Now Man exists to know the Lord
And once that Truth discovered,
To serve until our days are o'er
And die - with life recovered !

While Jesus shoulders all the blame,
And pardons all and sundry,
Dire Satan plays his judgement game,
And laughs, as at a party !

The choice is one of joyful hope,
Or soul-less, joy-less strife :
A dead-end death on dirt-cheap dope,
Or open-ended life !

Cast demons' deeds at Satan's door,
'Cos though his lies do crush our bones,
We'll beg the Bread of Life for more,
And quit, as Satan's drones !

We stand before the views and wonder,
As foregrounds summon eyes to revel ;
Our gazing souls bestir to wander
Within a staggered feasting of surprise,
As pensioners hoe, or women kneel to weed
The garden patch, or tend the orchard plot -
Our gaze strays on, past border shrubberies,
Along stone walls, to rooftops, chimney pots,
Up patchwork hillsides, ploughed or cropped,
Where narrow strips diagonally dip,
Down from tree-horizoned, back-lit skies.

His visions hem us in with harmony,
And pack a view whose lease of life
Imbues a sense of muted glory,
Borne on furrowed earthern tones,
On russet browns like Autumn ferns,
On blues of roofs of slate, or summer robes ;
A joyous aeriness is here at play,
As if another world were here to stay,
That eyes us, teasing, playfully,
As touched by Grace, we turn away.

The Cross - a map as true as any Ordnance Survey,
Reveals to all the daily Way,
Sets free the human heart from demon shadow ;
Instead of blood-caked stones of mortal strife :
The tender bread of loaves of life.

The Cross - a seed that's sown and deeply rooted,
Grown in stoniest of earthern times,
A vine that's watered by His regal blood,
And fed through consecrated, Kingly love.

The Cross - a bridge traversing space and time,
To join the shores of now, to Evermore,
And christen human flesh with Kingdom's chrism,
To cheer our souls, upon this distant shore.

The Cross, today, is what it's always been :
The One, defeated, cancelled King,
Shorn and silenced, murdered for telling Sin :
Our sham and shallow human "- Isms" !

Behold the Word of Glory's incarnation !
A diadem of light-clad glass and stone ;
What breadth of faith, what depth of wisdom vision !
With courtier chapels that, like suckers, throw
Their slender buttress stems above, and high
To meet their twin at shoulder, hip and thigh.
But nestling 'neath our airborne Saviour's crown
The Virgin's chapel bears the Son apace,
With storied chapels lining-up to own
Their share of pain and load, thus straining to embrace
This leap - unique to Faith's momentous Grace.

One early morning, seven forty-five -
The light the stained-glass windows shed
Extended, streamed, then angled, shied away
To animate the pillared, vaulted canopies
Where play of light and shade replaces breeze
That stirs, and soughs, through summer branch and leaves,
Exhaling freshness, cool and gracious ease,
As dew bedecks the fox-glove, fern and blade
In forest space in which enlightened shade
Reveals the mysteries of new-born days.

Re-creation, thus writ in glass and stone,
In timeless speckled stone of lime and sand,
By men who worked and spoke and prayed in stone,
Who carved the light, and spread the shade on hand,
To calmly store, then urge the message home ;
So column meets its arch, each arch its column
Greets, and meets to part, so parts and meets
Again, to dance - for ever, and again ;
Of this there is no end in sight - Amen !

What kind of Savior can he be,
To hang his body out to die
Atop a cross from axe-felled tree ?
Insane ?  Divine ?  That deed set free
The universe of You and I,
And gave us sight, and taste, of Liberty.

He taught us stories rich in life
He'd gleaned from daily village strife,
He immunized against the virus
Of hegemonic Wealth and Self,
He diagnosed us Narcissists,
Diseased, contagious money-serfs,
He scourged the worshipped human I,
And flayed the idols Me and My.

