Passion of a Warrior

When did his passion begin?
Did it commence with the kiss
By which he bid his loved ones adieu.
Or did the call to battle
Bid him count the cost,
Shattering vanities and proud hoorahs,
With winter ice
Though veins,
Piercing to the marrow of bone.

The Call was always greater
Than one man’s valor or presumption.
Holier than Adam could undertake in rage,
Yet a young David found an “Amen”
Rising within his shepherd- breast,
Shielded by hope and faith
Born of a Savior,
Yet borne into battle
By the foal that carried Him forth.

All battles,
Waged for the souls of men,
Find common ground;
Friend and foe,
Dying side by side.
As grains numbered as the sand,
And the blood,
Bridle high at Armageddon,
Corpses piled and claiming
The best among us,
As generations of spent warriors’ might,
Trust to God
To judge the heart of every man,
And wear his colors in His raiment.

Memories, born as festering wounds,
Or toughened scars,
Mark the man and record the Passion.
No jot or tiddle forgotten,
Fingered on the ground,
Condemning only the Accurser.

Angels minister the balm of Gilead
As the dead live again,
And the living love
Through the Darkness.
Mended hearts,
Held to a measure,
Weighed on scales of Mercy.
Are blessed.
None forgotten,
All forgiven.

How long? How long?
Martyrs witness the passion of the warrior,
And place merited crown,
And victor’s wreathe,
As a new name resounds,
Pronounced by the Mouth of God.

©2012 Joann Nelander

 

 

Radiant Light

Darkness, fleeing at the approach of Promise,
Star bright and resplendent,
The Sun, illuminating the Virgin’s womb,
Making of it a palace
Fit for a king, a King of Kings.

Light bright angel,
Carrying her “Fiat” heavenward,
Enfolding humility, modesty and obedience,
In the gold of innocence and virtue.

Most High overshadowing,
Virgin most pure and lowly,
Conceiving by privilege,
Godhead and Son of Man.

© 2012 Joann Nelander

Going Up to Jerusalem

O God, let me climb
the Lord’s mountain,
That I may be changed,
Charged, and sent.

Going up to Jerusalem,
May sinful Man
Grab on to the tassels
Of my garment,
And run with me,
Drawn heavenward
By Your Cross.

On this mountain,
This all hallowed mountain,
From which the bones of Adam,
And the faith of Abraham, cry out,
Rescue,save, deliver,
My Redeemer comes.

©2011 Joann Nelander

Going Up to Jerusalem

O God, let me climb
the Lord’s mountain,
That I may be changed,
Charged, and sent.

Going up to Jerusalem,
May sinful Man
Grab on to the tassels
Of my garment,
And run with me,
Drawn heavenward
By Your Cross.

On this mountain,
This all hallowed mountain,
From which the bones of Adam,
And the faith of Abraham, cry out,
Rescue,save, deliver,
My Redeemer comes.

©2011 Joann Nelander

Going Up to Jerusalem

O God, let me climb
the Lord’s mountain,
That I may be changed,
Charged, and sent.

Going up to Jerusalem,
May sinful Man
Grab on to the tassels
Of my garment,
And run with me,
Drawn heavenward
By Your Cross.

On this mountain,
This all hallowed mountain,
From which the bones of Adam,
And the faith of Abraham, cry out,
Rescue,save, deliver,
My Redeemer comes.

©2011 Joann Nelander

Days of Darkness–Days of Light

Happy Anniversary!

You registered on WordPress.com 4 years ago!

Thanks for flying with us. Keep up the good blogging!

Yup, Word Press congratulated me!  Four years today!  To celebrate, I’m re-blogging my first post with a bit of tweeking to fit the season.

 

Days of Darkness–Days of Light

We just celebrated the feast of the Conversion of St. Paul.  It was he, who said in a letter addressed to the Roman church (Rom.5:20), “Where sin abounds, grace abounds all the more"  Well, here’s the vision, as it was told to me. I want you to picture it so that you feel it with your heart:

You and I squeak in,  passing  through those towering Pearly Gates.  People of all ages overwhelm even our enhanced understanding of the generations descended from Adam and Eve.  We can’t wait to embrace them.  We know them intimately. Instantly, we know their stories.  These are those who lived Salvation history.

“What was it like?”,  we ask over and again?   These, after all, are those who walked dry shod through the walls of water escaping Pharaoh’s chariots.  Here, too,  are the masses who had pressed upon the Christ.  They’d witnessed the manner and miracles of Jesus.  Some has eaten the bread and fish He’d multiplied.  Others admitted that they had shouted, “Crucify Him.”  Others had stood along the way as He pushed on to Calvary. The martyrs from all past centuries were among the most joyful.  They now rejoiced that their blood shed for Christ seeded the proceeding eons to bear fruit in such as we.

For all our eagerness to express our gratitude to them and give glory to God, they pressed the more upon us, for their need js to know our stories.  “Tell us,”  they asked, “how black did the times become when men who pretend to knowledge denied life in the womb.  How dark were the days in which the hearts of mothers died, choosing  to bring forth corpses instead of  living children.  You, who lived with blindness and deafness,  how did you survive?  Like Peter, was it repentance that  re-ignited your flame?   How did you find courage walking  the Valley of the Shadow of Death?  How bright was the Light that brought you home?”

That Light is shining now, on everyone. Who will guide the blind and who will lead the thirsty to the Living Water, if not you and me.

Veterans Day–Passion of a Warrior

When did his passion begin?
Did it commence with the kiss
By which he bid his loved ones adieu.
Or did the call to battle
Bid him count the cost,
Shattering vanities and proud hoorahs,
With winter ice
Through veins
Piercing to the marrow of bone.

The Call was always greater
Than one man’s valor or presumption.
Holier than Adam could undertake in rage,
Yet a young David found an “Amen”
Rising within his shepherd- breast,
Shielded by hope and faith
Born of a Savior,
Borne into battle
By the foal that carried Him forth.

All battles,
Waged for the souls of men,
Find common ground;
Friend and foe,
Dying side by side.
As grains numbered as the sand,
And the blood,
Bridle high at Armageddon,
Corpses piled and claiming
The best among us,
As generations of spent warriors’ might,
Trust to God
To judge the heart of every man,
And wear his colors in His raiment.

Memories, born as festering wounds,
Or toughened scars,
Mark the man and record the Passion.
No jot or tiddle forgotten,
Fingered on the ground,
Condemning only the Accuser.

Angels minister the balm of Gilead
As the dead live again,
And the living love
Through the Darkness.
Mended hearts,
Held to a measure,
Weighed on scales of Mercy.
Are blessed.
None forgotten,
All forgiven.

How long? How long?
Martyrs witness the passion of the warrior,
And place merited crown,
And victor’s wreathe,
As a new name resounds,
Pronounced by the Mouth of God.

©2012 Joann Nelander