Archive for December, 2012

The Isle

The Isle

There was a land in which I once felt safe…
But no, not anymore.
For darkness took over the forests green–
An abyss the gleaming shore.
And yet, as thought I cast thereon–
T’was always in that state.
Sorrowful trial hath showed me truth
At a mercy-cruel rate. 
Oh, there was love to be had
And there was truth, tis true.
But not for all those seeking it–
Much less for me, or you. 
And truth, there was a solid ground
Upon which one could tread.
But all my paths with deceit were tilled
And in pit-falls lay the dead. 
Each bed was underlaid with spikes–
Each rose enclosed a snake.
So, tellest me to rest at ease–
Or my funeral-pyre to make?
All words were woven whispers
All smiles enclosed sharp fangs.
All darkness held a thousand eyes
All friendships were death pangs. 
Deliver me! No light I see
Within this land of woe.
The darkness holds my weeping mind
Where I choose not to go.

What of the swords, that should protect?
What of brave loyal knights?
Nay, for ease they brought me here–
For favors made their flight.

For smiles they scorned my bitter tears
Were blind towards my pain.
For love I let them lead me off–
Would I could turn again!

But if tis not my chosen path
To leave this cruel isle,
If home must be black shadows
Writhing with the vile;

If I must tread each snare-strewn path
That laces ‘cross these hills.
Then grant me, pray, the mercy
To conquer evil’s will.

Mercy, yes, in form of a sword
To cut through vap’rish lies.
In form of a light to shine through night
Till all its creatures die.

Mercy in form of cleanest hands–
Forgiveness to quench the wrongs.
And purest love to heal the hurts
Till all that’s wicked’s gone.

~Yes, purest love to heal the hurts,
To bring back Truth’s sweet song~



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It was a purpleish-gray sky that hung over the Western landscape that evening. The air was cold– a frigid, icy air that whispered of snow and blizzards. A lone girl clutched her book to her jacketed side and clucked to a trio of milling dogs, urging them to make their way homewards. She had just begun the novel that afternoon–Captain Blood. She had been seven years old, and in another land entirely, when her father had first brought home the movie by that name, based off of selfsame text. How she had thrilled entirely in the swashbuckling tale, brought skillfully to the screen in glorious black and white!  And now, a lifetime later, she’d finally set about to reading the original tale. Faith and mercy….could twelve years truly have passed between then and now? It seemed hardly possible.

She reached her home, entered and shut the door behind her. The house was warm, and beckoned with a thousand responsibilities–like a mountain that demanded to be razed to nothingness, in an instant. The girl reluctantly set down the novel, but not before gazing at it longingly.
The actor who had brought that tale to life so long ago, who had made the adventure blaze with glamor and daring, had been none other than Errol Flynn. Errol Flynn–the very actor who had played the dashing green-clad yeoman in the movie Robin Hood. Yet another part of her early childhood–she could remember watching THAT self-same movie from days before she could ever know the story or the title.
The novel so recently laid down had no illustrations–none to depict Peter Blood’s likeness. But what did that matter! She knew who Doctor Peter Blood was–his face was irreparably impressed upon her mind at age seven, and could by no means be erased. For of course, he shared features with that handsome, rascally-rogue Flynn. She had no idea of what the author, Sabatini, had had in mind for his protagonist’s features–in spite of the descriptive sentence or so encased in the chapter’s paragraph. But again, it mattered little.

She turned from the novel and made her way thoughtfully through her home’s hallways. Twelve years….another child could have been born and half-grown in that time. How very much had changed, from the early days of innocence and joy…
At times she wished she could flee from her house with its problems, from the many solution-less dilemmas which arose seemingly on a daily basis. She wished flight, but knew in her heart of hearts, that her greatest tormentor lay just there.
Within herself.
Within herself and her stubborn, rebellious nature. Within her tainted mind and many faults. It was her. The truth came jarringly, like a frigid blast in the midst of July heat–
There was no place to hide from the wicked woman she truly was.
She wished for a drastic turn of events, for something harsh and romantically adventurous all at once, to forcibly draw her away from her wicked self, to burn out her dross as a refiner’s fire does for gold.

Her mind, still cogitating and revolving on the thought of adventure, returned to the book. To Peter Blood, who had been falsely accused of treason and sold into slavery…and how he rose through it till such inevitable time as he rose above it, and continued onto even greater things. She sadly acknowledged that a twig, cast into a fire, can by no means become purified gold.
Only what was gold originally can become pure gold.
What would  a trial or adventure akin to Peter Blood’s do to her? Was she the length of twig, destined to become useless ash? Or was there some gold, somewhere deep inside, which could become beautiful and precious?

Oh, she knew that worth came from the Savior who had given her worth. That a high price had been paid for her, and that He was the cure for her shriveled soul–
But she’d made so many wrong choices of late. And she’d delighted in her rebellion–her willful, knowing rebellion, ignoring the pricks of conscience so many times that now, now she no longer felt them. Was it too late? It seemed that she hardly knew this Savior who was light and love and life to so many of her peers and compatriots….and, at one time, had been to her, too.

Now  she felt very much a lost sheep–so lost, and running willfully away from the Master’s call so many times, that now she wasn’t sure that He still called. And she was so used to the sickening pleasures of being lost. She imagined an image of the four-footed, wool-clad creature, standing listlessly upon a rock, and surrounded by dangers of every kind..worst of all, the danger of herself, who would not run back to where she belonged.
Ah, the crux of the matter–where was The Shepherd? What was The Shepherd doing? Was He done with this sheep who had brought Him so much undeserved grief? Was He angry, and even now wreaking out His righteous judgment upon the ungrateful beast?

Was He still looking for her? Was He willing to heal her calloused heart?

Oh, would that life could return to the simplicity of childhood! To the black and white clarity of heroic tale! To an abundance of incorruptible, brave souls!

Oh, for glorious dreams and tales to become reality!

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