And Such Is the Grace of God

And Such Is the Grace of God
Justin Wainscott, 2014

I'm amazed (though not often enough)
at the beauty that comes out of brokenness,
whether it's beautiful music birthed out of misery
or beautiful poetry inspired by pain.
One person's hurt produces another person's healing.
And such is the grace of God.

The Earthly End of a Life Well Lived

The Earthly End of a Life Well Lived
Justin Wainscott

For Bobby Newton

The earthly end
of a life well lived
should, in my opinion,
be marked by
both tears and smiles.

Indeed, one mark of a
beloved man must surely be
that the sounds heard
at his funeral are a mixture
of crying and laughing.

Crying, because he will
most certainly be missed.
And laughing, because he is
remembered so fondly.

I know that's why
I've shed tears today.
But it's also why I'm smiling,
even as I wipe away the tears.

So farewell, my friend,
until we meet again
in that place where all our crying
will be turned into laughing.

My Last Poem of 2013

Strangely Familiar
M. Justin Wainscott, 2013

If I must die, and die I must,
son of Adam that I am,
and if my death is not
untimely or unexpected,
then, if it can be arranged,
and it's not too much trouble,
let it be in a familiar place,
surrounded by familiar people,
singing familiar hymns,
and reading familiar promises
from that most familiar of Books;
because, though I've never been there,
I believe I'll find the Celestial City
somehow strangely familiar.

My Soul Still Hangs Her Hopes on Thee

Dangers of Every Shape and Name
William Cowper, 1731-1800

Dangers of every shape and name
Attend the followers of the Lamb,
Who leave the world's deceitful shore,
And leave it to return no more.

O Lord, the pilot's part perform,
And guide and guard me through the storm;
Defend me from each threatening ill;
Control the waves; say, "Peace! Be still!"

Amidst the roaring of the sea,
My soul still hangs her hopes on Thee;
Thy constant love, Thy faithful care,
Is all that saves me from despair.

The Tyranny of Things We Do Not Need

We Who Prayed and Wept
Wendell Berry

We who prayed and wept
for liberty from kings
and the yoke of liberty
accept the tyranny of things
we do not need.
In plenitude too free,
we have become adept
beneath the yoke of greed.

Those who will not learn
in plenty to keep their place
must learn it by their need
when they have had their way
and the fields spurn their seed.
We have failed Thy grace.
Lord, I flinch and pray,
send Thy necessity.

--Taken from Collected Poems of Wendell Berry (1957-1982)

Defying Gravity, Delighting in Grace

Grace and Gravity 
M. Justin Wainscott, 2013 

Grace and gravity, 
both of them forces 
far beyond our control. 
Grace and gravity, 
both of them laws 
learned through pain. 
Grace and gravity, 
both of them instruments 
employed by God, 
but in very different ways. 

Gravity’s pulling us, 
always downward. 
Grace is lifting us, 
always heavenward. 
Gravity says, 
“What goes up 
must come down.” 
But grace says, 
“Who falls down 
must be lifted up.” 

Gravity seems 
to work against us. 
But grace is always 
working for us. 
Gravity’s a force 
we like to defy. 
But grace is a gift, 
a wonderful gift, 
in which we ever 
only want to delight.

Humility and Art

It takes humility to make great art, to recognize that there is something (and Someone) outside ourselves that is far greater than we will ever hope to be.  All the more so for the Christian, who knows and believes that God is the best and most creative Artist of us all.  C.S. Lewis understood this, and it's why he made this statement in a 1975 journal article:

The greatest poems have been made by men who valued something else much more than poetry.

