We Are But Little Children Weak

We are but little children weak,
Nor born in any high estate;
What can we do for Jesus’ sake,
Who is so high and good and great?

We know the holy innocents
Laid down for Him their infant life,
And martyrs brave and patient saints
Have stood for Him in fire and strife.

We wear the cross they wore of old
Our lips have learned like vows to make;
We need not die; we cannot fight;
What may we do for Jesus’ sake?

O day by day each Christian child
Has much to do, without, within;
A death to die for Jesus’ sake,
A weary war to wage with sin.

When deep within our swelling hearts
The thoughts of pride and anger rise,
When bitter words are on our tongues,
And tears of passion in our eyes;

Then we may stay the angry blow,
Then we may check the hasty word,
Give gentle answers back again,
And fight a battle for our Lord.

With smiles of peace and looks of love,
Light in our dwellings we may make,
Bid kind good humor brighten there,
And still do all for Jesus’ sake.

There’s not a child so weak and small
But has his little cross to take,
His little work of love and praise,
That he may do for Jesus’ sake.

Music: Al­stone, Christ­o­pher E. Will­ing, in the Ap­pen­dix to Hymns An­cient and Mo­dern, 1868 (MI­DI, score).

[feeling cheesy, sorry]

The Nobel Prize in Literature 1923

PC: wikipedia

William Butler Yeats


William Butler Yeats (1865-1939) was born in Dublin. His father was a lawyer and a well-known portrait painter. Yeats was educated in London and in Dublin, but he spent his summers in the west of Ireland in the family's summer house at Connaught. The young Yeats was very much part of the fin de siècle in London; at the same time he was active in societies that attempted an Irish literary revival. His first volume of verse appeared in 1887, but in his earlier period his dramatic production outweighed his poetry both in bulk and in import. Together with Lady Gregory he founded the Irish Theatre, which was to become the Abbey Theatre, and served as its chief playwright until the movement was joined by John Synge. His plays usually treat Irish legends; they also reflect his fascination with mysticism and spiritualism. The Countess Cathleen (1892), The Land of Heart's Desire (1894), Cathleen ni Houlihan (1902), The King's Threshold (1904), and Deirdre (1907) are among the best known.

After 1910, Yeats's dramatic art took a sharp turn toward a highly poetical, static, and esoteric style. His later plays were written for small audiences; they experiment with masks, dance, and music, and were profoundly influenced by the Japanese Noh plays. Although a convinced patriot, Yeats deplored the hatred and the bigotry of the Nationalist movement, and his poetry is full of moving protests against it. He was appointed to the Irish Senate in 1922. Yeats is one of the few writers whose greatest works were written after the award of the Nobel Prize. Whereas he received the Prize chiefly for his dramatic works, his significance today rests on his lyric achievement. His poetry, especially the volumes The Wild Swans at Coole (1919), Michael Robartes and the Dancer (1921), The Tower (1928), The Winding Stair and Other Poems (1933), and Last Poems and Plays (1940), made him one of the outstanding and most influential twentieth-century poets writing in English. His recurrent themes are the contrast of art and life, masks, cyclical theories of life (the symbol of the winding stairs), and the ideal of beauty and ceremony contrasting with the hubbub of modern life.

From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967, Editor Horst Frenz, Elsevier Publishing Company, Amsterdam, 1969

This autobiography/biography was written at the time of the award and first published in the book series Les Prix Nobel. It was later edited and republished in Nobel Lectures. To cite this document, always state the source as shown above.


William Butler Yeats died on January 28, 1939.

Copyright © The Nobel Foundation 1923

Source: NobelPrize.org

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.   

-TS Eliot 

. 

