Seven Hundred Thousand Roses

He speaks wisely, and I ignore him.
He works a miracle, and I compare him to the devil.
He extends me peace and consolation,
and I angrily slap his hand away.
So I take him bodily, roughly,
and he comes obediently,
ever obedient to His Father.
And I lash him to the wood.
I tremble a bit now,
giddy with rage.
How dare he?
I feel the spike heavy in my hand.
In a wide arc the mallet falls,
and from the wound comes a red, heavy flow.
Seven hundred thousand roses bloom at once.
The full fragrance of mercy.
How dare he!
His heart spills out innocent love,
the love of a child
that in Gethsemane asked,
“Are you sure of this Father?”
“Are you really sure?”
Even then the blood began to fall
in heavy drops.
It is a consuming love
a fire
a strong steady wind
It comes for you
It is the Kingdom
the Power
the Glory
Love now
and forever


I awaken to find you there again, ready to greet me Lord. You know all about me, every part of me. You are not interested in my talents or my strengths. You are not looking where I have it all figured out.

No, that’s just not it. That’s just where I don’t get it.

It’s that scary place. When the lightning and the thunder roared so loud and the house shook as if it might fall to the ground. When I was a child that place made me tremble like a skinny leaf. That’s when I looked for you. When I cried out to you.

Now I’m old and the thunder doesn’t scare me so much. Now I’m hardened with thick scars. Am I not strong? Just look at me and see how strong I am.

Yet in the stillness before the dawn you offer me what I can not give myself. You offer to heal and restore me in places I can not. The places where I am weak and still tremble at the storm.

Take this little boy’s hand. Heal this little boy’s heart. I cry out to you again.

For when I am weak, then I am strong.

. . .

2 Cor 12:10