He uttered first the words that burst
Asunder sin-tied knots of hurt -
Undoing years of churned despair ;
He cursed our crazy idol thirst,
Which circumcises Christ from Church,
And turns the Lord's into ... Our Prayer !
He paved the Way - beyond all measure
Of every seeming earthly treasure.

He sowed the yeasts of moral bravery,
That undermine the supine fealty
We foolish clones subservient
( As self-created, satan-servants )
Profess to cherished ideologies,
Upholding bloated, asset-laden Deities !

The traps clap shut.
The mob hyenas howl and bay,
Mimetic cycles rule the day,
Lest broken be satanic molds,
And we recast - as living souls.

Should rage and hateful righteousness prevail,
And reason cease to quell the judging din,
However will we tame the ancient monster
That dormant waits to prey on us, within ?

The traps slam tight.
And on the question no-one ever asks :
" Just what indeed is Ceasar's, God's, or ours ?"
- Has Rene Girard read it right ?
Of flesh and mind the cage's fastening bars.

At all costs, then, and come what may,
We'll do our utmost, keeping God at bay.
Thus Satan turns us into clones,
Craven, craving, God-resistant,
Rabid, raging, murdering drones -
Driving all that's non-identical extinct.
The traps ram home.

So, when the tides of sin begin to flood
Our certainties, and shed our blood,
Just hope we've time to change our bets,
Before the veil of violence descends.

Why fret about our death, and dying ?
Just ask if we are living all we could !
Instead of rushing, headstrong, to be wrong
For fear we get it right, by realising
The extra life we're missing out upon,
And learn our truth, and know we're understood,
By One who's sprung all traps - for good.

Upon these seas of time
We're born - to float, and pray
That somehow tides benign
Will guide us to some shore,
Where time and tides give way
To something lasting more.

Upon some shore, or reef,
To land, emerge and grow,
Removed from death's dark reach
And on an axis- X
Evolve - as humans know,
There's life beyond success.

Yes ! More than just techniques,
And flat AI processes
And profit-suited physics,
Our modern axis-Y
Results in wealth's excesses -
Beguiles us till we die !

The chosen Lady groans upon a slab - undressed,
Delivered there by foolish men who hoped, most sad,
To sate the demon's lust for human blood and flesh
By loss, and offer, of the greatest hope they had.

And then the beast foretold, its moment come, arrives
And finds the womb exposed, the food so long it craves
Laid bare before its cunning, appetite and claws -
Slow motion make its salivating, canine jaws,
Its tongue all fiery slops about its drooling snout,
Until its senses rebel presence smell : a threat
To total rule, this feast and end of man's estate !
The solemn knight's keen eyes quit not the blackened soul
Which burns beneath the gleaming disks of viscous gold
That overlay the huge and pulsing puss-filled heart.
- " Oh Knight of new-made man - do not in matters dabble
That dwarf thy mortal self and oh so petty brain ;
This babe alone can quench my restless urge to reign,
Then You and I shall slay His phony kingdom dumb."
- " Return to whence thou comest, thing of nought become,
Before my fulsome wrath thy flaming pride extinguish,
Thou Angeling, now so damned and dimmed, and blind with ire !"
- " Ach, sagest jene Woerter nicht, und nie, zu mir !"
- " Away, foul fiend, till thou thy heinous lusts relinquish,
And swear no more to harm, or eat, such hostage dear."
- " Was, denkest Du, dass Gott sein Hand erhebt fuer Dich !"
- " I need not trouble God if thou art all I fear,
I am His servant sent, for all things now and here,
My faith in Him is more than thou willst care to bear."

Erect the monstrous Demon towers, with might horrific,
To vent its hellish ire upon this earth-born comic,
Till he a crucifix reveals, and cries : " Adore !"
The fiend's inflated ghoulish wings mid-air do freeze,
Its gargled flames appear, but melt into the breeze,
And back upon itself as liquid acid pour -
The dragon wails and shrivels, lupine slinks away
To run, is running still, until that wondrous day
When it shall meet our Maker, weighed in chains of clay.