The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
by T.S. Eliot


Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                              
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                              
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;                               
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—                              
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                      
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                   
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets              
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?                 
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,                                            
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,                                           
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."                                         
. . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .                                             
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown              
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Who needs an excuse
or even really a song
to ask you to dance?
-Tyler Knott

I can't wait to ride the BART. I've ridden it once before, years ago. I like the Beat Generation poets. They aren't my favorite, but I like them. I love that they were such a community, and I love that they inspired a new movement through art, together. Their values are certainly not mine, nor is their style... but in some way, I feel I can connect with them. I like how they rejected materialism and the status quo. I'm a big fan of the Romantics, so of course I like their influences in the group. And I can't deny the affect that they have had on spoken and written word today. I saw a group biography on them when I was at the Eliot Bay Bookstore last. I carried it around the whole store, and then put it back. If you know much about the Beat Generation, you'll understand how these thoughts are all connected. I think I'm going to bring a journal for my BART ride.... I also think I might buy that book and read it while I'm in San Francisco. :)

The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace things, but burn like fabulous roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue center light pop and everybody goes "AWWW!"
- Jack Kerouac

Rather, I think one should write, as nearly as possible, as if he were the first person on earth and was humbly and sincerely putting on paper that which he saw and experienced and loved and lost; what his passing thoughts were and his sorrows and desires.
- Neal Cassady

...colleges being nothing but grooming schools for the middleclass non-identity which usually finds its perfect expression on the outskirts of the campus in rows of well-to-do houses with lawns and television sets is each living room with everybody looking at the same thing and thinking the same thing at the same time while the Japhies of the world go prowling in the wilderness...
- Jack Kerouac

They are not moral or religious heroes. They are not even literary heroes, to me. But they are undeniably, examples. They were obsessed with drugs, sex, and rebellion: the predecessors of hippies. They spent themselves up, "I'm running out of everything now. Out of veins, out of money," said William Burroughs. But they were men and women with a powerful word to speak, a community to ignite together, and the skill to mark it out, and redirect art and language. I'm interested in communities that did something.   Artists that became something, through an authentic community. You see it over and over in the history of art, music, literature. Groups that lit themselves on fire and changed it all. They spent themselves up and were consumed, and in the end, you find what lasts... or what doesn't. 

In the end, three things remain. So we needn't really fear when we ourselves consider being spent and burned up in marking life and culture.


Idealistic, romantic that I am? Yes... that may have been a tirade. But only if it never comes true.


Note Bene:  Please do not take this as a suggestion you start reading the work of the Beats.  I am not making that suggestion. 

To Hope
John Keats

When by my solitary hearth I sit,
And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom;
When no fair dreams before my "mind's eye" flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Whene'er I wander, at the fall of night,
Where woven boughs shut out the moon's bright ray,
Should sad Despondency my musings fright,
And frown, to drive fair Cheerfulness away,
Peep with the moonbeams through the leafy roof,
And keep that fiend Despondence far aloof!

Should Disappointment, parent of Despair,
Strive for her son to seize my careless heart;
When, like a cloud, he sits upon the air,
Preparing on his spell-bound prey to dart:
Chase him away, sweet Hope, with visage bright,
And fright him as the morning frightens night!

Whene'er the fate of those I hold most dear
Tells to my fearful breast a tale of sorrow,
O bright-eyed Hope, my morbidfancy cheer;
Let me awhile thy sweetest comforts borrow:
Thy heaven-born radiance around me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Should e'er unhappy love my bosom pain,
From cruel parents, or relentless fair;
O let me think it is not quite in vain
To sigh out sonnets to the midnight air!
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head!

In the long vista of the years to roll,
Let me not see our country's honour fade:
O let me see our land retain her soul,
Her pride, her freedom; and not freedom's shade.
From thy bright eyes unusual brightness shed
Beneath thy pinions canopy my head!

Let me not see the patriot's high bequest,
Great Liberty! how great in plain attire!
With the base purple of a court oppress'd,
Bowing her head, and ready to expire:
But let me see thee stoop from heaven on wings
That fill the skies with silver glitterings!

And as, in sparkling majesty, a star
Gilds the bright summit of some gloomy cloud;
Brightening the half veil'd face of heaven afar:
So, when dark thoughts my boding spirit shroud,
Sweet Hope, celestial influence round me shed,
Waving thy silver pinions o'er my head!

