Tag Archives: Poetry

When the Light Came Down

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A few years ago, I was approached to convert two different stories of Christmas miracles into singable lyrics to be put to music as part of a Christmas album. I composed and sent off the lyrics, but heard no more about efforts to produce the music and record them since then. I’ll share those lyrics with you now, and perhaps one Christmas in the near future their uplifting harmonies will bring joy and hope to an audience.

It is so long ago that I can’t remember the melody I had in mind for this first one, which concerns a secret meeting of Christians in the darkest depths of Soviet Russia. I will share the other one next week, if I can work out a way to format text into two columns in a blog post.

When the Light Came Down

In a land of cruel repression
And an atmosphere of dread,
The threat of disappearance
Hangs over every head.

The Cheka took the clergy
Who failed to hide themselves;
The gulag’s thirst is never quenched
For bloodshed in its cells.

In a barn out in the country
The faithful dare to meet
To celebrate the Nativity,
That great day in history

When the Light came down
To redeem the earth;
The Word made flesh
Through a pauper’s birth.

The pastor sees a boy he knew
And baptized long ago,
Now grown into a strong young man
Trudging through the snow.

The pastor’s smile is tempered
By a dark but nagging thought;
“Where has he been all of these years,
What battles has he fought?

“Is he lost, in need of saving,
Or an agent of the state,
Here to observe, inform on us
And seal our awful fates?”

But the Light came down,
Leaving heavenly bliss,
To be sacrificed
For such a wretch as this.

His mind made up, the pastor calls
For quiet, then he reads
The words of the old liturgy
That address their deepest needs:

For peace on earth, goodwill to men
And glory upon high
To God who is owed all our praise,
And all things beautifies.

When the pleas move on to ask
For blessings on the nation,
A look upon the young man’s face
Betrays his consternation.

For the Light came down
And showed the world its sin;
Men preferred the dark
To being changed within.

All there commend their lives to Christ
With confident conviction
Alone the young man holds his tongue,
Won’t mouth the benediction.

Sins are confessed, repented of,
Forgiveness is proclaimed.
God’s Mercy is extolled and
Calls to holiness are made.

The Eucharist draws nearer,
God’s purity declared;
His Holy Spirit invited into
All those thus prepared.

Then a Light shone down,
Into that dusty place;
An instinctive fear
Flooded every face.

Could that light be the Cheka,
Arriving to arrest
The faithful for their brazenness,
And thought crimes unconfessed?

No, it’s something more profound,
This old barn is now holy ground,
Each heart is filled with joy and peace,
Each guilty conscience finds release.

The young man stumbles forward,
Pleading for his soul,
The great light struck him blind and he
Now longs to be whole.

For the Light came down
To heal our ills;
Not for fortune, fame,
Or a thousand hills.

“I was here at the state’s behest
To report on faith expressed
In anything but the Soviet
And failure to quail at their threats.

“Forgive me, for I have betrayed
All for which you worked and prayed;
I believed their vicious lies
About you and all they despise.”

The old men gather round and pray
For the scales to fall away
From the eyes of his heart and head
To revive what once was dead.

For the Light came down,
Offering new birth,
To flee the snares of sin
And live a life of worth.

Silver Sunday/Stříbrná neděle

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Today is the third Sunday of Advent, here is Zaklog the Great performing today’s poem:

And here is the English followed by the Czech version:

 


Silver Sunday

Bags of silver coins change hands
For human lives from distant lands:
Some caught in war, some caught at crime,
Some could not pay their debts in time.

With chains on their bruised feet and hands,
Worth thirty silver to a man;
Some foolishly still dare to dream
That they could one day be redeemed.

But soon That Day will come.


Stříbrná neděle

Za mince stříbrné ve váčku z kůže,
ten, kdo chce, člověka koupit si může.
Válka či zločin, stihly je lapit,
některé neschopnost dluhy včas splatit.

Ruce I kotníky sedřené pouty,
kus můžeš za třicet stříbrných koupit.
Někteří snívají bláznivé snění,
že přijde den vykoupení.

Však brzy již vzejde ten den.

Bronze Sunday/Bronzová neděle

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Today is the second Sunday of Advent, here is Bronze Sunday performed by Zaklog the Great

below is the English and Czech version

Bronze Sunday

Bronze shields and spears arranged in ranks
To form the fearsome Greek phalanx
Conquered nations far and wide;
Now there’s a new source of Greek pride:

Bold theories and insightful thoughts
That they debate in marble courts.
“Whose wisdom can outshine our own
Or that of our great pantheon?”

Twixt oracles and temples grand
In Athens a small altar stands
Placed there as a reverent nod
To an as yet unknown god.

