Prayer That Stays

A man unknown steps through a door and falls to the ground.
He struggles up to his knees, and chokes out painful sound.
His eyes are shut and yet they’re not, he sees his Father’s throne.
His heart begins to beat with God’s, the rhythm’s not alone.

All heaven stands on toes in wait to hear his humble prayer:
The prayer that never ceases till the altar’s lit a’flare.
He prays and prays with moans and tears; he weeps in silence still.
And yet in heaven’s realms there is a charge of anthem thrill.

He surpassed “fun” and earthly games, he left his friends “good time”,
And yet in heaven’s saintly realms, he is one of a kind.
For elsewhere in the world there’s a sound of sporting cheer,
And yet the real hurrah in life is found nowhere but here.

For though all men cheer on the ball and athlete big and strong,
The real applause is found on knees, praying hard and long.
No one cares about the man, who leaves to take up prayer,
And yet our Lord God above listens to his dare.

He stays and stays as the time flies by; the angels’ roar grows loud.
Just as when Elijah looked and said, “I see a cloud!”
The Father’s will had found a flow, a channel through a heart:
A heart that knew the Father’s will needed a prayer’s start.

And though this unknown man die such, another grave below,
It was by Him all heaven’s joy came down like winter snow.
So when you think of lengthy prayer, don’t think of monks who snore.
Think of heaven’s greatest knights who fight their Savior’s war.

The Angels’ Grief

The Son of God falls to His knees. His arms can’t bear the weight!
He looks up through His flowing blood to see His gruesome fate.
He tries to stand but falls again. His chest can’t bear the strain.
Yet still He presses on to where He will bear all hell’s pain.

But just beyond the veil of man, we mourn above the hill.
The Father aches along with us, yet cries, “This is My will!”
We know the plan, we know the hope, we know He’ll resurrect —
The horror though still breaks our hearts, for we dare not protect.

The King of kings lays down His limbs to feel the nails drive through.
His crown digs deep into His skull in royalty askew.
He’s raised up high on Calvary with two thieves at His side
Who bleed in shame along with Him, the Christ so falsely tried.

But how the thought runs through our minds! “We’re just a prayer away!”
“We’d rescue You at bid and call, but still You choose to stay.”
The Father too holds fast His ground as oceans become tears,
Until His grief turns into rage and darkness halts man’s cheers.

Three hours first, but now’s the worst. Sin’s punishment is come.
Today hell claims its finest prize, the Lord of lords undone.
With pure for vile and love for hate—His torture none can know.
The Son of Man becomes all sin and takes hell’s every blow.

But just beyond the veil of black, we count the seconds gone.
The Father pours His wrath on sin until He is withdrawn.
“My God! My God!” cuts through our ears as we all hold our breath.
“It is finished!” ends the work as Christ embraces death.

The bitter ground then claims His corpse, a stone to hold HIs head.
How could the One who blessed with life now be one with the dead?
We bide our time, and three days pass. The stone rolls from the grave
As Jesus Christ strolls from His tomb triumphant, strong, and brave!

Now how we sing and bow in awe as heaven’s gates life up
To let the King of glory in who drank the Father’s cup.
“My Son, it’s done! The war is won! You bore the weight of hell!
“Forevermore, let it be known, that You have finished well!”

Resolve

The mountaineer that climbs the heights

Must always face a test:
To reach for a rock and slip,
And fall down from the crest.

And staring up from down below,

The mountaineer must choose:
Dare the mountaineer give up?
Or to defeat refuse?

For down below the second time

Defines the mountaineer.
How the mountaineer goes on
Reveals the true heart clear.

And staring up from down below,

The mountaineer holds fast.
The mountaineer presses on.
The past is but the past.

So taking hold of rock on rock

And climbing to the heights,
The mountaineer will climb by day
And through the darkest nights.

For had the mountaineer gave up,

No mountaineer was there.
For every mountaineer climbs on
Through ease and defeat’s glare.

I Love You

“I love you.” Three small words of mine,
Three words I’ve yet to give.
Three words of mine for whom I have
To one day with me live.

“I love you.” Three big words of mine,
Three words which will hold truth.
Three words in which I’ll never say
To her in early youth.

“I love you.” Three rare words of mine.
Three words saved for that day:
Three words for when I’m on one knee
To let her hear me say,

Cue the lights and cue the tears,
Cue heaven’s joyous cheer..
“(My darling) I love you.
Will you marry me?”

What I See

For the up and coming MACS Fine Arts Festival, I was selected to do the Creative Writing – Poetry test. The instruction was this, “Write a poem about how an elderly person sees the world through his or her eyes.”

I wrote this:

When I was young, I was kept safe
And nurtured in the light.
My school, and Church, and family
Had held me from the night.

And as I grew, they told me that,
“The world means to kill,
So, therefore, you must never touch
The world, but be still.”