Let's go sailing, you and I.
I know the clouds are rolling in
And the storm is raging wild.
But let's go sailing, you and I,
'Cus if you're in the boat I'm in,
The ocean's fury's but a playful child.

Endymion

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
All lovely tales that we have heard or read:
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

John Keats


(One of my favorite poems, by one of my favorite poets. Since the days of reports and presentations, and book assignments... long before Bright Star turned him into a trend! :P )

Meghan posted one of her favorites of Shakespeare's sonnets (115- definitely one of the best!), and so I thought perhaps I would respond here by posting one of mine. This has always been one of my favorites, and I'm not even sure why. I remember the first time I read it. It was Father's Day actually, I believe I was in 5th grade, and we were wasting some time at Barnes & Noble in Lynnwood while waiting for our reservations. I remember I found a shakespeare sonnet book, sat down on the floor and started reading. I think I memorized half of this sonnet before getting back up. I love the final two lines.

Sonnet 5
Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap check'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Several years later, Natalie (then, Johnson) moved in with us as an MC student, and she quickly encouraged my love for Shakespeare. That Christmas, she bought me Shakespeare's Sonnets... the same copy she had of them (which I had borrowed many times already).



Though Kristin often jokes about the influence of Natalie on me, I certainly am so grateful for the young woman who moved in while my older sister (and best friend) was suddenly gone (also in MCs), and gently encouraged my love and passion for literature. She would finish her homework early, to sit and read poetry with me and drink tea. She took me to play tennis. She listened to my middle-school-girl woes of mean boys and teasing. Years later, she sat with me at Starbucks on the Ave, passing me her Italian books, and some of the best advice I received about college. She's a dedicated, disciplined, sweet and incredibly intelligent woman. And it's with a smile that I realize that this young woman who I quickly loved and admired, graduated from the University of Washington, an English Lit major, with Italian as her foreign language, and went on to work in Marketing. See any funny resemblence?

I promise, I haven't been trying to follow in her footsteps, but I love that the Lord placed her in my home for a year, so she could water my literary heart with books, chats, and chai.

It's always a wonder when we look back and see the little occurances and the amazing people that helped guide us to where we are called to be, and who we are today.

*interestingly enough, all three of the ladies in the photo above have had quite an impact on my literary heart. :) And my heart in general.

I'm reading through some South African poetry, a poet recommended by my Professor, Laura Chrisman. She did not recommend it as a delightful read, in fact her exact words were "It is very painful to read." She did not mean it is poor writing, she suggested it to me because the content is graphic and it most closely reaches into the literary trends I am examining in times of political crisis. Thus far though, I have been amazed. I might even be a fan. His poetry is indeed painful, but it also carries some hope. It carries a memory of paradise, and a desire to return. It doesn't shy from the truth, it hangs the decrepit, rotting nature of things right in your face. Here is one of his poems, entitled Rap 3:

On the walls of present memory 

hang hand-faded portraits of harmony

when ar another man could still smile

not shy away as from bile

when man's growth was vertical

the abundance of life was radical

when streams still ran cool

& the devil could only drool

when rivers still sustained

before they turned bloodstained

before the crimson downpour

had vampires in drunken stupor

when man had calabashesful of joy-drink

& the land was pure of corpses' stink

when mothers' hearts still sand

as over hill & valley children's laughter rang

when man was man

& morality was not under ban

when life was dear

& each word was clear

before law meant crook

& justice was an open book

before home meant prison

& reason means treason

before some slept in beds of clover

while others trampled the world over

searching for compassion in distant lands

they couldn't find at their own countrymen's hands

before from a tree man started to dangle

as nothing more than a bangle

this world's sorry decoration

long gone out of fashion

god if I partook of Jesus' flesh-bread

could I too raise the dead

-Lesego Rampolokeng, Horns for Hondo

I came across a cool blog today. As I scrolled down, it grew on me more and more. Here are some of my favorite recent posts from I Wrote This For You:

The Songs We Sing 

Somewhere, someone knows the words to the songs you sing.

