Empty Crosses | Poem

After it had finished I waited with Mary,
When everyone had gone, we went up the hill,
But through our tears we couldn’t see
Which empty cross was ours.
We could hardly see while it was going on
And now among the jumble of wood we couldn’t tell.
We would have taken it home if we knew:
He had touched that wood.

They told me that crosses were bad:
You might end up worshipping an idol.
But I didn’t want to do that,
I wanted something to focus my unruly mind.
They said if I did have a cross it had to be empty
Because Jesus wasn’t there any more,
I understand, but every cross is empty now
How would I know which one is His?

This step, so small, yet impossible
A trivial sacrifice that I cannot but must make.
To think that this is the very cross
That He said we must bare!
His cross was bigger than the world
I don’t understand it
Mine; immeasurably small,
I understand it well: it will kill me.
Into resurrection.

Wilf Copping, October 2018

Caught! | A poem

They dragged me to the square
I knew I left a trail of shame in the dust.
But drag me they must
Subject of lust
I’d been caught red handed
Now I’d be branded
Shamed, cast out, spat upon.
I realised
I didn’t care, for inside I screamed
Inside I shouted, reckless, self hating anger!
I never doubted-
That I had nothing
So had nothing to lose
Numb. Cold. Hurting. Hurt or be hurt.
I reached out for love
Reached out for the love I’d never had
Reached out to belong, to be held.
Oh what a mistake!
What a mistake.
This love didn’t touch the inside
Couldn’t touch the soul side
Just made me despise
The cold, pointlessness.

They dragged me, they beat me
They hate me, they cheat me
They dump me, expose me
To stone me
To break me
To end me
To e n d me
In adultery

The silence is perceiving
Why is no one accusing?
Or kicking or growling?
That man he has spoken
Every conscience has woken
The fury has broken
A whisper has won
All my accusers have gone
To the last
Heads downcast
Forgot my past
But remembered theirs

His voice quiet and hushed now
And yet like the thunder
Every word he utters
Shakes me to the core.
They bypass the gore
The grime and the crime
He says “not condemned,
Go make amends”
Why does he stare?
Why should he care
But his eyes pierce my heart
Give me a new start
I want to run?
I want to cry,
I want to hide?
My life runs before me
I know He sees through me
His love seems to fill me
To melt me, to heal me
His gaze holds me speechless
Mercy spreads as it reaches
Inside all my thoughts
My fears and my feelings
Oh wonderful love
Wonderful love
Now he affirms me, understands me
Confirms me
Kindness. Pure kindness transforms me and lifts me.
Light fills all my being
I feel like I’m singing
His praises ringing
Me, who condemned stands here ready to die
Instead I shall fly
Instead I shall follow
This man who gives me

You’re more creative than you think

God, the greatest of all creators, the One who fashioned the Sun, and the humpback whale, and the Great Dane, made us in his image. The Divine image has been stamped upon us. We alone are made in the image of God. God has given us the glorious task of representing him on the earth. Of showing the world what our God is really like. Of showing the watching world that our God is a creative master who loves to bring beauty out of chaos.

Here’s an excellent post by Stephen Altrogge on creativity:

Make God Look Great. Create.