Sunday Morning Struggle

I can’t go to Jerusalem today –
Coated as I am in failure and shame.
Doesn’t Satan chortle, if chortle he is able,
Leading royal children to the hired hands’ table.
Get your pincers off me, Satan; you’re lying!
My King waits for me, open-armed and smiling.

Sometimes On A Sunday

Looking up at the arched window above
The pulpit, singing ‘Rising, He justified,
Freely forever,’  I am pierced; I don’t
Live like I believe what I sing.
Freely? Nothing is abundant.
Things. Run. Out.
But sometimes on a Sunday, in that
Set apart hour, amongst the beams
And pews, beside family,
I believe. Freely! Such a long list
Of what is free to me. Such an impossible
List for me to want or to receive, a
Not-of-this-world list – soul’s rest,
Everything that enables me to believe the
Promise so unreservedly that I come
Boldly! Freely and boldly. What kind of
King gives free and welcomes bold?
What kind of love?
What overflow!


Christ Covenant Presbyterian Church