Peace

Peace is like the constant hum of a moonbeam on a shadowed evening.
It lights a great ocean with soft notes that give life and depth.
It consumes the darkness in a quiet way,
So that you wouldn’t notice it.
Except on those pitch-black nights
When the world is so silent, even crickets are afraid to chirp their songs
And disturb the heaviness.
You don’t miss it till it’s gone-
And then the ache is nearly unbearable, and its return seems uncertain.
But still it is constant. And quietly present.
It summons a man from darkness to light, from peril to safety.
It sets about him as a gentle rolling wind sifts through reeds lingering at a grassy bank.
It has been, even in the heaviest night, the settled beacon of hope and rest.
Underneath the bleakness, it waits to be remembered again,
Acknowledged for its necessity.
But that man does not perceive it does not change its potency.
It is strong and courageous, steadfast and hopeful.
It provides structure and purpose as we dance in its light,
Like a moonbeam on a shadowed evening.

Sleep.

Cast away the weary words of today,
That they may rest in peace elsewhere.
They can not make their home here
Where sweet sleep awaits,
And dreams long to drift on
Melted memories of the day.
Sleep deeply, as you cast away
The weary words of today,
That they may rest in peace
Far away from you.
Far away from you.

Always, In Two Parts

No.

I always want a world far beyond, away from me,
I always want what I cannot have, far beyond, across the sea.
I always want that one path crossed, where two should never meet,
I always want to sit again, stirred on lofty peak,
I always want to gaze upon the fullness of that time,
I always want to find the words, to set the perfect rhyme.
I always want to shift the course, cure the illness of this fate,
I always want to sate that thirst, which I never grew to hate.
I always want a sky, tinted gold with rapture I may never see.
I always want a dusting of the past, recalled fondly, purged of reality.
I always want a moment of truth wedged between today and tomorrow,
I always want the joy and peace without tender mourning and infinite sorrow.
I always want to taste the things that are no good for me,
I always want a home far beyond, across the sea.


Yes.

I always want to run with steady breath and open stride,
I always want to pursue the lovely One pursuing His bride.
I always want to venture out, disguising fear with aim,
I always want to be humbled by You, broken once again.
I always want the righteous to sing, to tell of truth been giv’n,
I always want with tears to look, to chase the breadth of heav’n.
I always want to fight with boldness, marked by tranquility,
I always want to win with grace, steeped in humility.
I always want to feed the hungry, serve the ones in need,
I always want to stand on faith, to match it well with deed.
I always want to seek You first, to know You first and best,
I always want to feel your pow’r, even in my death.
I always want to touch your love, to know Your strong reprise,
I always want to trust you fierce, to see truth through Your eyes.

(And all these things you give to me, the surest and the best.
And ask me only in return to abide in You and rest.)

My Shepherd Leads Me

My shepherd leads the safest way
Through darkest terror and fiercest plight.
My shepherd leads the sovereign way
Through shrouded veil of bleakest night.
My shepherd leads the boldest way
Through mild-mannered reckless still.
My shepherd leads the peaceful way
Through gentle streams that often fill.
My shepherd leads the kindest way
Through well-worn paths of pure delight.
My shepherd leads the joyful way
Through beauty of the rarest sight.
My shepherd leads the perfect way
Through solace of a faded hymn.
My shepherd leads the only way
Through straight-made path, straight on to Him.

Humility

Humility, by Andrew Murray, is one of the simplest yet most profound books I have ever read. I just keep going back to it again and again. And again. Because understanding what humility is and actually getting to a place where it is the constant disposition (or even direction) of my heart are two completely different animals. Death to self is life in Christ. I know that. But what does that practically look like?

Rest in these thoughts for a bit…

“Until a humility that rests in nothing less than the end and death of self, and

which gives up all the honor of men as Jesus did to seek the honor that comes

from God alone (which absolutely makes and counts itself nothing) that God may

be all, that the Lord alone may be exalted- until such a humility is what we seek in

Christ above our chief joy, and welcome at any price, there is very little hope of a

faith that will conquer the world.” (p. 26, emphasis mine)

“It is a solemn thought that our love for God is measured by our everyday

relationships with others. Except as its validity is proven in standing the test of

daily life with our fellow-men, our love for God may be found to be a delusion. It

is easy to think that we humble ourselves before God, but our humility toward

others is the only sufficient proof that our humility before God is real. To be

genuine, humility must abide in us and become our very nature.” (p. 53)

As I pursue Christ, I pursue humility, for there is no humility apart from Him. He is the very definition of that great aim. He is the impartation of life and the antithesis of pride and death. O, that I may learn to be more like Him and dwell in the rich depths of humility.

My prayer and declaration in this journey…

“How great is God! How small we are! Lost, swallowed up, in love’s immensity!”

(p. 101)

Amen.

