A Note to My Readers -
I've decided to remove my Sunday posts from the weekly cycle. Although I hope they've been of benefit to some of you, they are necessarily secondary to my regular work of sermon preparation each week. I've found that having that extra post to write simply added to the burden of my work. For those readers who would still like access to my weekly work in Scriptural exposition, I would ask them to access the podcasts of my sermons (available through a link in the sidebar), since that remains the primary form of my Bible teaching each week.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

Learning to Fly

I've heard it said
    That some birds, fleet and swift-feathered,
         Have wings of such unspeakable genius
             That, standing in a mistral wind,
         All they must do is spread their wings
    And up they rise, like dazzled pieces of the sky,
Without a flap, a cry, a slight exertion.

Lord, sometimes I feel
    That that was me, in the wild romance
        Of youthful faith, with all its breathless zeal--
            A prayer, a thought, a single moment,
        Could launch me whirling straight into joy,
    The region of Thy glory, ineffable, immense,
Without a doubt, a labor, a spark of heartache.

But there are other birds, too--
    Incarnations of earth and lake and tree,
        Who take to the sky with thunderous work,
            The torment of a hundred wingbeats
        Raking the wind with fierce assaults
    Until it lifts them up, grudging in submission,
To bear them to a better clime.

Today, sweet Lord, I am the second bird--
    Where prayer, contentment, mystic bliss,
        Seem like a strange and foreign element,
            Wherein I can gain a momentary access
        By herculean labors of ascetic toil alone;
    And even then, I know I'm destined down--
Back down to earth from which I toiled to rise.

But I know that earth, that lake, that tree,
    I know it better than I ever knew before:
        The exultations of youthful faith had wings,
            But knew not whence its flight made rise;
        The consolations of ungrounded bliss,
    While sweet, could not fly endlessly so high
Without the solid strength of a launching-place.

Now I stand, firm on the ancient, gracious rock,
    And know that I am a thing of earth,
        Of water, stone, and tree...but still:
            A thing designed to ride the lofty skies.
        I know that I must learn to fly,
    Upborne by grace, by toil, by discipline,
Until I ride the zephyr winds to Thee.

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