Look to Jesus (For the Joy Set Before Him)

Look to Jesus (For the Joy Set Before Him)

An Acrostic Poem of Philippians 4:8

I.

Form he gave the earth.

In love he shaped us, his crowning joy,

Not just with dirt but imbuing life with his own breath,

And in a shape none can know, veiled by cloud and fire,

Light so glaring we fall by it to our death,

Lives the One - Father, Breath, and Servant King - who would employ

You and me and all besides, to become his by Second Birth

Because at the Tree we proved traitors, grasping at its fruit bowed low,

Roots in a soil from which we were banished.

Once clothed in royal beauty, now covered by animal skin

They, our first parents, fled their shame, their sin,

Hiding from one who himself had vanished,

Even as he watched, heart rent for them to know

Refusal was theirs, for we would prove

Shallow was our trust in his love.

Along our wandering way, he set many a sign,

Needles to prick our pride, prophets to reveal a grand design

Deigning to bring his love to us, heaven and earth to move

So when it comes time to ask

If there is any purity, any justice, any honor, any truth,

Some loveliness to praise, some excellence to commend,

Then we could learn to depend

Ever only on love's ability to sleuth,

Removing sin's leering mask

So we might discover the answer.

II.

"What is truth?"

He asked you; he did not know, and perhaps he did not

Aspire to find out. An idea was all he wanted.

Tav, mem, aleph, we would read it - the end and the start together with

Everything in between, so much more than an "ought,"

Value deeper than a concept by which we're taunted,

Every movement, every thought, even things we'd call myth,

Reality sustained by supremacy, by divine sooth,

"It" is a Person, alive, a speaking Word,

So much more than a philosophy, one-dimensional and blurred.

That which is not concealed, though hidden from our eyes,

Reliable, valid, genuine, calling out the lies,

Under this we live, in this we have form.

Everlasting arms hold us in deception's storm.

III.

What is honor? I don't understand, though I know

He had it in spades.

All the dignity of a king, command of reverence, nobility far above us,

Together in a man we did not esteem.

Every word he spoke, all he said - sharp and piercing blades.

Viewing our hearts with gravity, he does love us,

Endured the cross to mend the seam

Ripped apart by our evil deeds. This I know, though

I guess I just don't understand

So great a desire to sew the tear with the nail in his hand.

How does he guard his position so high?

Our noses upturned, we seek to be higher.

Noses that sniff and snub,

Our fingers pinch them in the sty

Reeking of our position dire.

All we care to know is who's in the club,

But he finds honor in bowing low.

Like the eldest oak, he bends the back of glory

Even beneath us, honor to show.

IV.

What is justice? O, come and see!

How can one describe his behavior, his lifestyle?

Always keeping his word, honest in his dealings,

Taking what was wrong and making it right.

Even these do not encompass him though, for at his trial

Vented the depraved their injustice, and he let it stand, their clashing feelings

Ever present, ever oppressing, as he died unrighteous in their sight.

Right up to the end, he made no plea.

I see it now he sought our judgement upon him to his final word,

So committed to us he would die, by our wrongful ruling onward spurred.

Jesus, champion of integrity, died by injustice

Under false condemnation to show us what love is.

So much worse than wrong, so undeserved and unfair,

The death he died shows how true, how honest, his care.

V.

"What is purity? This is love's purpose, its destination..."

Harlotry's voice slithers in passion's embrace.

All the while, her lover guards as a costly souvenir

The fact that she has consented, so this must be right.

Each ignores the Garden, blood sprinkling the place,

Vastly different from the first, for it was here

Eternity wrestled with humanity in the foresight,

Regarding divine comfort less than our salvation.

In this Garden we find him undefiled, his motives, his cause,

Sown on the ground in drops of blood, in the pause.

Perhaps purity has less to do with boundaries and is instead

Understanding the value, the infinite cost

Revealed and imbued when he faced the dread.

Even his sorrow was chaste, caring for his bride, those once lost.

VI.

What is loveliness? Less ephemeral than it might sound,

Holy friendliness that pleases and twines

Agreeableness with what is right,

This is not art but the process by which art comes to be.

Even from throwing our clay to carving our lines,

Virtue he makes apparent in how he molds us through the night.

Ephemeral is this life, this reality.

Real beauty is deeper, and lovely is the hand by which his love does abound.

If he is lovely, why did we reject him, counting his life as loss?

So objectionable we found him we nailed him to a cross.

Looking for him, we searched for beauty,

Only we didn't know what beauty was.

