a tribute to the slain

Do you ever wonder if you made the wrong choice?
Do you ever glance down at the path your feet traverse
your bloody feet, your scraped knees and thorn-scarred clothing
and wonder
perhaps
if things might have been different?

Sometimes I think that I should
Sometimes I want to cry out into the void
a cry without words
because words spring from hope
and I have lost my hope
my friends
my passion
my dreams

Young and innocent
she once was
true and faithful to the end
that is how she loved

Pure and trusting
her heart was won
by nail-scarred hands that took hers in His
by love spoken

They begged me to return to them
they told me not to listen
to forget what I had heard
to join their silent religion of second-hand belief

But how could I turn and walk away
from the One I love?
How could I pretend not to hear
the Voice of my beloved?

Young and innocent
I was
true and faithful to the end
that is how I loved

Pure and trusting
my heart was won
by nail-scarred hands that took mine in his and never let go
by love spoken, whispered, thundered

I write this tribute to the slain
to the girl
who will never again write
or hope
or befriend
or love
or dream

I write this tribute to the slain
to the girl
who loved
and loved
and loved
and was crucified
until she could love no longer

I write this tribute to the slain
to the girl
who died
not for a cause
not for a religion
not for a hope
for all these died within her long before her pain was spent

I write this tribute to the slain
to those like her
who love
not mere pages
not mere etchings of ink upon them engraved
not mere rules and regulations and prayers that fade
but the Voice and the Words and the One who speaks them still

I write this tribute to the slain
to those like her
whose hearts will never beat again
lest the One with pierced hands
and pierced feet
and a pierced heart
breathe the breath of life once more

I write this tribute to the slain
to those like me
who believe

I write this tribute to the slain
last words
hear just these few last words, please

I write this tribute to the slain
to the first
and the last
to every one who died believing
I write this for you

You knew the Truth
you knew the Love
you knew the Voice that spoke
you knew the Man who stood untouched in the flames of the fiery furnace
you knew the Man led up the hill with a cross upon His back and spit upon His face

See my hands?
See my feet?
See my heart?
They are like yours
and His

I know it was not a waste
I know there is a Resurrection
for the slain

"For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for Me will find it."
-Matthew 16:25

the Farmer's field

The sowers went out and planted seeds
deep in the brown, dry earth of a barren field
but the crop did not grow
for the field did not belong to them

The sowers went out and saw a crop they had not planted
it flourished green and tall and elegant in the sunny breeze
and they murmured and cursed amongst themselves
for they were deceived

The sowers went out and surveyed the field of beautiful growth
"All weeds!" they said scornfully, irate
"And we shall burn it!" they decided that day
for they could not see, they were blinded by hate

The sowers went home
and spoke with venom-laced words
they spoke smoothly, deftly, with shining eyes and cruel smirks that they tried to hide
until all believed their gossip and lies

The sowers went out to the field, torches in hand
and lit the four corners of the good crop as it swayed beneath a gentle sunset
and the fire spread and the smoke billowed and the sowers walked home, triumph-filled in the twilight
and all was lost, blackened, forever ruined

Evening faded into darkness
as one man stood and soaked it all in —
the charred smell that stung his eyes,
the words of the sowers,
the darkness itself

The only thing he could not bring within himself,
fill his heart up with,
was their feeling of triumph
for he was the servant of the Farmer
chosen
to watch and water and nourish and protect the crop
until the Farmer returned
and the Farmer was returning soon

"'I lived in Germany during the Nazi Holocaust. I considered myself a Christian. We heard stories of what was happening to the Jews, but we tried to distance ourselves from it, because, what could anyone do to stop it?

A railroad track ran behind our small church and each Sunday morning we could hear the whistle in the distance and then the wheels coming over the tracks. We became disturbed when we heard the cries coming from the train as it passed by. We realized that it was carrying Jews like cattle in the cars!

Week after week the whistle would blow. We dreaded to hear the sound of those wheels because we knew that we would hear the cries of the Jews en route to a death camp. Their screams tormented us.

We knew the time the train was coming and when we heard the whistle blow we began singing hymns. By the time the train came past our church we were singing at the top of our voices. If we heard the screams, we sang more loudly and soon we heard them no more.

Years have passed and no one talks about it anymore. But I still hear that train whistle in my sleep. God forgive me; forgive all of us who called ourselves Christians yet did nothing to intervene.'

What train is rumbling past us today whose whistle we ignore?"
-Erwin W. Lutzer, quoting an eyewitness account in his book 'When A Nation Forgets God'

the lie

To some it is an enemy that always survives
a memory that haunts in darkness and light
a painful agony, a sorrow unwept
something to be feared
fought
forgotten
but it is never forgotten
you must shut it out
silence it
turn and outrun it
again
and again

To others it is a faithful comfort
a companion ever present in the best of dreams
a treasure to be sought
a cause to die for
a hand to hold when all others slip away
a light in the dark
hope
and joyful tears

Once upon a time
two friends met
and talked
and understood something
understood something I call truth
though others have called it many things — religion, freedom, love

I could not take it
knowing something
asking for something
always pretending to seek it
yet remaining empty, whole, caged
I ached for a breath of fresh air
I longed to give all instead of just talking about risking this or that
I wanted open blue skies and I was ready to leave the safe, quaint parlor to find them

You kept talking
and I stopped talking — listening, even
because I wanted to live
and you did not

I died for the truth
yes, I died
yet your life is but a lie

"The hardest thing about searching for the truth is that sometimes you find it."
-Anonymous