Scars Lose their Luster

Scars Lose their Luster

(“The Lord gives his people strength; the Lord grants his people security.” Psalm 29:11)

Scars lose their luster only in the eyes of those
who have never seen the strength it takes to
stand in the way while soundwaves encircle
like sharks.

It takes a different breath to blow summer bubbles than
to extinguish birthday candles. The gentle air slides inside
the soapy film and it folds upon itself. The huge inhale and
puffed out cheeks whoosh past the wicks and complete the
next stage of gray. Each, in their own way,
are rainbow art and photography.

Look closely at the cratered face,
there once was something magic there,

that either disintegrated upon impact
or was excised by the scalpels of a thousand tongues.

Look clearly at the furtive eyes,
there once was something sparkling there,
that either evaporated upon drought
or was dispatched by the hackles of a thousand guns.

And still, and swinging on the pendulum of song…

It is the power that allows the widow to cry,
it is the peace that encourages the barroom reply,
it is the abundance that fully walks upon the earth,
it is the language that defines all as equal worth;
all is spiritual in the tongue of the redeemed.

It is gritty, not ghostly;
it is dirt clods not prayer cloths.
It is cattle and hay, new births and old departures.
All and in all, the strength is as the day.

We will, and swaying on the compasses of song…

With His Own Scars (An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

With His Own Scars
(An Easter Hymn, of Sorts)

(“If I must boast, I will boast about the things that show how weak I am.” 2 Corinthians 11:30)

Why the strong-arm when the powers have been broken?
Why the military parade when the victory is spoken?
Power has entered through the dusty sound of love;
Rusty swords and shields are piled to be burned, demons drowned,
soldiers bowed, and laughter from heaven plowed the ashes of
war under the door of a tomb left open; wide open for
round-eyed Sunday drive wonder that peace could be won in
such humiliation.

Power is empty. Weakness is null. Art and love
are etched on eternity’s walls. Empires are vanquished,
poverty canceled. Grace and hymns echo from throats
satisfied after all.

What boasting remains once the King’s refrain is the same
sorrowful tune we’ve sung since invention? What army conquers
when its best proffer is easier ways to make people dead? Instead

The King sang it for us; took the needle, hung by the rope,
enveloped the sword, inhaled the gas, and took the last bite of the apple
every witch ever offered in fairy tales from before time. And so He
won by losing, lived by dying, rules by serving

And dances from sad to pain, from depressed to fame,
the love so unframed it bleeds off the edges of the canvas.
And runs in colors from crimson to snow,
and bandages the trauma of a world in shock
having owned the mocking of immigrants and strangers;
he binds the wounds with his own scars so visible there can
be no mistake;

Boasting is not forbidden; it has simply been forsaken.