And now the Lady births, and gives the World a Son,
A Son of Man, of God, just One for Three, but Three in One.

Yes - rid our hearts of what's not ours !
The dross and lies, the silken ties
Which Satan needs, to keep us ' died '.

Half-dead, inert, we hesitate
To kick our habits, terminate
The comfy ease of life denial
Which thinks to live, eschewing trial !

For peace of mind proceeds from faith,
And oneness with the One who's safe.

But sin is more than just a story;
It kills us by our vanity,
It seeks out flaws where smarting demons
May sow their seeds for getting even.

Sin often dulls, but never deadens :
A beacon calling to dead-ends,
A magnet pulling heart and soul
In to the bleakest, darkest hole ;
By edging ever closer to the Lord
We trim our sin - with time, it's overawed !

And there, entrapped within its victim's corner,
It hunkers down like shriveled grains of corn,
Or testicles exposed to freezing water,
And bides its time until it's ripe and warm -
Alert at merest whiff of lust or ire,
Or weakness sensed in faith's attire.

The sacred die from which we're cast
Has left indelibly its mark,
The mark of Cain was just a stain,
The mark of Christ will hold us fast.

And now the answer to our question,
How is it we have so much less
Than all we're given to possess ?

Sin feeds on sets of simple lies :
A lust for all that may enshrine
In too self-conscious human eyes
The last eclipse of God divine !

How is it we have so much less
Than all we're given to possess ?

We mock, pooh-pooh and try to bin
The concept-tool of hidden sin,
Whereas it's just the stepping-stone
To life we all may call our own !

Where living God forgives, wipes clean
The shit and dirt that get between
Our fallen selves and gracious mercy -
A mystery we were rash to query !

Engage your sin, and call it out
From where it lurks and skulks and schemes :
To be sin-free is just a dream,
In secrecy lies all sin's clout.

So face your sin, remove all doubt -
No sin, no God : the truth is out ;
Embrace the Cross, its cleansing powers,
And rid your heart of what's not ours !

His words were timeless service, pure cathedral ;
He was the altar, choir, communion wafer,
The wicker-chair, the kneeling prayer, the stair,
The peeling bell, the crypt, the vaulted chapel,
The blue-stained glass, the dear departed,
The vestments, transepts, censer, paving-stone
That feet and knees have worn as smooth as bone ;
He was that pair of hands in prayer parted
Whose arching fingers pressed their tips in space -
His soul a buttress, reaching for the Builder's face.

He breathed communion, making human whole ;
He rode the summer breeze that warmly eased
Through interstices cold and incense-free,
Since love's abrupt departure, breathing soul
In to the empty molds that voided, told
Of presence parted - glimpsing truths of sense
Whose soul inlaid his verse with silent ends.

His voice invested time and space,
As vacuums fit to grace his song,
Revealing what was left in place
As mask for what had come and gone !

His flesh did manifest a world of spirit ;
He sang the male, but more the female spirit,
Whose yearnings questioned every earthly limit -
His earnest prayer ; that verse might be the screen
That showed us all that we have always been,
But short on Faith, have rarely ever seen,
Till then, till now : and shown as brief as rainbow.

The Church of England's given up the Ghost
Of God - prefers instead the Wokish Way ;
Forsakes the words Our Risen Lord once said :
No mention, now ! Of Christ, nor Cross, nor bread
Of Life - our shepherds act as lambs that bleat
Whatever X or Facebook choose to bray,
Exchanging proven teachings centuries old
For social posts and feeds they just repeat !

So Halleluia, wokish bulls that shelve
All talk of Love's forgiving grace and care,
It's on with rage and righteousness of self,
( For honest truth, or doubt, no time to spare )
Just post or bleat, just scream or tweet - or howl !
Who shouts the loudest, sways the baying crowd.

