plod
along that weary route.
For all you see is yet more sin.
But could you start again?
From depths within, you yearn
to go back to the first,
to purge your mind and heart and will
from qualities you’ve cursed,
which scarred you far beneath the skin.
If you could start again . . .
You’d tether all your trust
to God’s unfailing word,
and cast on Him your ev’ry care,
believing you were heard,
so hope would rule your heart within—
if you could start again.
You’d listen twice as much
before you’d use your voice,
and certainly you’d search things out
to guard the simplest choice,
your wisdom lifting up your chin—
if you could start again.
You would renounce despair
the moment you were born,
rejoice in ev’ry gift of God
be it a rose or thorn,
display your full-contended grin—
if you could start again.
But why—why should you
entrust your hopes to themes
like fresh beginnings, second winds—
such adolescent dreams?
No matter your desire within,
you couldn’t start again.
Though your position’s poor,
it still is all you own.
From failure you must yet pursue
your white, eternal throne.
You groan to see today begin,
but here you start again.
“You are near–yes, Lord, I feel it–
You are near wherever I rove;
And though sense would try conceal it,
Faith often whispers it to love.
“Am I fearful? You will take me
Underneath Your wings, my God!
Am I faithless? You will make me
Bow beneath Your chastening rod.
“Am I drooping? You are near me,
Near to bear me on my way;
Am I pleading? You will hear me–
Hear and answer when I pray.
“Then, O my soul, since God does love you,
Faint not, droop not, do not fear;
For, though His heaven is high above you,
He Himself is ever near.”
-Octavius Winslow, Consider Jesus
He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face.
HT: JT
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Behold the potter and the clay,He forms his vessels as he please:
Such is our God, and such are we,
The subjects of his high decrees.Doth not the workman's power extend
O'er all the mass, which part to choose
And mould it for a nobler end,
And which to leave for viler use?May not the sov'reign Lord on high
Dispense his favours as he will,
Choose some to life, while others die,
And yet be just and gracious still?What if, to make his terror known,
He lets his patience long endure,
Suff'ring vile rebels to go on,
And seal their own destruction sure?What if he means to show his grace,
And his electing love employs
To mark out some of mortal race,
And form them fit for heav'nly joys?Shall man reply against the Lord,
And call his Maker's ways unjust,
The thunder of whose dreadful word
Can crush a thousand worlds to dust?But, O my soul! if truths so bright
Should dazzle and confound thy sight,
Yet still his written will obey,
And wait the great decisive day.Then shall he make his justice known,
And the whole world before his throne
With joy or terror shall confess
The glory of his righteousness.
A BETTER RESURRECTION
by: Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
HAVE no wit, no words, no tears;
| I ’m nobody! Who are you? | |
| Are you nobody, too? | |
| Then there ’s a pair of us—don’t tell! | |
| They ’d banish us, you know. | |
| | |
| How dreary to be somebody! | 5 |
| How public, like a frog | |
| To tell your name the livelong day | |
| To an admiring bog! |
When this passing world is done,
When has sunk yon glaring sun,
When we stand with Christ in glory,
Looking o’er life’s finished story,
Then, Lord, shall I fully know—
Not till then—how much I owe.
When I hear the wicked call,
On the rocks and hills to fall,
When I see them start and shrink
On the fiery deluge brink,
Then, Lord, shall I fully know—
Not till then—how much I owe.
When I stand before the throne,
Dressed in beauty not my own,
When I see Thee as Thou art,
Love Thee with unsinning heart,
Then Lord, shall I fully know—
Not till then—how much I owe.
When the praise of Heav’n I hear,
Loud as thunders to the ear,
Loud as many waters’ noise,
Sweet as harp’s melodious voice,
Then, Lord, shall I fully know—
Not till then—how much I owe.
Even on earth, as through a glass
Darkly, let Thy glory pass,
Make forgiveness feel so sweet,
Make Thy Spirit’s help so meet,
Even on earth, Lord, make me know
Something of how much I owe.
Chosen not for good in me,
Wakened up from wrath to flee,
Hidden in the Savior’s side,
By the Spirit sanctified,
Teach me, Lord, on earth to show,
By my love, how much I owe.
Oft I walk beneath the cloud,
Dark, as midnight’s gloomy shroud;
But, when fear is at the height,
Jesus comes, and all is light;
Blessed Jesus! bid me show
Doubting saints how much I owe.
When in flowery paths I tread,
Oft by sin I’m captive led;
Oft I fall—but still arise—
The Spirit comes—the tempter flies;
Blessed Spirit! bid me show
Weary sinners all I owe.
Oft the nights of sorrow reign—
Weeping, sickness, sighing, pain;
But a night Thine anger burns—
Morning comes and joy returns;
God of comforts! bid me show
To Thy poor, how much I owe.
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“From the far star points of his pinned extremities,
cold inched in—black ice and squid ink—
till the hung flesh was empty.
Lonely in that void even for pain,
he missed his splintered feet,
the human stare buried in his face.
He ached for two hands made of meat
he could reach to the end of.
In the corpse’s core, the stone fist
of his heart began to bang
on the stiff chest’s door, and breath spilled
back into that battered shape. Now
it’s your limbs he comes to fill, as warm water
shatters at birth, rivering every way.”
—Mary Karr, “Descending Theology: The Resurrection” (Poetry, January 2006)
HT: 22 Words & Of First Importance
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