But soon That Day will come.


Bronzová neděle

Bronzové štíty a v zákrytu kopí
falangy Řeků když moci se chopí.
Kdo může odolat moci a síle,
přichází Řekové a jejich chvíle.

Nádvoří dlážděné mramorem skvělým
debatám naslouchá, myšlenkám smělým.
“Před naší moudrostí každý se sklání,
vznešený pantheon – bez srovnání!”

V zajetí chrámů, kde lid bohy vzývá,
v Aténách oltář prostý se skrývá
Prostý a vážný uprostřed všeho
k uctění boha neznámého.

Však brzy již vzejde ten den.

The Angels Roar

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(to the tune of “You Raise Me Up” by Rolf Løvland/Brendan Graham)

The Angels Roar

The angels roar in triumph at Your victory,
They stand astounded at Your wondrous plan;
Your glory far outweighs all our sufferings,
Your beauty lifts our hearts with hope again.

Your promises are surer than the mountains,
The path to you is hard but worth each step;
You give us strength to walk on through the deepest pain
Your gift of life is mightier than death.

So when our days are full of heavy burdens,
When it seems the darkness never ends,
There’s one thing of which we can be certain:
We have in You the greatest of all friends.

The world is lost and drowning in its hubris,
Devoid of kindness, bitter to its core,
So deserving of consignment to the abyss,
And yet you came to offer so much more.

The angels roar in triumph at Your victory,
They stand astounded at Your wondrous plan;
Your glory far outweighs all our sufferings,
Your beauty lifts our hearts with hope again.

Image by <a href=”https://pixabay.com/users/Lancios-7858119/?utm_source=link-attribution&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=4361856″>Maurizio Lanciotti</a> from <a href=”https://pixabay.com/?utm_source=link-attribution&amp;utm_medium=referral&amp;utm_campaign=image&amp;utm_content=4361856″>Pixabay</a&gt;

The Light Beyond the Window

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I came up with this one during my many recent visits to doctor’s waiting rooms.

The Light Beyond the Window

The light beyond the window shines
Into this murky room
Sparing me the horror
Of life in utter gloom

It dances on the floorboards
And sparkles on the tiles
Lifting me onto my feet
To go that extra mile

Without it I could never see
The beauty on display
In flowers, trees, in birds and beasts,
In life that finds a way.

I press against the window
And shield my eyes to view
The source of this great radiance:
So pure, so bright, so true.

Defining and uplifting all
To be their greatest selves,
With courage to keep going
And eagerness to delve

Into the noblest mysteries
Of being, thought and deed;
Not shirking from the questions
Of our lives’ deepest need

For meaning, purpose, value, hope,
When all arounds seems lost;
What core thing we should cling to
When all else must be tossed

The fortitude to see it through
And keep our solemn vow
Ensnaring vanities avoid
Until we humbly bow

Before the throne of judgment
When our works show their worth,
And our heads will lift to see
New heaven and new earth.

How did I deserve to know?

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Today is my wedding anniversary. Here is this year’s poem:


How did I deserve to know?

How did I deserve to know
A girl that’s so good for my soul,
With wisdom, passion, kindness, love
That I am so unworthy of?

It’s such a joy to wipe your tears,
Discuss your thoughts, your hopes, your fears,
For these eventful, treasured years
That we have been as one.

So with His strength and with His heart
Until it’s our time to depart
We reinforce these bonds of love
That fit us better than a glove,

To face the world and all its whims,
To cleanse our hearts of all their sins
And teach our children to become
Strong enough to overcome

The storms that surely will one day
Sweep across their narrow way
To purify them to their core
As they prepare for evermore.

You Really Are Too Good to Us

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This year’s bithday poem for my wife:

You Really Are Too Good to Us

 

You really are too good to us,
So we have to thank you thus
(Plus of course in other ways,
From time to time and day by day).

There’s no one in the world that we would rather know
To hold us as we cry and watch us as we grow,
To celebrate our victories, commiserate our falls,
Encourage us that next time we will surely scale that wall,

Warn us when we wander from the straight and narrow path,
Hand us holy soap when our spirit needs a bath,
Hold us to higher standards than the world around us does,
Show unexpected kindnesses, simply just because

You love to give, to understand and help us lift our heads,
Gently kiss our foreheads when we’re tucked up in our beds,
Loving mother, daughter, friend and sister to a throng
Of souls who’d surely join us in singing you a song

To celebrate all that you are, the difference that you make,
The many blessings you provide, delicious treats you bake,
The comfort and encouragement your simple presence gives
Are heaps of shining evidence that in your heart He lives.

