The Eyes of Christ

It was the eyes of Christ, those magnificent eyes that-

Watched a blessed wedding celebration and made sure that the joy of the event would continue.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That looked upon a mass of humanity and recognized individual souls,

talking to them about life in His coming kingdom.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That looked into the heart of a great religious teacher and created a thirst for eternal life.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That looked past a life filled with failure and sin worthy of death,

and by His gaze and words her soul found freedom and a purpose

for living far greater than chains of this world.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That looked with powerful compassion on a man whose home was a field of bones and stones.

The man whose only friends were the fiends that haunted his every second, minute, hour.

That looked past the evil that was evident and focused on the soul

that was hidden by rag and ruin.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That watched and heard a powerful warrior begging the Great Healer to touch his daughter.

A warrior whose battle hardened soul was ready to die by the spear,

but trembled in fear over the thought of losing his own flesh and blood.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That watched as a man begged for food and searched for dignity in dust and dirt,

that some of that very dirt that reminded the blind of his plight was

transformed into a salve of sight.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That drew friends into an intimate fellowship where basin, bread and wine

would become instruments of grace and relationship.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That entreated three friends to help Him in His hour of need,

looking past their inability to be vigilant, knowing of their future.

It was the eyes of Christ-

That pierced the heart of a political puppet telling him that all power was

granted by the King of the Universe.

It is the eyes of Christ-

That recognize the man by the side of the road holding his sign,

"Will Work for Food" and is acquainted with pain and despair,

still knowing that he is a man of worth and eternal value.

It is the eyes of Christ-

That look into the hollow shell of the woman whose existence is propped

by the pill and the bottle, whispering to her soul that she can begin again

and with His grace her life will be vibrant and whole.

O, Let Us Have Those Magnificent Eyes of Christ.

Bittter Old Man

The old man is lying on a dirty old metal bed, sheets unchanged for weeks.

 On his side with his knees drawn up, like he did 80 years ago.

The gray on his head is matched by the gray of his life.

He has been alone now for years, abandoned by all, left to his bed and bitterness.

Life is hard and that is exactly what he taught everybody around him.

His wife, stoop shouldered by the burdens and his words, crumbled under his care.

For years she tried to please him, her efforts only gained more scorn and weight on her shoulders.

Children now gone, haven't seen the old man in years.

His son, his namesake, pledged to never see or speak to him, never to enter the house until it was funeral time.

A daughter, broken by suspicion and cursing, still lives broken, trying to make her daddy happy, five or six times since she saw him last.

He knew they needed to know that the world is cruel and the best a man could do was to work all of his waking hours.

Home, he expected all to understand his life and be content that he put food on the table and a roof over their heads.

His words, never from a warm spirit, only the ones that needed to be said, the food is cold, the chores are undone, the wood needs carrin-in.

He expects respect and obedience, cares not to know what troubles live in his home.

All homes have trouble, life is hard and you just put up with it.

On his bed his hands are shriveled and gnarled, evidence of years of toil, toil he thought so unappreciated, work ignored, sweat unnoticed.

Unaware of the words of a mother to her children, words of work by their father, toil to provide food and shelter, long hard days spent on the end of a shovel.

He looks down at his hands and realizes his heart and soul is just as bent and gnarled as they are.

He mumbles in a voice no one can understand, words that seem garbled, "God what did I do wrong?" Life is hard and they had to learn, the world is cruel and unloving. I did what was best.

A message begins to move deep in his soul, he feels uncomfortable, tries to reposition himself on the hard rusted metal frame bed.

His stomach churns and his legs move to curb the pain.

A voice very clearly and quietly speaks it's message of unwelcome truth.

Today you are alone, alone on your bed, waiting to die, where are your children?

You are choking on the weeds you planted most of your life.

It is now time for you to realize what you have done, and live and die with it.

Even though you lie here abandoned and scared, yes I will be with you.

I will try and help them understand your life and keep them from your pain.

A Sweet Return

Five generations together in a room, soon to experience a glimpse of eternity.

The saint of the family, the matriarch, is breathing her last air of confinement.

She has shared her heart, her life, and her last words with each.

Her white hair is a simple reflection of her soul, pure and unspoiled.

Her body bears the evidence of her years, yet her spirit bears the richness of life lived.

Life filled with children and chores, wonderment and worry.

Life full of images etched on every soul in that room.

Life of berry picking and shortcake, jumping grasshoppers and wild raspberries.

Children laughing and playing in the bathtub on a Saturday night,

in Sunday school the next morning, singing Jesus Loves Me This I Know For The Bible Tells Me So. Words sung a thousand times by the gathered in the room,

witnessed so many countless times by the life and love and sacrifice of the saint

soon to meet her God.

It is easy to notice her skin, thin as tissue paper, causes a hesitation to hug as firmly as deserved.

The scars are evident on her knees, of a trait passed on.

All mortal signs of life's days and years soon to be replaced by immortal

glory filled instruments of praise.

God's saint has been ready for this day for a long time, even yearning for its arrival.

As the months became years and frailty became reality, her spirit looked past the stars more and more, seeing the unseen.

For some around her now, life changed for a season.

A few short months of helping in the mundane requirements of everyday living.

Not work to be endured or a burden to bear, but an expression of love,

not ever to come close to filling up what was poured out for them.

Her breathing is very slow and shallow now, a sense of rest and contentment seems

to be filling the small room.

As she sleeps on her side, as she always did, her lungs are no longer filled

with the paltry air of the earth,

but with the celestial air of the heavens and her frail hand is held

by the One she so loved and longed to see.

Lenten Pain Leads to Peace

Thoughts and prayers for those caught in the noose. There is victory and life in Christ.




Long did I clutch bottle and pill,

Friendship my aching soul to fill.

Such longing in my heart,

Their lie, mask playing a part.

I cried, I tried, to abandon their lies,

Their hold on me, a noose tied.

Free, Free, Why can't I be,

Of this hook, so deep in me.

Deep darkness, Despair, All I see,

Chained down, I want, Can't flee.

Death, Peace of death, Please cover me,

Earthen grave, My only plea.

Stretched out, Damp cold night,

Pain, Punishment, I sense is right.

In deep despair, My head hangs low,

Eyes, Tears, Capturing a glow.

Hands reach to hold my chains,

Scars, History of cruelty, Pain.

Love, Compassion, Shine from his face,

Shackles, Links, Shattering, Falling in our embrace.

tg 2-21-2011