“Lovely” 

While reading the theological works of Martin Luther, I was enthralled not only by his wisdom but by his beautiful writing. As a hymn writer, he obviously possessed poetic skill, but his prose likewise exhibited wonderful phrasing and ideas such as that of God’s love making someone lovable, rather than being merited by someone who was already attractive. Similarly, as Christians, we are called to treat all with love, regardless of how “lovable” they might seem. I was inspired to write this little scribbling after pondering this idea that to be lovable, one must first be loved. I hope you enjoy it and I would love to hear your thoughts! 

Lovely

Love is drawn by brush and pen

Born of beauty, free from sin.

And all the wise of ages old

Know that to love, eyes must behold 

And see the shining of the fair-

Charming face and gleaming hair.

To be beloved, one must be,

In the first place, Lovely.

So to despair, Hell of the mind,

Are driven we who cannot find

A flake of gold or ounce of good

In this dark world, whoever could?

In sorrow then, lost mankind must

Find in ourselves nothing but dust.

Our blinded eyes, though made for sight

Only despise their helper, light.

Downcast they stay and fall for lies.

Told to us by the so-called “wise.”

Yearning ever for bright beauty,

We stumble, groping inwardly. 

And searching with shadowy eyes,

Are satisfied by dull disguise. 

Still, light through darkness penetrates,

As by truth’s sword love recreates

The Image of our fallen face,

Made to share in glorious grace. 

He gives our souls a glowing dawn 

That we ourselves could ne’er put on. 

Unearned love then is all that wrought 

The beauty that we ever sought.

From seeking worth but being worst,

We rest in the love that moved us first. 

And now as His saved beloved, we 

Can finally grow lovely. 

Flood of Thought

Every once in a while, I have what I like to think of as a flash flood of ideas. It seems that inspiration is everywhere and I can hardly jot down one idea before another demands my attention. It’s terrible and wonderful at the same time; I love to dream and brainstorm, but am frustrated when time constraints and real life prevent me from being able to execute all of my ideas. 

So, naturally, to cope with the storm of ideas, I wrote some poetry instead of working on them. 

A river builds within my mind

Against the dam, too-strict time.

The tide of thought, irresistible-

Drowns me in its ebb and flow,

For it ought to carve a canyon steep 

But life restrains this swirling deep,

So current’s force grows storm by storm

As raindrop muses demand form; 

They rise and swirl, must soon o’er take

The crumbling barriers we make.  

Oh! On the day they’ve held too long,

The gates shall give to waters strong,

And then shall finally freely pour

The ideas held in painful store;

The words will flow and music play,

All the deeper for their delay. 

In the Image

I just finished reading St. Athanasius’ On the Incarnation and my heart is full as I ponder the awesomeness of its subject: the Word of God made flesh. I especially am captivated by the beauty of the Son of God as the Image of God and the restorer of humans created “in the image of God.” 

Athanasius uses an analogy of a painter restoring his image on corrupted wood. The passage resonated with my soul and I recommend you all read it in Section 14 of On the Incarnation. 
For now, though, perhaps you might catch a glimpse of this wonderful idea in this little poem I scribbled during class: 

I am an image of myself

Yet formerly One greater.

Soiled, smudged, and shadowy,

An icon turned to traitor. 

Ruined of mine own accord,

In need of Perfect Painter,

Who shall restore with loving skill

The art of the Creator. 

Just a little reflection through rhyme. I’d love to hear any thoughts you might have. 🙂 

Poetry Nugget

Sometimes when I go digging through my journals, I find little nuggets of poetry I forgot completely about. For instance…

You’ve heard it said

That “every cloud has a silver lining.”

Well this is true…

If you’re earthbound. 

What they fail to tell you-

Those without wings- 

Is that every cloud is a horizon

Behind which is no mere lining,

But a brand new sunrise:

An ever-breaking dawn

And ever-shifting day,

Glory and light-

Not silver- but gold!

Lies beyond the gloomy gray. 

Not polished by any means, but what it lacks in rhyme and rhythm it makes up for in the fact that it made me smile as I remembered when I sat composing it on the flight to Rome, gazing with wonderstruck eyes at the most beautiful skies below and above me. 

Beginning in the End 

I visited the catacombs today just outside of the Roman metropolis. I expected it to be creepy and a morbid part of me was excited to see some skeletons and shrouds. 

However, what I ended up finding: rows upon rows of empty tombs (the bodies in the areas open to tourists have been relocated) and frescos depicting the hope of eternal life and resurrection in Christ. It was as if, through these empty tombs, I was glimpsing a preview of a future freedom from death, which, in a place built to hold dead bodies, seemed ironic. So, as usual, I wrote some poetry to help me process this idea and truly experience through expression what I saw today. 

Please read and consider the following; though free verse, I wrote with both intentionality and emotion. 

“Beginning in the End”

Dark and cold and lonely,

Left in the grave- untimely. 

Memories dancing before eyes

Blinded to the present,

Blurred in remembrance. 

Had she ever seen at all?

Not many years:

Ten and seven

Yet few images felt recent, felt real. 

But now, though, was surely real;

This cold and dark and lonely. 

Shivering spine on harsh-hewn stone;

Shroud too thin a shawl,

The damp came next, trickled down

Baptism, immersing all. 

By this her soul was stirred

In that dark and cold and lonely. 

Something moved divinely 

And a prayer fell up from under. 

A prayer said at bedtimes past,

And sweeter now in this last. 

The words lifted her, warmed her. 

Their promise burned within her heart…

Her stilled heart. 

No longer beating with blood but hope. 

Then died the cold and dark and lonely

As she fell asleep, finally.

Yet sight renewed in bursting light

All-consuming, ever-bright.

A shock of air she’d felt before…

Not many years ago. 

Yet this was something far, far more.

No cold nor dark nor lonely

But glorious radiance only;

For a Christian tomb proves but a womb, 

And death as life’s true dawning. 

To the Hermitage of St. Francis

img_1144I’ve been abroad in Rome for the past ten days, but today I was- to the relief of my introversion- able to escape to the countryside of Assisi. There, I hiked to the Hermitage of St. Francis and every step of the way thought, “This is the most beautiful sight…wait, no. THIS is!” It was truly stunning and I was in awe of the Creator the entire pilgrimage.

Upon reaching the top, it was clear to me why St. Francis would choose to worship privately up there rather than only down below. Sure, I have toured some majestic and elaborate basilicas/churches over the past week or so, but none of them had the same awe-inspiring, spiritually-renewing effect on me that this hermitage and its miraculous view of nature did.

So, here is a little poem I composed on the march back down in accordance with this idea:

“No gold to have but sun will do,
And snow shall marble be.
The rocks shall serve as stair-step pew;
For columns we have trees.

The air is chill from wind- not dark
And tombs can flowers grow.
Above the sky’s a painted arc
From which His blessings flow.

This boundless house is Nature’s church
For worship, wonder, prayer.
Climb to that good and peaceful perch
To praise the Savior there.”
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