For these next few, I’m writing hymn lyrics. I worship with a large group of believers who was first on the ground when the tornado hit — a congregation whose worship moves them into action and so inspires me.
I’m writing these for them and for my worship minister friends to tinker with–hopefully there’s something hymn-worthy in here. That’s the context — if they’re not your thing or you’re not a Christian, I won’t apologize for who I am, but stick around, there will be others you’ll like. — LtmS
Our sons and daughters die too soon,
Your Son you offered sooner.
We feel the darkness, still your light
shades lights both solar, lunar.
When we are weak, your joy’s our strength,
your tears improve our mourning,
We feel the sorrow last the night,
your joy ascends the morning.
Our battles never end in pleasure —
Jesus, be our fighter —
We feel the violence, still your peace
can still our best ceasefire.
When nations rage, your laughter triumphs.
People plot in vanity.
Your rule abides through cede and riot,
Cross continues, candid.
Our armor, help us lay it down,
Our arms upon our armor.
Remind us: at the start of things
Your Garden made us farmers.
When Kingdom Comes in that great day,
our wars and sorrow ended,
With shouts and song and roars of laughter
Earth will be amended.
The Earth will be amended.
The Earth will be amended.
_________
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For newcomers — a note on 50 @ 25:
Once upon a time, I read that the perfect age for writing quality poetry is twenty-three. Apparently most of T.S. Elliot’s stuff came out then, the rest of his work being supposedly non-poetic. This resulted in 46 poems written at 23.
These poems came out exponentially faster and faster before my 24th birthday on April 30th – and I had to write in genres spanning from epic ballads to limericks to get 46 in on time. I guess that means, for better or worse, that’s the best poetry I’ll ever write. Sad day.
Who was I kidding?
Milton was blind and old—oooooold—when he publishedParadise Regained. Emily Dickenson was dead when her stuff came out. My favorite stuff from T.S. Elliot came out after his conversion. So yeah, old age is good for poetry too. Look at Burns and Berry.
(Side note: the name “Berry Burns” sounds like a shady car salesman).
Will I keep up this twice-my-age regimen every few years? Who knows, but this year, here’s to 50 poems at 25 to be written exponentially faster until I turn 26 on April Thirtyish. I do it this the second time around as a way to say: “Here’s to living life well before it’s too late.”
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