The Crossing Out 

You always write down the things you need to do, rather than the things you've already done.

You've got it backwards.

The Overgrown
Fill yourself up on the things around you. Until you're bursting.

And then let them lose upon the page.

The Quickly
You could end it now. Tear it off and be done with it. But it will heal slower.

The end need not be so bitter.

I was terrible. I read Byron instead. :)

from Stanzas for Music

....Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one! -forsake, if thou wilt; -
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased.
And man shall not break it- whatever thou mayst.

And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul, in its bitterest blackness, shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee by my side, than with worlds at our feet.

One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix me, shall reward or reprove;
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign-
Thy lip shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

I turned around to see the voice that was speaking to me. And when I turned I saw seven golden lampstands, and among the lampstands was someone “like a son of man,” dressed in a robe reaching down to his feet and with a golden sash around his chest. His head and hair were white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes were like blazing fire. His feet were like bronze glowing in a furnace, and his voice was like the sound of rushing waters. In his right hand he held seven stars, and out of his mouth came a sharp double-edged sword. His face was like the sun shining in all its brilliance.

When I saw him, I fell at his feet as though dead. Then he placed his right hand on me and said: “Do not be afraid. I am the First and the Last. I am the Living One; I was dead, and behold I am alive for ever and ever! And I hold the keys of death and Hades.
Revelation 1:12-18

I've been thinking... I want to hear the voice of rushing waters. I was in worship, and as the music swept over me and washed around me, I just let go. I rested in it. And it was in the midst of that moment that I thought I heard the voice of rushing waters. As of now, I think it sounds something like a piano.

Today, I'm just trying to write the sound of the rain drops outside my window and it seems too grand a feat for my pen. It's moments like now that I wish I played an instrument.

So rather than writing, I'm just sitting here dwelling on the passage above. I want to see the eyes that blaze fire and hear the voice of rushing waters. As of late, I feel like I've been remembering who I am. Things I hadn't forgotten, but as I'd watched others develop certain interests and affections that I've had, I stopped really considering them my own. I can't explain it. One is the stars. Not just the abstract romantic idea of the stars, more the heavens. I can't remember not loving what the night sky reveals of the heavens. We were still living in Edmonds, so I wasn't yet 5 when my uncle stood with me in the driveway and pointed out the Seven Sisters, Cassiopia, Orion and others. I don't remember why he was over, or why we were standing out in the driveway, but I've never forgotten staring up at the stars that night. When I was in 10th grade my dad and I laid out in the yard and watched what will likely be the greatest meteor shower of the century. We counted 108 shooting stars in one hour. I've never seen anything so spectacular. I remembered two nights ago, the stars are still mine. They're as precious to me now (again) as they were before I ever watched another discover them.

I had a dream last Monday night, and it started with me staring at the moon. It was night and the only night that could even come close to the beauty of the sky in that dream was the night of the meteor shower. I stared at this huge magnificent moon, and then suddenly it started to swirl and I looked to the right and there was another moon. I asked some friends, "What is that?!" When they all responded, "The moon," I pointed to the moon- beside it. As we all stared in wonder, this magnificent orb began to dance and spread out across the sky. As that one circle spread, it became irredescent so you could see through it... like a fine cloud. Only they were swirling and dancing. Then all the sudden I realized 'they' were angels. I am not one to dream of angels typically (at all). I just stared and watched- they were huge and though they were as far as the other stars in our galaxy, I could see they had a human form.

We watched the sun rise. And as it was suddenly day, one of the angels came and spoke to me, a friend, and my sisters. I treasure what he said to me, I know it was the Lord. And after Sandi Freed's dream she shared last night, I now understand it all so much better. But I also just treasure that the Lord gave me a dream, and He gave me back the night sky as my own wonder and delight. I'm in a night season, but it's a mystery and a wonder and it's mine to enjoy again. I know the sun is about to dawn and I know the Lord is already beginning to accomplish all He has promised to me, for the words I most remember from the angel are this, "He's already begun."