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The (American) Bride

Once a daughter, silent sleeping
Woke unto a blissful sight-
That she had grown through wont and weeping
To become a bride of striking might.

Ran she from her ample slumber,
Calling dawn with steady chords;
“Lie we no more, tarry, lumber,
Draw we now our battle swords!”

‘Twas grace that taught her heart to sing,
Selfless love that gave her purpose;
Humility bought that precious ring
For which her heart e’er searchest.

Oh, take my heart and make me better,
Take my heart and make me bold.
Bind my spirit in richest fetter,
And give my hand a ring of gold.

Too long ago, before she slept,
She knew her ardent lover.
Too soon thereafter, ran she off
To the tight grip of another.

Stubborn she, and often selfish,
Trusting not her bridegroom’s way,
Levees built to stay her passion
Long ago had given way.

So, lumbered she, encumbered greatly
With riches, comfort, charm-ed life,
Until the burden proved too heavy
For the bridegroom’s ailing wife.

Never was she meant to carry
Such a load of toil and strain;
But thought she this would win the favor
Of her groom, His heart’s refrain.

Oh, take my heart and make me better,
Take my heart and make me bold.
Bind my spirit in richest fetter,
And give my hand a ring of gold.

Thus she slumbered in her working,
Never peaceful, forging on;
So slowly did she come to realize
She had His true love all along.

And, as she wandered, bleakly peering,
Searching to and tossing fro,
She sensed His ever-lasting Spirit
Lead her where she longed to go.

“Oh! Lead me farther into glory,
Make my face to shine and glow;
Dress me proud in white-washed linen
To match my heart of purest snow.”

Oh, take my heart and make me better,
Take my heart and make me bold.
Bind my spirit in richest fetter,
And give my hand a ring of gold.

Her other lover left her weary,
Proving never to fulfill;
For riches can not reap the harvest;
Riches know not how to till.

Returned she weak and heavy-laden
To He who loved and knew her best;
Ashamed was she, but joyous He
And offered kindly her to rest.

His heart a fount of pure emotion
Yearning for His cherished one;
She now could see with both eyes open;
Her days of slumber now were done.

Professed He to His purest bride,
“I vow to love you always, true.”
And gently hushed in velvet whisper,
She gave her heart and said, “I do.”

Oh, take my heart and make me better,
Take my heart and make me bold.
Bind my spirit in richest fetter,
And give my hand a ring of gold.

The Appeal of Sacrifice

"It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known."

The stirring last would-be words of Sydney Carton, Charles Dickens' damaged hero in A Tale of Two Cities, always bring a twinge of hopeful yearning to my soul. A yearning for a memorial to justice and truth. A yearning for meaning far beyond the natural state of things. A yearning for the eternal.

The opposer of sacrifice is selfishness. Living for myself with the belief that my needs are more important and valuable than your needs. The blood lust for selfishness- looking out for number one- is the mediation my flesh believes will satisfy, when ultimately- always- it fails. Miserably. My flesh believes that entitlement is the answer, because it is something I can create and control. But sacrifice is a much fairer fruit. A much more rare ambition.

And therein lies the appeal of sacrifice. It isn’t easy. It doesn’t come naturally. And it yields many scars that mark this road less traveled. It is a rare gem.

It is Carton's selflessness, his peaceful resignation to take the place of his rival in the grip of a rabid mob that desires nothing but revenge that draws me in. It is a beautiful picture of sacrifice. Walking into the lion’s den with a resolve that chooses not to keep the animals’ appetites at bay but invites the consequence it knows must come. Sacrifice.

“Along the Paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh.” Carton knew there was no escape, no avoidance of Madame Guillotine. And still he went. To take the place of the man who would live for everything that moved Carton and brought notes of love and purpose to his cold heart.

Would I do that? For my enemy? Would I lay down my life for one I knew would get everything I ever wanted when I would taste none of it?

Or one step further…could I live a life of sacrifice and lay down my life daily for something greater than myself? For my enemy? For the enemy of my Lord? It is my constant prayer that I would. That I would live a life that is not my own and can only speak in roaring tones of the goodness and sacrifice of One who lived a perfect life and sacrificed that I may live. That I may have everything.

We are drawn to sacrificial characters because they represent an elusive, intangible quality that our hearts search for but can not fully comprehend until they meet the Jesus who loves and saves them. That deep yearning for justice and truth that I feel every time I read the final decisive lines of my favorite Dickens novel is simply a yearning for something that I can not create. Or control. It is a desire for the eternal. It is a desire to know the One who sacrificed everything for me and the acknowledgement that I have no noble role to play. My role is sacrifice, because He first sacrificed for me. My role is love, because He first loved me.

The appeal of sacrifice:

“I see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine. I see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his. I see the blots I threw upon it, faded away. I see him, foremost of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that I know and golden hair, to this place- then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day’s disfigurement- and I hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and faltering voice.”