And in those days, they made the world
Seem like a foe that won.
“Don’t try to fight what’s hard to beat!
Accept that you’re but one!”

But then they said, “Of course God wins,
For in the end, He’s Lord!
But until then remember that
The world holds a sword!”

Yet as I aged, God took my life
And fashioned it with Christ.
He showed me, though I’m in the world,
That He alone sufficed.

He washed my eyes and showed me that
The world tries me true.
Its fires reveal His true gold!
“Therefore, My child, walk through!”

Now in my age, I see the world
Through skillful sailor’s eyes.
For every storm has truly proved
My Captain never lies.

And in my age, I see the world
Through bloodied soldier’s tears.
For every charge has truly proved
My Leader never fears.

And in my age, I see the world
Through journeys near and far.
For every mile has truly proved
My Shepherd heals each scar.

And in my age, I see the world
Through sixty-six old Books.
For every page has truly proved
Our weapons seek not looks.

And every day I’ve dared to live,
I’ve lived it as God deems.
For victory is not the end,
But also His choice means!

Now when youth ask me what I see,
I smile ever grand.
“I see a world lost, yet loved,
And in my Savior’s hand.”

Help

This is a speech which I wrote for the MACS Speech Festival. It took first.

“Help…”

It’s a simple word, and it’s very small. However, it carries a sincere call. “A call?” You ask. “Yes,” I say; a call to you, for an answer today. You see, a call more than a voice. It’s a plea from the heart, provoking a choice. “Explain!” you demand, and such I’ll do, as long as you promise to hold your peace too.

So stop for a moment, put self-thoughts aside, and imagine a girl at her bedside. Her tears remind you of those tears you once had: tears from your childhood with your loving mom and dad. But back to her, for her story gets worse. It starts with her parents and ends with a hearse. It was a dreadful day she had to face, with a horrible car wreck at too quick a pace. They pushed her out at the cost of their lives, pushing her to safety, from certain death to life. And as time’s flown by, we now see her cry at her bedside with one unspoken plea:

“Help…”

But on to the next, although you seem vexed, and think of a man, asleep alone in a van. “A van?” You ask. “Yes,” I say. But don’t judge too quickly, because I’ll explain today. You see, the van’s not his, and not his to keep. But on this stormy night, he needed somewhere to sleep. Now, we look down on his life choices that led him there, and yes they’re his, so let’s be fair! He threw his life away and gave himself to death; he obtained every drug from alcohol to meth. And yet, as he lay in his choices of pain, can’t we hear his unspoken call through the rain?

“Help.”

“Stop!” You say. “Why not something more relevant to today? Something for me, within my reach, something that doesn’t fall through my silent breach.” Alright, my friend, a fair request from you, but consider my answer. It’s thought-provoking, but not new.

Consider the people you walk beside: your closest of friends, your daily ride. How about the strangers you pass day by day? They’re always so busy, but have nothing to say. Have you ever thought that they have a past; that they too have baggage that was built to last? “Everyone has baggage, whether they say it or not.” That’s what my mom had always taught.

And if you don’t believe me, think back, and I don’t intend to attack, but remember that day your friend seemed to have something to say. Recall that so sad look in your friend’s eye: the look of one about to cry. You asked if your friend was okay or alright, and all your friend said was, “I’m fine, good night.” It crossed your mind, I’m certain to say. You heard that word, I’m sure, that day. You heard it ring in your ear all night, you heard the cry of an endless fight. You thought to help, but were content with such, so you let it be and never said much. But remember that word, soft and sure:

“Help…”

Now let me remind you about Someone who answered that call: Someone who decided to lose it all! Someone who looked into angry eyes, and looked beyond their endless lies. He stopped to listen and heard that cry. He saw that word in every eye. He looked through every moment of time, and said, “Enough! No more of ‘I’m fine.’ You’re broken and dead! You’ve lost all stead! Enough! Wake up! I’ll help you right now, but first, accept My final vow.” And with that, He hung on a tree, and it was there I realized He hung for me. His moment had come, the time was right, that’s when He said his final vow with all his might, “It is finished!” rang through an endless crowd, an answer to a call so clear and loud:

“Help!”

That cry was answered that very day. And with that, I have little else to say. Not even the grave has a comment to give because even the grave knew the Savior must live. But stop and consider what you claim yourself to be. Because if you’re a Christian, you’re nailed to the same very tree. You’re dead to self, the grave still claims your blood; you’ve been rescued through the ark of Noah’s flood. Only Christ walked out of the grave that day. Through Him you live, so you have nothing else to say. That being the case, hear this word once more,

“Help…”

Because it’s through us now, He answers that call. So if we never answer, why be here at all? If we claim to be the body of Christ, let’s remember that we live for strife. We live for those souls who cry out in pain, we live to run through that pouring rain. We live to lift up that girl beside her bed, and we live to hold up that wretched man’s head. We live to share our hope with the lost, and we live to help the helpless at all cost.