--C.S. Lewis

A Mother's Day Poem

This Verbal Tribute We Now Raise
M. Justin Wainscott

For my wife, Anna, on behalf of our children
Mother’s Day 2013

For all the toil and all the tears,
For countless pray’rs and list’ning ears,
For ev’ry long and sleepless night,
For finding joy in our delight;
For words of wisdom that you share,
For all the hats you’re made to wear,
For sacrificing time and health,
For always giving of yourself;
For ev’ry burden that you bear,
For all the ways you show you care,
For ev’ry kind and thoughtful deed,
For all you do that we don’t see;
For untold blessings still in store,
For all these things and so much more,
We find it hard to rightly show
The love you’re due, the thanks we owe.
So as an effort of our praise,
This verbal tribute we now raise.
It’s so much less than you deserve,
This meager monument of words,
But here it stands to honor you,
A symbol of our gratitude,
A way for us to somehow say:
We thank you, Mom, this Mother’s Day!

The Way We Work

Like Snow
Wendell Berry, from Leavings: Poems

Suppose we did our work
like the snow, quietly, quietly,
leaving nothing out. 

Where the Wild Things Are (and Have Been Overcome)

Enduring the Wilderness
M. Justin Wainscott, Copyright 2012

It should come as no surprise
that our earthly pilgrimage
is often compared
to the wilderness experience
of the Israelites.
Nor is it by accident
that the English word wilderness
contains the word wild within it.
The wilderness is anything
but safe or tame.
It contains many
dangers, toils, and snares.
But it's also the only sure path
to the Promised Land.
And thankfully, that path
is well worn by the pilgrims
who've gone before us
and, more importantly,
by our Lord,
who first cleared the path.

Holy Ground in Common Places

A poetic reminder from Browning that holy ground is found in the most common of places:

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

--Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Aurora Leigh

Music and Memory

Music and Memory
M. Justin Wainscott, Copyright 2012

The relationship between music
and memory is a mystery,
but a mystery common to all men.
Who among us hasn't heard a song
and instantly remembered a person
or a place or a season of life?
Even if that particular person or place
or that time of life was, in our minds,
a distant, even forgotten, memory,
music has a mysterious way
of making it feel like only yesterday.
It's as if music is a melodious key
that unlocks men's memories.
Of course, some of those memories
we'd rather remain hidden and locked away,
but music and memory, it seems,
have minds of their own.

By Faith the Promised Seed He Viewed

On Man, in His Own Image Made
John Newton, 1725-1807

On man, in His own image made,
How much did God bestow!
The whole creation homage paid,
And owned him lord below.

He dwelt in Eden's garden, stored
With sweets for every sense;
And there, with his descending Lord,
He walked in confidence.

But, oh, by sin how quickly changed!
His honor forfeited,
His heart from God and truth estranged,
His conscience filled with dread!

Now from His Maker's voice he flees,
Which was before his joy,
And thinks to hide, amid the trees,
From an all-seeing eye.

Compelled to answer to his name,
With stubbornness and pride,
He cast on God Himself the blame,
Nor once for mercy cried.

But grace, unasked, his heart subdued,
And all his guilt forgave;
By faith the promised Seed he viewed,
And felt His pow'r to save.

Thus we ourselves would justify,
Though we the law transgress;
Like him, unable to deny,
Unwilling to confess.

But when, by faith, the sinner sees
A pardon, bought with blood,
Then he forsakes his foolish pleas,
And gladly turns to God.

In Grace His Brightest Glories Shine

All Nature Spreads, With Open Blaze
Ralph Erskine, 1685-1752

All nature spreads, with open blaze,
Her Maker's name abroad;
And every work of His displays
The power and skill of God.

But in the grace that rescued man,
His brightest glory shines;
Here on the cross 'tis fairest drawn,
In precious bloody lines.

Here His whole name appears complete;
And who can guess or prove,
Which of the letters best are writ,
The wisdom, power, or love?

Justice and mercy, truth and grace,
In all their sweetest charms,
Here met, and joined their kind embrace,
With everlasting arms.

The Patient Curiosity of Artists

Artists
Justin Wainscott, Copyright 2012

Good artists,
whether they be
poets or painters,
musicians or novelists,
see the same things
all of us see.
Only, the artists look longer,
and from different angles.
They stop and stare;
they linger and ponder,
refusing to be bored
or unaffected.
Then they tell us
what they've seen.
And it turns out to be exactly
what we should have seen,
if only we had taken the time.