"...because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."
Luke 1:78-79

"The darker the night, the brighter the day; the fiercer the fight, the stronger the faith. So I place my hope in You. The deeper the sin, the stronger the blood; the more to forgive, the more reason to love. So I place my trust in You... In Your ways Oh God, redemption is so much better than perfection. Over and Over again You prove yourself faithful, Over and over again, You prove yourself a Redeemer."
-Kristene Mueller, Redemption



She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!

Lord Byron

Last night, at homegroup we watched The Passion of the Christ. I'd been dreading it for days. That movie is so remarkably painful and I feel like such a wretch after. Last night, it was different. There were moments I almost wanted to laugh or just start praising out loud. Truly! I've always watched the film focusing on the fact that I put Him there; I crucified Christ; it was my sins; I've mocked Him by my behavior. My God, who I love, had to endure unbelievable torture because of me.

Last night, I just kept hearing the Lord say, "I chose this, for you." Yes, I put Him there... but He chose it! Jesus is not the victim of our sin, He is the overcomer of our sin! Christ took on that suffering, he knew the pain of the cross so that I might know it too, but not just that, so that I would share in the joy of His resurrection! DeVerne Fromke says, "Once we know the grace of God, we know the joy of sins forgiven." That's what I felt last night.

I didn't laugh, and I didn't cry out, but instead I sat in a somber rooms with others- all crying. But my tears of pain from what I saw were mixed with a joy of the victory Christ was accomplishing. He loved me. He chose that for me, for the unworthy me... He knew my sins, and He chose the cross. I can't say it enough, I'm just overwhelmed by His love and Goodness!

Goodness has been a theme the past few weeks for me, rediscovering what it means. As I've written recently, goodness is not just cmofort and ease and soft happy thoughts. Goodness is connected to righteousness (I don't fully grasp how), Goodness IS the will of the Father. And for Jesus, Goodness was death on a cross! For the Martyrs, like the majority of His disciples and Perpetua, Goodness was a painful death as well. They counted it a joy to share in His sufferings.

I was sort of surprised b myself that while I wanted to look away through the most terrible scenes of His passion, I also wanted nothing more than to stare into His eyes... hoping to see past the actor and catch a glimpse of the real eyes of Jesus. When the man who was made to help carry His cross looked into His eyes, my heart responded, "How blessed!" I wanted to look into HIs eyes, it compelled me through the second half of the film. I've always wanted to look into the eyes of Jesus, but now, I want to do so at that moment of His passion... what would they say? I think there would be love like I've never known or imagines, pain, but also joy and celebration. The eyes of a man who is overcoming.

Lord, let us be somber in the reality that You were beaten 'til you were unrecognizable, but let us not stop there. Let us rejoice- because You really did love us, enough to embrace your cross, to plead for forgiveness for your murderers. You chose to die, that we might live with You. Let us live with You.

Thank you Jesus. How small that sounds, but let it fill our hearts. Thank you.

Love

Love bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack anything.

"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here:"
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee."
Love took my hand and, smiling, did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"

"Truth, Lord; but I have marred them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," says Love, "Who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.

George Herbert

When I look out to the sea
My heart grows sails and begins to flee to thee.
The clouds that stain the satin sky
Only increase my need to find affinity,
Eternity, the yet unseen, undone, long-decreed,
The answers and secrets in the hands that bleed,
I need to see the face of the man who sleeps,
who sleeps beneath the sails in the raging sea.

If I could write you something beautiful
Dutifully, my pen would scroll.
First I'd look for that which grows deep.
And when I'd found the strongest tree,
I'd carve my secrets in his side.
My dreams would span the whole trunk-wide.
The tears that never touched my face
You'd silently read across his base.
And as you wrapped your arms around,
You'd feel my memories surround.

If I could write you something beautiful
You might come to know me well.