sw00692sem-4.jesusbound

Seminary



 Jesus Bound


O those wounds with which we wounded Him
Through which He heals our wounds--this Jesus bound.
Lo! e'en the silence streams as strident sound.
O languishing alliterations--lapped
On each like sea-swoln tongues that taste the sand,
A searing sand, to lapse in death beneath
The seeming petant rush of other tongues;
Alike the lethal lash whose lick would limn
Licentiousness in blood upon the Man,
Inflaming Man; would fall to rise again--
Momentous motions, mountain movers, march,
Forever march, in solid starward step
Across the blood-red Back that bridged the years,
A radiant rainbow arch Redemption bent,
As men in one Man unified through death.
Indeed, let ev'ry man now bind himself
Against that pillar cold where he can feel
The unrelenting ripping off of flesh
Imposed by sin.  In this compassionate.
Low bend, yea, unto creeping bend, and weep;
True nothingness is everything too deep.
So we, as godly men, must grow to naught
By being bound in love with Boundlessness,
Receiving only injury and hate
Like naked slaves or criminals depraved,
Which wretched ruck in truth we are though He
Be innocent.  Thus to descend is need:
The deed is duty.  But the duty done
Is saintly sleep.  Full freedom reigns all-pure
In atmospheres of that Paternal Will     
Alone/ through which the dying sun sends rays
Of sanguine light to rend the sinful veil
That men might see, to fill the cup of life
That men might grow, to vivify the air
That men might breathe more freedom still and find
The ropes that bind, the ropes that free, the ropes
That ever shall unite weak man with Christ,
Who being pillar-bound is bound to all
Things good which bend pursuit of happiness
Towards God.  Conjoin us each in You to posts
Of suffering, our "Father of the world
To come," where drumming, brutal scourgings bruise
Our body fleshes unto humbleness,
Where each expectant pause between the beats
Is pregnant with the blare of trumpet fears
That echo down the caverns of our ears
And rumble 'round the mending rooms of thought:
The deed is duty.  But a duty done
By none but freedom-breathing sons to whom
At last the silence strides as holy sleep,
A vigil-rest caught in/ the Pillared One.




-------------------------
There are moments I call God moments, and today a link
on Silliman's Blog to an article by Veronica Whitty about
Francis Thompson
allowed me to experience several such moments.


-
Brian A. J. Salchert