Three

Amos Wilson (November 10, 2013)

One holy Trinity,

One killed upon a tree,

Three doomed to hell and death,

The Devil, World, and Flesh.

Three times one did deny,

A rooster rent the sky,

Three questions he was given,

To prove he was forgiven.

The Covenants were three,

The Old, the New, and Yet-To-Be.

Simon of Cyrene

Amos Wilson (December 8, 2013)

He stumbles and tumbles there, in the mud,

His face is bruised and smeared with blood.

His cross lands hard across his back,

I wince to hear his bones thus crack.

A violent hand then seized my arm.

“Come, black dog, or feel some harm,

Lift up that cross and bear a part!”

Thus forced, I do, indignant, start.

But as I stoop, His eyes meet mine,

They’re filled with only love divine.

“Oh, my beloved, please bear my tree,

So I might make on high the Three.

Behind me hide, in judgment’s lee,

For I will take it all for thee.”

Aye, gladly, Lord, when you go home,

I’ll bear your cross from here to Rome.

Resurrection

Amos Wilson (January 19, 2014)

The women came with oils sweet,

The came with steady, mourning feet,

They reached the tomb, and stop and quake,

At seismic strength rocks rend and brake.

The Roman soldiers joked and laughed,

Until the crack – like thunder clashed.

Their weapons fall, light blinds their eyes,

They crash to ground as if they die.

Two angles sped, from heaven sent,

A rich man’s tomb their object bent;

A stone to move, a cohort smite,

And to women to give a message bright,

Then in the path the savior stood,

To see the message understood,

To see the women grasp his feet,

And desperately his grace entreat.

The women run their fear is gone,

They – joyous – hurry, scurry home.

The soldiers stand, their knees like jelly,

Celestial sights knotted their belly,

The women burst into the upper-room,

And bid the disciples come, yea, come!

Good news they spread, “The Christ is risen!”

“His word is true,” Our sins forgiven!

The soldiers tell their guilty lie,

Each cautious, fearful, lest he die.

The priest are also sore perplexed,

They bought this lie, this false pretext.

And where was Jesus? Wonder you,

Walking to Emmaus with other two?

No doubt he cured the weaknesses,

Of His five hundred witnesses.

Sadist?

Amos Wilson (December 15, 2013)

“Rejoice, rejoice! You’re sanctified!

For God on earth was crucified!

He just breathed out his final breath,

Rejoice, rejoice, and fear not death!”

How can I rejoice at the suffering of God?

Such joy seems like Marquis de Sade’s.

Is this news joyous, yes it is!

He took my shame,

He took my pain,

Great for my life, but what for His?

Mine was the guilt, yet He is dead.

My punishment fell on His head.

Can I rejoice at his pain and woe?

Shall I sing while his life-blood flows?

No, not in pain, rejoice at love,

For that is what our hope’s made of.

Not only by blood were we forgiven,

Love bore our shame,

And willingly our pain,

So God’s death for grace was driven.

Thus I rejoice. I’m sanctified!

For love our Lord laid down and died.

And for that truth I’ll joyous be,

because my Lord rejoiced for me.

Orders: From the Returning King

Amos Wilson (February 2, 2014)

The king returned, in power rise,

To don again his earthly guise.

The women took the herald’s call,

And ran to town to tell men all.

Some others saw the King appear,

At first they fell and quaked with fear,

But now they to the rebels fly,

to make quick gains and sell a lie.

The rulers and the soldiers leave,

The King – their King they should receive.

The King instead from local towns,

Raised men from those who would bow down.

Untrained and lay, yet faithful still,

That sword-less army on the hill.

They stood to listen and obey,

The marching-orders He would say.

Zion burned, the priests abased.

Barbarians laid Rome to waist.

The others, lowly, lord-filled, men,

Survived to preach His words again.

Olive Oil

October 27, 2013

A trench yea deep, here, cut in stone,

All set about with trees,

The trees that are with olives grown,

Here in Gethsemane.

And yearly ring those trees with joy,

With olives in the trench,

As feet tread out the olive’s oil,

And squeeze, and press, and pinch.

‘Twas here one night instead of fun,

The garden rang with screams,

As crowds of men came to catch One,

Eleven fled like streams.

So like the olive, squeezed and pressed,

To sweeten life and toil,

The One for all was put to death,

To make sweet olive oil.  

Minute-Man

Amos Wilson (February 9, 2014)

God’s word has put His hope in you,

And Jesus says “Prepare!”

You’re called to speak what’s right and true,

At any time declare.

The enemy is close at hand,

We’re called with little warning,

We’re charged to be a minute-man,

In sixty counts, be warring!

I Saw Him Bloodied, Twice

Amos Wilson (January 5, 2014)

I enter the grimy cave,

The stench assails my nose,

I lean upon my stave,

And move into the glow,

Held by the care-worn man,

O’er that holy scene,

The maid, the babe, the feed-stand

Stood in the straw unclean.

Blood mixed and saturated,

With lambs’-filth in the straw,

Held this Divine incarnated.

Here lay Love in raw.

His mother lay like steel,

A smile bright, but pale,

We there before him kneel,

His father – strong and hale –

His father on this earth,

Low’rs his light to peer,

At this, the child’s birth,

And sheds a grateful tear.

We knew why He was there,

We know just who he was.

The angels in the air,

Had told it all to us.

Yet hidden in the back,

The sheep eat straw, oblivious.

Poor hosts with little tact,

Ignore this baby glorious.

Yet to His sheep would He,

Give His new life to feed.

Who were those sheep, were we?

Owned by the Bread that bleeds?

I saw Him bloodied, twice,

Last on a tree so rough.

This Bread of Life, the Christ,

Served in a feeding-trough. 

Battle Plan

Amos Wilson (February 9, 2014)

I told you years and years ago,

Thrice to Abraham and Co.,

Renewed to Isaac, Jacob, Joe,

Isiah and the seers of woe,

To David who took sling, not bow;

This message is to friend and foe.

I’ll tell you yet again, although,

You may have heard. Now go and sow,

My gospel to the gentiles low,

So that to me they all will flow,

to worship me forever. So...

Why stand you gazing there?

                                         – yea, Go!

A Grave Carol

Amos Wilson (January 12, 2014)

We bless the cross and resurrection,

by which we all were saved

And yet in this we’re apt to miss,

the power of the grave.

Was there any meaning then,

In that cold rock they lay him in?

His corpse they gave to Joseph,

who begged them with his sighs,

A rich man who would surely come,

in through the needle’s eye.

And with him Nicodemus, old,

helped put him in the tomb.

Old enters now a second time,

into, unearthly, womb.

And after them came Zeb’dee’s wife,

tears-stains on her palm,

Exalting not herself or sons,

she came there to embalm.

Then Mary Magdalene came weeping,

not from His body far.

Her love for him already poured,

from alabaster jar.

Then came the other Mary, too

who’d known Him from the first,

Now to add the pains of death,

unto the pains of birth.

But after they had left there came –

haughty, cruel, and proud –

The Roman Guard with seal and spear,

laughing, leering loud.

Then with the morning light there came,

a guard from other realms.

They sallied with a mighty shout,

with bright and blazing helms.

The tomb fulfilled the prophesy,

the Guard proved he was dead.

Embalmed, God let him lay three days,

outside of mortals’ beds.

That grave-side truth held, though t’was small

Immortals, Mourners, Scoffers, All