incarnate.

A strange grace invaded

this marvelously ruined city.

Highest glory is with us,

the God-man, breathing our

Sin-poisoned air and loving the

stumbling, the simple, all who

Dare not lift their eyes.

Our fathers coveted the sight.

Fainting hearts running to the child

whose blood would mercy-seat

Us to the King. [we hated but who yearns

still.]

Enfleshed, God inhabits darkness, tastes

weakness. Knows

Need. Temptation will be no stranger

to the forever firstborn, entering

Time to be the Fulfiller of wallowing

humanity. To hush the

Stubborn, bring near what we distanced.

The Branch, stooping lower than

Eyes were anticipating,

obeyed, [never scorning]

delivered, [idol-bound exiles]

redeemed [HIS].

lovely fury.

I felt frigid chills as she drew

My eyes to the angst-ridden scene.

The air was not cold, but the warmth

Had escaped this chaotic mess.

Unkempt undergrowth dashed by the entangled

Branches of poor-postured trees.

In greenless grey, this bleak wilderness

Whispered the approaching bitterness

Of winter.

Had we come a few days sooner

There would have been vibrance

And delight in fall’s rich texture.

But she sensed a beauty that begged us to linger.

It was the grim desolation that pleads another garment -

This one of white so white no bleach could compete.

And we knelt to the grace that

Brought order to our disarray.

a constant.

The somber hush falls, naked limbs scrape the sky.

Yesterday’s color seemed eternally bright

In a brilliance we forgot, this season’s might.

Black flocks forebode, we feel despair as they fly

In frantic formation, never ceasing their cry;

And they are restless and stirring before comes the night

We might not be ready, but the time must be right

For this sudden change. In the questionings why

We must silently wait. This death will not stay,

For a time will return for the budding of gold.

And change whispers something of a higher way,

As ever-constant Truth has wiser tales to be told.

And every season of grief and of fear in the fray

Cannot shatter the trembling lambs in His hold.

mirrors.

the morning glass greets me with a frown as
again
i search it for my meaning.
what do i read?
am i pretty today?
“your hair is not gathered right,
and black would turn more heads,”
it whines,
devouring minutes,
never smiling, always pointing.
faults changing and shallow,
it is never pleased.
i can’t stay any longer.
the image there is not the fullness
is not forever
is not even mine.

a looking-glass of paper beckons
from the corner
i search it for my meaning.
what do i read?
i see heavier faults in me
past the skin
but constancy and hope.
that what these eyes can see
withers with the weeds.
that the forever Treasure is hard to chase
but His face is beauty.
they think they will see it
on the screen,
in this tangible glass.
but they will see beauty,
they will see
Him
in a girl that finds her meaning in a cross
and loves.