That God can take
billions of frayed threads
and weave a tapestry
is miracle.
Category: poetry
Intertwined
Under the sun
disconnection,
isolated life
relational strife.
Oversized homes
lonely souls roam,
seclusion bred
intimacy dead.
Living private lives
independence thrives,
we never bother
loving another.
Who did God create?
People to relate,
intertwined souls
mankind made whole.
-October 2017, home
Mercy’s Stream
From my recent book, Soil of the Divine:
I lay my sin-stained soul
before the Lord,
battered and bruised
by my own foolishness
and rebellion.
My sacrifice is not
a lamb without blemish,
but myself
whose stains
are ground in deeply,
yet I keep playing in the mud.
I bring my filth
to the foot of the cross
and my trembling lips whisper
“…mercy.”
My Christ picks me up
and carries me to the river of grace
whose effervescent waters
mingle with my Savior’s blood,
restoring purity
and wholeness.
Tomorrow, I will need
to bathe again
in mercy’s stream.
Purge me with hyssop
and I shall be clean;
wash me,
and I shall be
whiter than snow. -Psalm 51:7
Shame Clouds
I was clearly busy
with something
“important.”
Dictating an email or text
or perhaps
a Tweet about
the beauty of grace.
Speaking
you interrupted.
Like a fast moving thunderstorm
irritation cast
dark clouds
over my face.
Sounding like distant thunder
I grumbled,
“why do you always
interrupt me
when you can
clearly see
I am talking?”
Meekly, you replied,
“Sorry,”
as your bright smile
was replaced by
a gray haze
pregnant with shame.
It is no wonder
you dislike storms.
Held Tight
From my book, Soil of the Divine:
When trouble to my doorstep comes,
when evil finds a way;
I cry out to the Lord above,
“why are You far away?”
The wicked ones, with evil come,
oppressing the poor and fair;
destruction in their arms and tongues,
saying “God’s not anywhere.”
But You, O Lord, lift up Your hand,
destroy the wicked man;
bring justice to the hurting ones,
as only the Sovereign can.
Your steadfast love and caring arms,
draw in the helpless child;
forgive our sins and hold us tight,
through each and every trial.
O LORD, You hear the desire of the afflicted;
You will strengthen their heart;
You will incline Your ear to do justice
to the fatherless and the oppressed,
so that the man who is of the earth
may strike terror no more.
-Psalm 10:17-1
Soil of the Divine
In late 2016, I began working on a book of poetry based upon the Psalms. Each weekday morning, I would read one of the Psalms, meditate upon it, and see what stirred in my heart, with the goal of writing a poem inspired by each Psalm. Some mornings, words flowed easily; on others, I felt blocked, but each day, I wrote. After finishing the draft, I spent a few months editing and tweaking the poems. Some friends graciously agreed to offer editorial assistance as I neared the end (thank you Briana and Cindy!). I formatted the interior, designed the cover, and ultimately sent it on to publication.
Earlier in the week, I received my first case of books. They arrived while I was meeting with 7/8 of my life group. I gathered my children to the basement and subjected them to the grand unveiling. I am grateful they humored me. I sent copies along to a few people, but remained rather tight-lipped. I wanted my mom and my aunt Sandy to see it before I went public with it. They both have their copies, so I am glad to be able to tell you all about it.
I do hope you will consider reading Soil of the Divine. Even if poetry “isn’t your thing,” my hope is that you might be edified by it. It’s available on both Kindle and in paperback (if you know me, you are aware of my preference). You can purchase it directly through the CreateSpace e-store or Amazon.
If you are looking for Christmas gifts for everyone you know, I would also be happy to recommend it. 😊
Tin Pail
I submerge the old tin pail
beneath the flowing stream,
I watch the icy water
spilling over the bottom lip
filling the hollow space.
I straighten up
muscles taut
as my fingers curl around
the wire handle.
I carefully carry the pail.
I don’t want to drop its precious contents.
I look to the sun-baked fields.
I see the workers scattered
here and there,
bodies rising from the plain.
They’ve been out in the heat so long
sweat no longer appears at their brow.
I carry the pail for these people,
the parched and dry
who long to be quenched.
Yet some succumb to sun-stroke,
delirious clouds obstructing reason.
I dip the ladle into the silvery liquid
and offer a drink
yet they refuse.
One rasps, “No thanks. I’ll get my own water.”
Another knocks the bucket from my hand,
“What are you trying to do? Poison me?”
I return again to the river.
I rinse off the bucket
fresh dents evident.
I pause
long enough to lower my mouth
to the cool stream,
refreshed.
I dip the bucket again
and once more
carry the bucket to the harvest.
Seven Hours
Between writing and painting, I spent about 7 hours creating today. Late last night, I returned from an exhilarating, exhausting weekend staffing Men at the Cross in Kentucky. Even before leaving for Kentucky, I was physically and emotionally spent; I longed for a day to create.
I long for a better country
where pain and tears will cease,
where love and kindness rule the day
there is no disease.
Not right nor left can offer peace,
despite impassioned claims;
our hearts still beat with selfishness
and seeking our own fame.
I hope not in democracy,
the red, the white, the blue;
no governmental policies
can lead me to what’s true.
I desire a heavenly land,
a country of shalom;
where Jesus Christ, the servant King
has gone to make a home.
Incongruous Beauty
I stood watching
leaves slowly descending
upon the cemetery.
An incongruous beauty
as death overlapped death.
Each headstone
calling to attention
“don’t you forget!”
But in time
they too
will return to the ground,
first slouching
then falling
asleep upon the earth.
Why such beauty
in death multiplied?
Because the leaves
alight with heaven’s fire
remind us that God works rhythmically.
What dies in beauty
soon comes forth in new life.
I awaken early
the peace of predawn
is a welcome companion.
My mind’s machinery
immediately jumps ahead
“you’ll be tired later.
you should stay in bed.”
How easily
I reject the gift
the present
moment
sitting in silence
with God.
Jason Kanz 