April 12, 2017

"One Word", plus Goblin Poetry and Beat Tea Videos

The tempter approached and said,
“If you are the Son of God,
command that these stones
become loaves of bread.”
He said in reply,
‘One does not live by bread alone,
but by every word that comes forth from the mouth of God.’”

And the Word was with God,
and the Word was God,
and the Word became flesh
and dwelt among us,
felt, among us, emotion raw and real:
joy, sorrow, anger, fear,
and agony as only flesh can feel,
when His heart was breaking,
breath shallow, hands shaking,
and it seemed like even His soul was aching,
even unto death,
but there was no one awake with Him—
His friends were sleeping
while he was sobbing, weeping,
sweating blood at the thought
of His own blood seeping into wood
where nails are keeping Him pinned,
outstretched, suffocating, bleeding
that covenantal blood
that our souls needed—
even knowing that
didn’t make it easy.
At the thought of death,
He started pleading, praying
over and over saying,
“Take this cup away from me.
Let this cup pass from me,”
yet he also recalled, in the desert,
the devil’s blasphemy:

One word,
and angels could save you.
One word,
you could make bread from stone.
One word of subjugation
and you could have this world for your own.

But even after forty days of fasting,
He refused to stoop to reaching and grasping,
not seeking equality with the Everlasting,
even at the hour of death, was asking,
asking that it wouldn’t come to pass,
adding “not my will but yours be done.”
The eternal Word, Logos, God the Son,
Who was there when time itself had begun,
sought permission not to die,
but knowing well the reason why He had to,
and knowing the Father’s will
allowed himself to be captured
stripped, whipped, beaten, tortured, killed.
Even so, he was terrified,
but even though he wept and cried
and trembled at the fear he felt inside
the only words he spoke were prayers:

And the angels brought comfort.
And the bread became flesh.
That in the final hour,
it was to the higher power
to Whom He’d acquiesce. 

And as the night drew on
and His friends awoke, the crowd approached,
and the traitor, with a loveless kiss,
broke His heart one final time.
Then the Word spoke:
“Shall I not drink the cup
that the Father has given me?”
Thus he accepted His coming calamity,
Fearfully, sorrowfully,
but no longer in agony.
Like a lamb led to slaughter, onward to Calvary
he willingly trod,
the Word-Become-Flesh,
and the Word was with God.

It's Holy Week, so I wrote a poem about the Agony in the Garden. Below is a a video of me reading the same poem, plus a second video of some of my favorite poems to read out loud. I seperated the poems into two videos this week due to wildly different tones and motifs. Enjoy!

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