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"Wash your hands before eating
Your bitter herbs, figs, and unleavened bread,
Cause it ain't gonna happen.
No Sir."
Shaina Apr 9
You long for us to look back
Upon Your great love
The mercy You have shown us
And Your covenant of freedom
Your shield surrounds us
As we mourn and weep
Silently remembering
The hands and feet
Once bowed before
And anointed with oil
Now covered in blood
And like your clothes, soiled
You hang there, a victim
Of humanity’s curse
You pay for the ones
Who have sinned since their birth
Your head bows low, weary
As once ours did for You
And Your brow bleeds from the
thorny crown that marks Your abuse
Your feet bound and broken
With Your arms stretched out
You carry every burden
As we scream and shout  
Shaking our fists
At the Innocent Lamb
”Blasphemous! Hypocrite!”
While you take the punishment of man
You sigh with a grieved spirit
As you bleed out from the holes
And our words continue taunting
Your meek, martyred soul
They echo in Your ears
Our sins final, black “amen”
And Your eyes fill with tears
As you whisper: “Father, forgive them.”
Your scarlet blood seeps down
And touches our ***** feet
Yet still we want more
Crave a delicious defeat
We use You as our mockery
Our Canvas to paint
Our faces filled with scorn and guilt
As we use You as bait
You are like a Lamb
Led silently to the slaughter
And now You hang there
Mourning for Your sons and daughters
Your goodness was shown
In the works You did
Healing the lame, the blind
The ***** and the sick
You brought the dead to Life
Yet we doubted still
Your ability to cleanse us
From the bleak, deadly chill
And, now scanning the crowd
Your eyes fall on mine
But I turn away, guilty
For my rage and defiance
But instead of the hatred
I think the eyes will bring
They are filled with love and grace
Overflowing like a Dayspring
And my spirit is lifted
As my eyes meet the One
Who has suffered for me
While I scorn His gentle love
And His eyes, sharp and piercing
Bring fear to my heart
For who could stand persecution
And still forgive the scars?
Who could hang there looking
At the ones who cause Him pain
And have nothing against them
Not desiring to cause shame?
I am shocked as I return
My gaze once again
And find You’re still looking at me
Your eyes have not left
The love has not ceased
The blood has not stopped flowing
Now pooled at my feet
It’s red radiance, glowing
I gaze down and discover
A golden chalice in my hand
And looking around me there are none
All the others have left
And then You speak Your first words
To me on that cross:
“Drink, child,” You call
“For all is not lost.”
I am shocked at the words
But I kneel in the dirt
Fill my cup to the brim
With the liquid rebirth
I look doubtfully at the cup
And then back at You
You nod for me to do
What You have asked me to
But I shake my head violently
And form the words in my mind
“I cannot accept this offering
My own way I will find.
He has already done
Far too much for me now
And I cannot repay Him.”
So I pour it out
On the dirt it splatters
And makes pathways in the mud
But I look up and His face
Is now grieved for His love
“Child, for this you do not pay.”
And He implores me with His eyes
To try once again to accept
The free gift He supplies.
I shake my head in disbelief
“But, how can this be?
For I have never done anything
To make you love me.”
And still His eyes search me
Waiting for my choice
As I struggle within
And listen again for His voice
But now it is silent
As all Heaven gazes down
The earth holds its breath
The blood thickly coats the ground
I am crushed by the weight
Of this glorious reality
That although I deserve nothing
Still this Stranger gives it all to me?
“I do not know You,” I stammer
“But I do know one thing.
All my life, no one has ever
loved like You love me.”
So I crumble with the weight
Of this realization
And dip the burning gold chalice
Into the crimson oasis
I kneel on one knee
Lift the cup to my lips
And as I drain its contents
He speaks softly: “It is finished.”
Now He takes a deep breath
His body shudders and sighs
And as I watch, trembling
My Savior peacefully dies
I have no words to speak
But the warmth of the blood
Fills my veins with a strength
That I know is His love
And the tears fall silently in the dirt
And mingle with the Red
As I stare at my Lord’s broken body
And think of how He bled
And now every day
I cannot help thinking
Of the death that He died
And the tomb He left singing
And because of the blood
My Lord’s suffering is ended
And His hands pull me in
To the glory of Heaven
I remember His words
Resounding in front of me:
“Drink My blood, poured out for your worth.
Do this in remembrance of Me.”
”In Him we have redemption through His blood, the forgiveness of sins, according to the riches of His grace.” -Ephesians 1:7
Ylzm Mar 9
The faithless believe in belief
The idolatry of his will to believe
Preyed upon by Balaam the prophet
Anointed but evil, speaks truth but lies
Promised escape when Tribulation comes
For a fake ticket, the faithless sold his soul

Does a soldier flee when war arrives?
Was not war the call he obeyed?
When sun’s hidden and moon’s fallen
Light shines most bright on darkened Earth
The Covenant is not of bread alone
But surely all shall drink the Cup too