The Witness of the Walls

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A thousand years of history, ingrained in walls of panelled wood:
A just king’s wise pronouncements, a tyrant’s fickle moods,
Power lawlessly unleash against today’s appointed foe,
Or turn the wheels of justice that grind sure but very slow?

Kick a problem down the road for someone else to solve,
Or build an institution with clear eyes and firm resolve?
To lash out at an insult in rage at wounded pride,
Or keep your head and keep the chance to win hearts to your side?

Each day every one of us can be wise or a fool,
To build up, guard or tear down the little patch we rule,
For each of us has influence, though it may not seem like much;
We all have no idea how many souls we touch.

The ripples that our acts send out can grow to mighty waves
That bring a kingdom crashing down or hordes of lost souls save,
So guard your heart and watch your tongue, act with strength and grace,
Until that day when all is done and we will see His face.

A Call Upon the Spirit

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As the new year approaches, I am posting my entry to this year’s contest of the Society of Classical Poets, on their chosen themes of an open letter to the Library of Congress to restore the recognition of rhymed verse, warning against the dangers of socialism and defending the importance of beauty in art. A Call Upon the Spirit

There’s a call upon the spirit
Of the people of this land,
Each time their freedom’s threatened,
To lift their heads and stand

To fight against the tyrant,
And bring his hubris low;
To show we will not follow
Down the path he wants to go.

The siren song of envy,
That socialists employ,
Lures weak minds down the path of death
And robs the world of joy.

Sculpted, metered, rhyming verse
Is looked at with a sneer;
Higher thoughts and beauty
Are made to disappear.

Pure filth is praised as artistry,
Pure lies as brave and good,
‘Til every conscience has shut down
And every heart craves blood.

They long to lunge in lockstep
To skewer noble hearts;
Their violence always ‘justified’
Because it’s just the start

Of a new utopia
That never quite arrives;
So carry on the slaughter,
Who knows? You might survive.

Dehumanizing spitefulness
Takes its taxing toll;
People are God’s handiwork,
Not worthless lumps of coal

For feeding hellish fires on earth
To get your petty way;
Don’t gloat about such victories,
For soon will come the day

When the truth is known and all
Those plans have come to naught,
There won’t be any refunds
For the people that you bought.

Higher ways are open
To all those with eyes to see;
A glimpse of heaven has the power
To set your spirit free

To echo heroes from the past,
From their examples learn;
The greatest future you can make
Is one that you have earned;

To dig down to the bedrock
Of age-old, solid truth,
With which we can inspire all
The flower of our youth,

That they might stand amidst the storm,
Protect the weak and frail;
See through the lies of bullies,
Recover when they fail,

Regain their feet when worlds collapse,
Rebuild a nation strong,
Withstand temptations to conform
To simply get along.

Restore the place of worthy verse
With cadence and with rhyme;
Inspiring common man to be
A hero for all time.

No convoluted bitter fog
To cause the young dismay,
But clear and hopeful, noble light
To help you find your way.

Instead of sordid clumps of woes,
A city on a hill
With towers tall and solid walls
And bright lights burning still.

Inviting all and sundry
To be all that they can be,
And emulate the gentlefolk
Who faced their destiny

With open eyes and hearts aflame,
Bruised and yet unbowed;
Despite their fears down through the years
They did declare aloud,

“The lessons of our history
Will no more be ignored;
The shrieks of mobs and demagogues
Will not undo the law.

Rise up in love and brotherhood
To face the shameless foe
Who advocates for squalor
And loves to pigeonhole

Each man into a rabid tribe
To which he must conform,
Reciting every shibboleth
And joining every swarm

Of violence and hatred of
Today’s appointed prey
For having the audacity
To think and hope and pray.

Beauty, faith and reason
Will guide us on our way
Towards the new horizon
Of bright eternal day.

Silver Sunday Redux

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Today is the third Sunday of Advent, here is today’s poem, again the Czech follows the English:

 


Silver Sunday

Bags of silver coins change hands
For human lives from distant lands:
Some caught in war, some caught at crime,
Some could not pay their debts in time.

With chains on their bruised feet and hands,
Worth thirty silver to a man;
Some foolishly still dare to dream
That they could one day be redeemed.

But soon That Day will come.


Stříbrná neděle

Za mince stříbrné ve váčku z kůže,
ten, kdo chce, člověka koupit si může.
Válka či zločin, stihly je lapit,
některé neschopnost dluhy včas splatit.

Ruce I kotníky sedřené pouty,
kus můžeš za třicet stříbrných koupit.
Někteří snívají bláznivé snění,
že přijde den vykoupení.

Však brzy již vzejde ten den.