Show me you are God,
For I am in the pit
And within these seven walls
There is no place to sit.
Show me you are God,
For there is silence still.
All my friends have turned away
And wish me naught but ill.
Show me you are God,
For I am full of wounds
Wrought by your unseeing eye
Fixed upon my tomb.
I’m sorry I’m not a 100% Christian. I cannot eternally pretend that I am at my 100% and eternally praise God. I’d rather be honest and genuine here and make it clear when I absolutely cannot pursue God. Were we not made from dust? I’m just being honest here. Sometimes I argue and get utterly frustrated with Him — like this. I can almost here people brand me a heretic, but to hell with it. I’m just being honest here.
Who beat the brown upon my skin?
Who cleft my teeth and carved my grin?
Who pressed my eyes into my face?
Who stole from me the forms of grace?
Who scored and cut my ugly jaw?
Who strung my throaty croaking caw?
Who struck my scalp with wilting hair?
Who smote me dark and never fair?
Then tell me not, for I am flawed
That “Ye were knit by hands of God.”
The Magi met the shepherds, whose tongues were lit with praise
Along the road beneath the star that split in many ways
“Whither rests this King whom Prophets did divine?
We have wandered many days to see this lord sublime.
His are all the nations, people, and the lands
His alone the sceptre, won with wounded hands.
Men will call him ‘master’, ‘prince of peace, and life’
And among his flock and fold, ‘saviour from our strife’
Pray tell then joyful shepherds, where is this King we seek?
This King of whom the people say will bruise great Caesar’s cheek.”
The shepherds paused a moment before their mouths could stir
And eyed the gifts beneath their robes — the glint of gold, and myrrh
“Of this King, we know not, but if you seek the star
Further Westward you must go, but do not wander far
Past rolling hills of poppies, crimson at the stem
You will find a stable bare, in little Bethlehem
No regal lord resides there, good and kindly strangers
Merely by the ox and ass — a babe upon the manger.”
Then with haste to lay their gifts those tired Wise Men three
Beheld the heir to Eden’s stain and dark Gethsemane.
(The Three Wise Men – Robert Cunningham. Source)
Whose wounds are these that I pressed down?
Whose temple bears this thorny crown?
Whose tears fall forth and stir this flood
Of sweat and sin, and my Lord’s blood?
Whose voice was that which trembling cried,
“Behold before me Death has died.”
Which then with final breath began
The restoration of all man?
Who was, who is – and is to be,
Whose name is writ in history;
The King, The Lion, Lord, and Lamb
The one who whispers, “Child, I am.”
– S.S. Bartlett
“Thy kingdom come,” the old man wept
As beneath the clouds he slept
Upon those streets of stone and steel
Where men before their wealth did kneel
“Thy kingdom come,” the lady sighed
Walking past the boys who cried
And raised their hands to shout a word
Which from her youthful days she’d heard.
“Thy kingdom come,” the mother shook
— Her son filed by without a look
To the rattle of some marching band
Spurring him to far-flung lands.
“Thy kingdom come,” the soldier prayed
As the turret spat and sprayed
And scores of lead soared overhead
To count his friends among the dead
“Thy kingdom come,” the surgeon heaved
Before the iron tool could cleave
The struggling boy upon the bed
All swathed in white and rushing red.
“Thy kingdom come,” the small one said,
Scrambling through those fields of dead
Where murderous men had only sown
Those crimson streams of ill renown
Hear us God, thy kingdom come,
Establish yours — Ours overrun.
Thy kingdom come, ours is lost —
And for what prize and at what cost?
Note : For many youth in my country violence, wickedness and war (especially war) have had some sort of a presence and impact in our lives. While war has not affected me directly I have seen its aftereffects ; beggars, blind men, amputees and orphans. This has no disturbed me, but allowed me to acknowledge the violence men have sown themselves and the discord with which we have overridden our lives. It is for this reason that I believe God’s divinity should transcend our ways and be applied in our lives
Cast your net and drag me nearer
Through the ocean’s trying tide,
Take this broken boat and steer her
To the course you’d have me bide.
I am stubborn, blind and beaten,
These rocks have torn my hull and keel
Take these oars my pride has eaten
And teach me Lord to weep and kneel.
Sweep my solemn breath and break it
Drown me in unending light
So should the way before grow graver,
I may dare this ocean’s might.
When the tempest turns towards me,
When the lightning tastes the tide
Hold me, God and split the waters
My admiral, and my guide
With you O God to be my captain
With you to seize this thrashing sea
What ocean’s tempest dare defy us?
Who dare be my enemy?
Image Source : Getty Images
A roundabout of lies lies not far
From the blackened Muslim shop;
Mettha, Karuna, Muditha, Upeksha
And I have come to hate those words.
For when Aluthgama burned; Mettha.
It was love that stole their breath
When the hot mob’s iron teeth
From whose revolver I know not
Found their hearts and brains and bones
And sent them all to sleep-like death.
Karuna; when absurd rhetoric like a wall
Separated predator and victim
As cages keep lions away from men.
But compassion for whom I wonder?
Was it the cult whose temples burned asunder?
Muditha; happy in being drunk on melancholic draughts
That lie fermented in the hot earth;
Foaming at the mouth for twenty five years.
What brave baboons are these who
Having no fears of last night’s nuptial hour
With that striped beast
Once more binge at that bloody feast?
For my bruised kin who reacted not in the like;
Who having no homes of their own reacted in the least.
Shall I the true robed monks call
And from their meditations wake them?
What would they say of proclaimed manes
and a race above the race of men?
Rude I need not be.
The answer I fear I hear.
A roundabout of lies lies not far.
At 58′ to 83′
Are they not cars that pass
Of every man made chassis and class?
Mettha ,Karuna ,Muditha ,Upeksha.
Four new lives to reach that bloody brim.
There is more of the predator in the victim.
The poem, I must stress is not targeted towards a single race or religion as a whole, but extremism and ultranationalism. The poem was written following the Aluthgama incident and anti Muslim violence in Sri Lanka.
“God bless you.” The Muslim lady said.
And I boiled no intense ire
For God sees naught, but rushing red
And not my father’s fire.
The Buddhist spoke. “ Peace my friend.”
And like brothers we did speak
And that wall we did not mend
But let it grow full weak.
At every altar for God I asked
But found each still and bare
But when I stood there with my kin
I found God standing there.
I have made reference to Robert Frost’s Mending Wall.
O holy night, We praise thee for thy birth
Sleep thou now quietly baby-king of earth
Thou babe of bliss come from holy skies,
With the coming morrow thou shalt arise.
Thou shalt walk on water, turn it all to wine
Cast out the evil, chase them all to swine
Thou babe of bliss, yet born so low and base
With the coming morrow, thou shalt bruise Caesar’s face
Thou shalt preach and heal and make the darkness light
Yet comes the morrow, and for now goodnight.
Sleep thou gentle babe of bliss
Smile thy smile of glee
For those you love shall kiss thee
And nail thee to the tree.
My faith in God has made me realise that society celebrates Jesus’ birth more than it celebrates the completion of his life’s mission. I was inspired by a particular carol that to carries a similar message, thus I must not be credited for the idea or tone of the poem. The name of the carol escapes me now.
Tidings- S.S.B., Sri Lanka
When all else failed,
Friend to foe, oar to knife
And I wailed painfully in strife.
You heard my cries
You did rise.
Accused, Abused, my demise
You saw to it, otherwise,
A plan no mortal can plan,
No mind can master
I learned to fight,
And move a little faster,
And, on that day, indeed
Not mine, But God’s speed.
No part of this work should be reproduced or rewritten without the consent of the author.