When he awoke from his despair,
Daylight spoke; the sky was fair.
April pierced the winter night.
Faith had come, restoring sight.
Jesus, hope of dying men,
Mover of the heart and pen,
Move my heart to pen some phase,
That may return to Thee as praise.
Amen.
At the crux of the cross is the Christ,
Rising above culture,
Towering over civilization,
Crying out the crisis
Of choice.
Seeking stride paused before restless pride …
And determined to move on.
Sullied soteriology nullified his sanctimonious theology.
Something small
Tripped him up
in the night.
Something smaller
Trained his steps
In the light.
Something minute
Transformed his stride
To near flight.
And something in him
Took off soaring.
What a sight!
Upon thinking that his thoughts were words,
He thought again and thought that none existed
Apart from thought so that …
The thinking of them might have created them and
That in thinking not of them, they might
Become as naught, but then, he thought
That he could not undo a thought and thus
A word once spoken would exist whether he thought it
Or not.
I think that I …
Should not begin …
So many thoughts …
Or sentences …
With "I."
There are not two sides to an issue. There are at least 360. Most issues are more circular than linear.
Sometimes 365 – one for every day of the year.
He came again to the house of solitude in the valley of latitude
To readjust his stilted attitude.
"Jesus, Lord of thoughts and dreams," he prayed,"
"Lord of affect and every tattered aspect of my intellect,
Tune my heart, yeah, every chord.
Tune a-440. Thou art Lord.
May every string resound Thy praise.
May they be found, in Thee, a symphony of love and grace.
May they, in me, reflect Thy face,
And be, in me, a fount of sweetness.
This, I pray, of my volition,
Alter Thou, my disposition. Amen."
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