Israel was embittered against Moses
They’re yet slaves, and their burden heavier
Pharaoh hardened, proud and defiant
Egypt ravaged by plagues and ruined
Israel ate unleavened bread and bitter herbs
Unseen, the Angel of Death passed over
Ylzm Jan 23
Israel foreshadowed in Egypt
Untouched by the Plaques
Passed over by the Destroyer
Egypt broken and bowed
With strangers, Israel walked free
Handsomely ransomed, a nation is born
So shall Israel again be in the Tribulation
As light for sight and salt to taste
And again with strangers
In haste and with bitterness
Come out of the World
Raptured as the First born of God
Ylzm Apr 2019
Good heavens!
Good Thursday on a Tuesday?
On a week of Good Friday?
But whatever!
The sun has set, Today is here.
We have eaten, and are ready to go.
Shoes on our feet,
House on our backs;
We have no bread, but thats OK.
We are ready to go.
Smoke Scribe Apr 2018
Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot ****

rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!

neither either or he writes and so believes

for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not

for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!

my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self

but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria

and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am

my choice and the big D
     (a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance

so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day

don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot ****!

she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly

“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
Alyssa Underwood Jun 2016
Who believes what we’ve heard and seen?
    Who would have thought God’s saving power would look like this?
The servant grew up before God—a scrawny seedling,
    a scrubby plant in a parched field.
There was nothing attractive about him,
    nothing to cause us to take a second look.
He was looked down on and passed over,
    a man who suffered, who knew pain firsthand.
One look at him and people turned away.
    We looked down on him, thought he was ****.

But the fact is, it was our pains he carried—
    our disfigurements, all the things wrong with us.
We thought he brought it on himself,
    that God was punishing him for his own failures.
But it was our sins that did that to him,
    that ripped and tore and crushed him—our sins!
He took the punishment, and that made us whole.
    Through his bruises we get healed.
We’re all like sheep who’ve wandered off and gotten lost.
    We’ve all done our own thing, gone our own way.
And God has piled all our sins, everything we’ve done wrong,
    on him, on him.

He was beaten, he was tortured,
    but he didn’t say a word.
Like a lamb taken to be slaughtered
    and like a sheep being sheared,
    he took it all in silence.
Justice miscarried, and he was led off—
    and did anyone really know what was happening?
He died without a thought for his own welfare,
    beaten ****** for the sins of my people.
They buried him with the wicked,
    threw him in a grave with a rich man,
Even though he’d never hurt a soul
    or said one word that wasn’t true.
Still, it’s what God had in mind all along,
    to crush him with pain.
The plan was that he give himself as an offering for sin
    so that he’d see life come from it—life, life, and more life.
    And God’s plan will deeply prosper through him.

Out of that terrible travail of soul,
    he’ll see that it’s worth it and be glad he did it.
Through what he experienced, my righteous one, my servant,
    will make many “righteous ones,”
    as he himself carries the burden of their sins.
Therefore I’ll reward him extravagantly—
    the best of everything, the highest honors—
Because he looked death in the face and didn’t flinch,
    because he embraced the company of the lowest.
He took on his own shoulders the sin of the many,
    he took up the cause of all the black sheep.

~ Eugene Peterson

"Who has believed our message
    and to whom has the arm of the LORD been revealed?
2 He grew up before him like a tender shoot,
    and like a root out of dry ground.
He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
    nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.
3 He was despised and rejected by mankind,
    a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
    he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.

4 Surely he took up our pain
    and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God,
    stricken by him, and afflicted.
5 But he was pierced for our transgressions,
    he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him,
    and by his wounds we are healed.
6 We all, like sheep, have gone astray,
    each of us has turned to our own way;
and the LORD has laid on him
    the iniquity of us all.

7 He was oppressed and afflicted,
    yet he did not open his mouth;
he was led like a lamb to the slaughter,
    and as a sheep before its shearers is silent,
    so he did not open his mouth.
8 By oppression and judgment he was taken away.
    Yet who of his generation protested?
For he was cut off from the land of the living;
    for the transgression of my people he was punished.
9 He was assigned a grave with the wicked,
    and with the rich in his death,
though he had done no violence,
    nor was any deceit in his mouth.

10 Yet it was the LORD’s will to crush him and cause him to suffer,
    and though the LORD makes his life an offering for sin,
he will see his offspring and prolong his days,
    and the will of the LORD will prosper in his hand.
11 After he has suffered,
    he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
by his knowledge my righteous servant will justify many,
    and he will bear their iniquities.
12 Therefore I will give him a portion among the great,
    and he will divide the spoils with the strong,
because he poured out his life unto death,
    and was numbered with the transgressors.
For he bore the sin of many,
    and made intercession for the transgressors."

~ Isaiah 53, New International Version

Joel Hayward Apr 2016
When you come
you’ll reach to take what
I’ve clutched tight

You’ve done it a lot
— especially lately

You did it to that unsuspecting lady
when she stepped off the bus
on Philpotts Road

To that sleeping girl
with the mousy hair in
the children’s ward

To her father three months later

To my own dad while he prayed
by the bed and slumped

To that old pope who shook
like a wet dog in a sou’wester

I read again last week how you visited
the homes of those who wouldn’t
splash blood on their doors

Now that’s something!

I know what you want and I’m onto you

When you come I’ll be ready — I hope
and I’ll hand it to you without protest

But I have a request, if I may, and I hope
you’ll ask on my behalf:

Please don’t visit her before you call on me
© Copyright  J.S.A. Hayward 2016
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