Valuing each quality against our own measuring rod,

Each virtue he possessed in purity while we

Leveled them to something we could understand, meriting no applause,

Yet he called us friends and washed our feet, unlovely, unshod.

VII.

What shall we commend? What good should we report?

Here we praise "success"

And repute the one who attains that coveted prize,

Though in our paltry desires we err.

Error is our song, and our faults we bless,

Vying for our own line of commendation amidst the lies.

Eloquent we've become in this affair,

Reporting our accolades, a cappella, in the Holy One's court.

Is this the good, the praise, for which we've fought?

So condemning the cadence, so hollow the chord we've sought.

Can anything break the violence of our vibrato?

Only divine antiphon can redeem each darkened soul.

May we seek the melody beneath our staccato.

May we learn to commend the beauty that makes us whole.

Ever-blessed by the Father, he needs none of our applause.

Never impressed more than with the Son's cause,

Deity exalts him over all, proclaims him in the pause

After which we cannot speak, the silence that quiets our ever-working tongues,

By which we see true glory, for he is truly worthy of the spotlight,

Laudable beyond our paparazzi, above our broken songs and breathless lungs.

Ever may we repute him to each other, for to speak of him is right.

VIII.

Is there any moral excellence to be seen,

Far-reaching even as corruption has been?

The radiance of the divine heart,

Heroism by which our lives were won,

Earnestly seeks us on the scene,

Reeling where we left him, the forsaken Son,

Even under the bough where we denied him at the start.

Is this how it will end?

Splendor swallowed by darkness, forsaken by Father, without a friend?

Are we to expect it to conclude any other way?

Nay, we have accomplished naught but evil each day,

Yielding to fear as the Enemy's prey.

Moreover, could we bear the weight

Of glory and divine honor he would bestow,

Resting in the light of noonday,

And could we bloom in love's glow,

Leaving our frailty behind to enter heaven's gate?

Even so, he took his final breath,

Xenial duty forgone by the creatures he did form,

Creatures he knew better by his death,

Every fear and hope borne by him in death's storm.

Like a lamb, he followed the path to the tomb.

Like a lion, he roared as the jubilant groom.

Ever earnest, he won her, his glowing bride.

Now he seeks to keep her and with her abide.

Can we expect this to conclude any other way?

Ever yes, his answer, in the radiance of day.

IX.

And so we wonder, what is worthy of praise,

Not willing to accept any reply but our own.

Do we not laud what we love, by our treacherous ways?

In this we are seen, in this we are known:

Fear of what we love shakes us to the bone.

The loss of things we prize

Hangs above us like a knife,

Ever ready to sever us from the loves we've sown.

Reeling, we see nothing in this life

Eternal, constant, beyond our petty lies.

It all fades. Every false laud will at some hour cease.

Silence will torment us who've fought to make our own peace.

And after the silence, there shall come a roar,

Not like the shouts we ourselves have made.

Yearning in the sound, profound pain of a price paid,

The voice calls us home forevermore.

He emerges from the tomb--he, our deepest joy.

In his own blood the narrow path he paves.

Night turns to day as we peer at shadows in our caves.

Glorious light ascends: great God, once Jewish peasant boy.

Perfect life, perfect love, perfect in every way,

Reigning from the seat at his Father's right hand

And gazing down in affection at the ones he came to save

Is the praiseworthy one with whom dawns our day.

Shames he every idol of gold and ivory, of fame and glory, and

Every man-centered effort to rescue us from the grave.

We ask then why does he not yet evil repay?

Only he has, and destruction is planned,

Rift between God and man, his broken body does pave.

The cursed become the blessed when they pray

Heavenward to the only one who might make them stand.

Yes, praise be to the one who for us his perfection gave.

X.

Dawn the day we shall see at last--

We, once blind, once lame, now babes by Second Birth.

Echoes of what we have heard from a distance,

Lilting melodies of events future, present, and long past

Lead our hearts to pirouette in the Presence, the eternal dawn of a new earth,

Only this time our feet shall keep the sacred beat

Now clear in the rhythm of Death's retreat.

Truth we have seen shining in his eyes,

Honor in the garments he left for us to divide,

Except he multiplied the pieces like loaves with the insistence

Should we partake, justice is served to him, our life the prize.

Enter purity of motive and cost of love, the wounds in his hands and side.

The blood he spilled paints a stark and lovely portrait,

His death the price, that he should commend us--he,

In whom all have being, individual and corporate.

Now, with his excellence a raiment to cover our humanity,

Gather we to praise him, our melodies twined, chords of weakness made strong,

Such harmony his purpose, his pleasure, all along.