No ! Our God is not a bastard.
He stakes us to a life that's blessed,
If only we would learn what's best ;
He lets us do as we think fit,
And every time we land in shit ;
And though He's got the Grace and Power,
So oft His crazy bets go sour ;
But once upon a life of man,
A soul pays back whate'er it can ;
Then Jackpot God makes good his bet,
So God's no bastard - least, not yet !


A Sower went out to sow,
A Lover went out to love,
And that is how we grow
The Love that lives above.

A Lover went out to love,
A Sower went out to sow,
And that is how we grow
Into His Selves of Love.

In naked bodies pure and clean,
This paraclete of souls soon lost
To cultures civilised, but passion-tossed,
Preserves in breathless, visionary relief
These states of peace beyond belief
Where brooding, sulking, tones and poses,
And oval faces, gazing-wise,
With timeless eyes, interrogate :
" So, are you come to soil, or save us ?
And can't you feel that God's innate ! "

An Eve, but bearing breasts and fruit,
Presents her universal promise,
Preserved in living, feeling bodies
Whose carnal-human, omen-signs,
So sensual-tender, sigh the truth
Of paradise-evoking climes :
Where rites of life enjoy full claim,
Where friendship, kinship, worship reign,
And where the waiting, female soul's
Exposed - without a hint of shame.

He painted heaven-on-earthly treatises -
Unheard of, bastard colours, yes !
Livid, lurid, matted, crude but best,
To be the coloured jigsaw pieces
That fit and click and interlock
To form a mystic, blissful catalogue
Of what could be if we were other,
And spoke in Love to one another !

This loan of life is no mean feat !
Where debits here get turned to credit,
The promised gifts of tender God 
Who lends us life of last resort,
A life in flesh and blood new-minted
Whose image is his living spirit.

There's no demand for restitution,
No interest payments e'er accrue,
All debts become a revelation
When I.O.U-ed before they're due !

The manager's a God and Prophet,
Upon the Cross he cancelled death,
Then bled the means to buy us life,
With banked reserves that clear all debt.

Life is gift, of soul and self and pleasure ;
Every thing you give is spirit-driven,
Knowing you, is why, and how, we are :
Image, seed and food of our condition.

Loss is loss, unbearable to bear ;
Still, you give us, time and time again,
Humus, rainfall, meat and fish and air -
Raging angels curse our prayers in vain !

Look upon the souls your life inspires :
Breathing treasures demons daren't remove,
Teeming life your will and love desires -
Help us choose the life that you improve !

Keeping faith identifies we're safe ;
Home, serene, as all falls in to place -
Salmon-wise we struggle, come full circle,
Shedding flesh and breath, while gasping purple
For air that you alone exhale and share,
Saving all who wend their way to you,
Lifting us, expiring, to your shore -
Us, the gift you Save - to give to You !

We're hungry for words that are,
For words that have promise and power,
For words that were here before the Ark -
Before our darkest hour.

We're hungry for words that renew,
Whatever the year or the hour,
For words that speak as though spoken by You -
Whose meanings never sour.

We're hungry for words to adhere,
To ring with truths that will grow,
For stories as true in two thousand years -
As in these moments we know !

And sometimes summer scenes serene reveal
Such moments when we'd rather weep than feel,
Where buried memories - Edenic - hide,
Coeval rise, now twinned with childhood eyes ;
When cordial birdsong bathed us in delight,
When dazzling colour seized upon our sight,
When God was voiced embrace - our tender friend,
And nothing, so it seemed, would ever end !
Then learn to live the Love that gives us birth,
And lend to life thereby its total worth.

On Stampian sands there stands a spire,
An act of faith the way it shapes
Its form express of Man's desire -
So tall, so svelte, that never sways.

Four triple-storied corner turrets
Lean out above the silent streets ;
Where angels once did preach from pulpits,
The prophets now are birds and breeze.

And still they watch us - coldly mute,
Beseeching Wrath's continued truce !