Chinook
by George Hosier  - April 17

New Life

I saw my first geese not long ago. The snow is melting, the trees are budding, and all the furry critters are becoming romantically inclined. This is the season of new life.

In this special column of Chinook, I would like to tweak my normally demented tone to offer a poem I have written in celebration of renewed life. For those of you who take interest in such things, enjoy. For those of you who do not--fear not. I will return to my typically wacky persona next issue.

Resurrection Power

Holy, changeless, pre-existent,
Thou, by whom all things were made,
Why do you now stoop before us--
Here where Satan's nest is laid?

From your light-drenched throne of power,
Through the gates of pearl you strode,
Bending low and ever lower,
'Til you fall on this bleak road.

Angel trillions' choral praises
Ceaseless bathed the jasper halls;
Now your name, an imprecation,
Spills with laughing, vulgar calls.

Should you turn a look upon us--
Briefly pierce your human veil,
We would drop like smitten vermin,
Tongue would cleave, and heart would fail.

Yet we mock and doubt and trifle.
Still we flaunt our loathsome flesh.
We misjudge your humble meekness
As inept, and jeer afresh.

Blood on cobbles that we trample
Has the strength to cleanse our sin.
Lips that split beneath our fist cuffs
Could speak healing peace within.

Even now as torment wracks you
From the nails we drive with glee,
You cry, "Father, please forgive them!
"Let them sup tonight with me."

As we gamble for your clothing
You rip wide the Temple veil,
Granting Seat of Mercy access
To we passersby who rail.

As your voice like liquid thunder
Triumphs, "It is finished--Done!",
We see but a fresh corpse sagging
Under the eclipsing sun.

Darkness swoops upon Golgotha.
Nature thrashing in her grief,
Splits the rocks and rends the mountains
But can't chip our unbelief.

Huddled listless in our houses,
Dreading this, the second dawn
Since our hopes and dreams were shattered,
We are sleepless, pale, and drawn.

Where is purpose--where is promise--
What's the point of this charade?
Are we but a puppet actor
In some ghastly masquerade?

Slowly then comes dim awareness
Of the sound of sandaled feet,
Running, skipping, leaping, dancing,
Drawing nearer in the street.

Then the morn is pierced with laughter,
Fists are drumming on the gate.
Breathless voices shriek with wonder,
"Quick! Come look, and celebrate!"

"He has risen! He is victor!
"Death and Hell collapsed today!
"Jesus' tomb has been abandoned!
"Come, see where His body lay!"

Shock and joy and wrenching yearning
Surge in fire to our throat,
Tears are pounding--we are sprinting
To the tomb without our coat.

There we find the stricken soldiers
Felled as from a mace's blow.
Stone rolled back, the cave gapes open--
From within, a fading glow.

Here's the wrapping, there's the napkin,
Pilate's broken seal hangs yon,
But the tortured form of Jesus
Is completely, truly gone!

Hope and panic, fear and praising
Wrestle fiercely in our head.
This can't happen, someone tricked us--
With our eyes we saw him dead.

Stumbling out into the sunlight,
We perceive a person near.
"Please, sir husbandman," we beg him,
"Did you take a corpse from here?"

Then the grief and sorrow take us
With great sobs we can't control.
In that sudden, vivid instant
We see deep into our soul.

We recall our jeers and spittle,
We can hear a rooster crow,
Thirty coins of tarnished silver
Sear our memories with woe.

In our hands we feel the hammer,
On our lips the traitor's kiss,
And we realize Jesus always
Knew that we would do all this.

Yet, exactly for this reason
Our Redeemer chose to die.
As our sins wreaked judgment on Him
He delivered you and I.

"Save us!" cries our voice repentant,
Not expecting then to hear
Someone speak with such compassion
That we raise our head and peer

Up into the face of Jesus
In the garden stranger's guise,
And can hardly bear the welcome
Pouring from his love-pooled eyes.

Just a word--our name--is spoken,
Yet the volumes it imparts
Of His knowledge of our nature,
And His claim upon our hearts.

Nearly voiceless with the rapture,
Knees collapsing to the sod,
All our feeble tongue can stutter
Is, "My Savior, Lord, and God!"


George M. Hosier II

 

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