Mother's Day Poem

Motherhood Briefly Summarized
Justin Wainscott, Copyright 2012

For my wife, Anna, on Mother's Day

Anticipation...experienced.
Pain...endured.
Sacrifices...made
Sleep...lost.
Diapers...changed.
Clothes...washed.
Meals...prepared.
Laughter...shared.
Tears...shed.
Medicine...administered.
Band-aids...applied.
Hugs...enjoyed.
Kisses...given.
Worry...felt.
Stories...told.
Truth...taught.
Books...read.
Hymns...sung.
Prayers...offered.
Example...set.
Nurture...provided.
Love...demonstrated.
Joy...known.
Husband...grateful.
Children...blessed.

Enoch

Yesterday morning, I preached from Genesis 4:17-5:32. Part of that text is the unique description of what happened to Enoch, in contrast to everyone else who died: "Enoch walked with God, and he was not, for God took him" (Genesis 5:24).

I love this little poem by Luci Shaw, which aptly captures what happened to Enoch.

Enoch
Luci Shaw

Enoch
crossed the gap
another way;
he changed his pace
but not
his company.

--from Polishing the Petoskey Stone: Selected Poems

A Poetic Prayer for Work and Rest

Sabbath Poem Number 10 (2002)
Wendell Berry

Teach me work that honors Thy work,
the true economies of goods and words,
to make my arts compatible
with the songs of the local birds.

Teach me patience beyond work
and, beyond patience, the blest
Sabbath of Thy unresting love
which lights all things and gives rest.

--from Given: Poems

The Inward Warfare of Our Souls

Strange and Mysterious Is My Life
John Newton, 1725-1807

Strange and mysterious is my life,
What opposites I feel within -
A stable peace, a constant strife,
The rule of grace, the power of sin;
Too often I am captive led,
Yet daily triumph in my Head.

I prize the privilege of prayer,
But, oh, what backwardness to pray!
Though on the Lord I cast my care,
I feel its burden every day;
I seek His will in all I do,
Yet find my own is working too.

I call the promises my own,
And prize them more than mines of gold.
Yet though their sweetness I have known,
They leave me unimpressed and cold;
One hour upon the truth I feed,
The next I know not what I read.

I love the holy day of rest,
When Jesus meets His gathered saints;
Sweet day, of all the week the best!
For its return my spirit pants;
Yet often, through my unbelief,
It proves a day of guilt and grief.

While on my Savior I rely,
I know my foes shall lose their aim,
And therefore dare thier power defy,
Assured of conquest through His name;
But soon my confidence is slain,
And all my fears return again.

Thus different powers within me strive,
And grace and sin by turns prevail;
I grieve, rejoice, decline, revive,
And victory hangs in doubtful scale.
But Jesus has His promise past,
That grace shall overcome at last.

Marvel in the Mystery

All People of the Coming King
© 2010, M. Justin Wainscott

All people of the coming King,
All servants of the Lord,
Come, lift your voices, let us sing
With hearts in one accord:
Alleluia! Alleluia!

In Bethlehem the angels praised
The birth of Christ our King;
So let us now with voices raised
Rejoice with them and sing:
Alleluia! Alleluia!

Oh, marvel in the mystery
Of Jesus' virgin birth;
To God all praise and glory be,
And peace o'er all the earth.
Alleluia! Alleluia!

His first advent salvation wrought
By dying on the tree;
Yet He, through resurrection, bought
For us eternity.
Alleluia! Alleluia!

To Him who came and conquered sin,
Triumphant and supreme;
To Him who'll one day come again,
We sound this joyous theme:
Alleluia! Alleluia!

And when He comes, our King, to reign,
And earth and heav'n be new;
Then may the sound of this refrain
Our longing hearts renew:
Alleluia! Alleluia!