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 thus inspires me.
I’m writing these for that congregation 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 I will say stick around, there will be others you’ll like. — LtmS
In dark while the world had elected to die,
as kings killed the infants below,
above Word took flesh like God’s voice etched in stone,
Bodied God, through His birth, crushed our foe.
Christ expelled, crushed our foe. Christ expelled, Christ expelled, crushed our foe.
The sages did visit, astronomers did come
to meet Him who forged even’s show
of suns, comets, novas, of worlds yet unknown.
Cosmic Christ, as a kid, crushed our foe.
Christ expelled, crushed our foe. Christ expelled, Christ expelled, crushed our foe.
They killed revolutions, they murdered rebel bands
on crosses that lined Roman roads.
Our King conquered Rome, Satan, statehood and sin
on His cross—vanquished Death, Death our foe.
Christ expelled, crushed our foe. Christ expelled, Christ expelled, crushed our foe.
And often our tragedies end their stories there,
when Heroes lay dead down below…
Yet Christ resurrected, ascended to God.
There He lives, Victor over our foe.
Christ expelled, crushed our foe. Christ expelled, Christ expelled, crushed our foe.
Oh Christ, we’re awaiting your imminent return
When we will go up, you’ll go low
to meet us in the clouds and rid Your Earth of every pain.
You’ll banish war, sorrow, wounds, and our foe.
Christ expelled, crushed our foe. Christ expelled, Christ expelled, crushed our foe.
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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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