Brutal Truth. Dishonest Love.

Side with love or side with truth?
Benevolent fool or intelligent brute.
If you choose a side, you choose to lose.
And if you don’t, they crucify you.

Brutal is truth without love.
A lifeless Book and flightless Dove.
The Lord of push and King of shove.
Horrendous nightmare, without love.

Dishonest is love without truth.
A spineless show. A happy rouse. 
Massaging the neck while tightening the noose.
Sweetly fall to your death, without the truth.

But very narrow is the Way, 
Of loving truth in such a day;
Or of truthful love which dares to say, 
“Your debt of sin, God’s Son repaid.”

—

“Speaking the truth in love, we are to grow up in every way into Christ.” (Eph. 4:15)

I'm a Cemetery.

“Three things are never satisfied; four never say, ‘Enough’: the grave, the barren womb, the land never satisfied with water, and the wildfire.” - Proverbs 30:15-16

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I’m a Cemetery.

Like a graveyard never says “no” to fresh bones, 

I insatiably bury my blessings.
No such thing as “enough.”
Oh God, I’m a cemetery.

Like a barren womb is never a happy womb,
How old was I when I lost joy in free things?
Ideas. Bugs. Wind. Train whistles.
Oh God, I’m a cemetery.

Like a desert guzzles rain,
I’ve drunk a barrowload of blessings and I am parched.
How is that possible?
Oh God, I’m a cemetery.

Like a wildfire takes… and takes… and takes,

I heap my blessings on a burn-pile of bottomless greed.
And (good Lord!) why am I still taking?
Oh God, I’m a cemetery.

rest…

…Oh God, resurrect me.
Exhume the blessings I’ve buried,
To liven, and brighten, and gladen the dirty and dying.
Oh God, please make a dance hall out of me.

…Oh God, open me.
Revive the joy I’ve strangled with age.
Free me to marvel, like a child, in free things again.
Oh God, please make a nursery out of me.

…Oh God, water me.
And dig a canyon into me,
So your blessings might course to parched peoples.
Oh God, please make a great river out of me.

…Oh God, extinguish me.
Then rehabilitate what greed has burned.
And sow generosity in long rows down the length of my heart.
Oh God, please make a garden out of me.

“The belly is an ungrateful wretch, it never remembers past favours, it always wants more tomorrow.” — Alexandr Solzhenitsyn

“We are too prone to engrave our trials in marble, and write our blessings in sand.” — Charles Spurgeon

Wash Me.

An Alliterative Acrostic.

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Holy One, wash me.

My mind, my eyes, my tongue, my ears.

…Unravel my mind, Wonder Worker. Unfasten my skull’s cap and wash out of me every wicked thought and crooked conception. Wash me, wring me, restore me, remind me. Upright my mind’s meanderings. Uproot my will’s wanderings. And anchor me again - weld my wit to your word and wrestle my wishes to your way. Dislocate and relocate, once again, my weary hopes and my wildest dreams.

…Unblind my eyes, Almighty Father.  Animate my soul’s sight. Awaken the awareness of my inadequacy, but also of your acceptance. Arrest my vision. Abide with me. Anoint my drooping head again. And if in alleviating my scaly eyes you must agitate them, then grant me the audacity to acknowledge the affection of your aggression. And if in seeing more accurately I might better break the alabaster jar of my affection upon your feet, then agitate me now, I ask.

…Untwist my tongue, Saving Son. From wicked words. And fruitless phrases. And sinful sentences. Slacken it to speak the story of salvation and to sing spiritual songs again. And to slash at the sluggishness of your Saints. And to slay the serpent’s servants. Steal my swaying speech and sanctify this sinful spout.

…Uncork my ears, Holy Spirit. Though I am hard of hearing, don’t give up on me. Hush me long enough to hear you again. Overhaul my heart and haul out the hubris that hinders me from honoring your words. Heal your handiwork. Hurt me if you must, but heal me. Dissect me ear-to-ear that you might inject heaven’s happy harmonies.