Sunday, April 27, 2014

I Can't Make You Love Him

Jesus in the House -


I can't make you love Him if you don't
can't strike a match
to cause your heart to blaze
at the mention of His Name
can't cause you to tremble
as I tremble
before His holiness
can't jumpstart love
from the outside in
It only happens from the inside out

No matter how much I love you

loving Him
is not something you can get from me
like a cup of mulled cider or a hug
not something you can inherit
like good genes, strong teeth or curly hair
not something I can demonstrate
like how to knead dough or rhyme couplets
nor is it something I can gift-wrap
tie with a crimson ribbon
and give you to make you happy

No, all I can do is tell the old, old story
about His beauty, as I perceive it
His mercy, as I've experienced it
His wonders and His love
All I can do is hope, pray
and wait

Truth will not impose
Truth waits to be sought
Answers wait for age-old questions
The Door waits for your knock

When He opens
you'll find He's been expecting you
already loving you

No, I can't make it easy, although it can be
I embarked on my quest; you'll embark on yours
No, I can't make you love Him if you don't
but should your quest lead you to His heart
I'll be waiting, like The One inside The Door
to dance in the glow of His grandeur with you

Maude Carolan

I'd like you to know that the greatest decision I ever made in my life, half a lifetime ago, was to invite Jesus into my heart and become Born Again. Open your Bible to the Gospel of John, Chapter 3, verse 3, and read what Jesus says about it.

Readers, I greatly enjoy hearing from you. Please leave a comment. I also invite you to join the blog. I usually post a new poem on Sundays, late in the afternoon.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

He Is Risen From The Dead

Israel Pilgrimage--2006

Some believe
the Body of Messiah was placed
in the highly venerated
tomb located in the Church
of the Holy Sepulcher

Some believe
He was buried
in a pastoral place
known as the Garden Tomb

The important thing is—
He died. He rose.
He’ll come again.

The important thing is
as a placard proclaims
at the entrance
to the Garden Tomb:

He is not here—
He is risen from the dead

and the important thing is—
We live because He lives

so there’s nothing important
left to say, except

Hallelujah! Praise Him!

Maude Carolan Pych

The above poem is from my chapbook, "A Pilgrim's Quest"

My friend, Sister Jane Abeln, SMIC, is a fellow member of the North Jersey Christian Writers Group. She wrote the following poem in 1965 and brought it to our group for critique at this month's meeting. Sr. Jane took the poem home, made a few changes and sent it to me to add to this Easter blog. It's very musical. Enjoy and be blessed!

          Victim’s Victory

            An Easter Song

The Sheep sleeps:
The meek Lamb who did not speak
before His shearers; Who without shout
under the rod of His branders was led
to His death ‘mid jeers of bystanders;
with only tears for the clotted crowd
and a cry as He felt abandoned
even by God. He sleeps now,
in peace, after the shock,
in the bed of the rock.
He is dead.

The weak Lamb, the meek Man,
meek and weak for love none can speak,
for people no Lamb but Love
could ransom and re-seek.

Bound around, wound in white,
found in the ground, the Light hid from sight.
while in the night, guards watch in fright,
minding the stone, tightly sealed,
for dread lest friends His Body steal
and then propound to all around:
“He is risen from the ground.
He is risen from the dead,
truly risen as He said.”

Then, on the first day of the week,
while still in sleep the people lay,
women came to seek the grave
and, with fragrance sweet, array
the Lamb weak, the Man meek—but
He was not there!
That same daybreak did He speak
to His Mother and to another with her name
when that Mary came to weep and pray.
His life of glory
He’d begun to share.

Redeemed People, Graced Race,
Hear and praise!

The Lamp is light with new fire bright,
Light of a New Day.
The Lamb leads the way
to keep the sheep in the sight
of His Father’s Face.

Crucified, died, from Whose spear-slit side
came streaming blood, a cleansing flood
to wipe away the pride of sin and win again
the sons and daughters of men
by the tides of saving grace.

The sleeping Sheep arises.
He leads the lambs to the land of brightness
where He stands at the Right Hand
of the Most High.

They hymn to Him, the Victim,
praise for so great a Victory,
by which He gained the glory
that sets women and men free.

“Lamb without stain, Who died in pain,
slain to save the race from Satan, pride, and shame:
To You we raise our acclaim of praise.
May You reign for ages of days!
All raise to the skies praise to You on high.
We cry: You rose alive!
Truly, truly, You are alive!
Alleluia! Alleluia!”

Sr. Jane Abeln, SMIC
Easter, 1965

Sunday, April 13, 2014

In His Steps...Down the Via Dolorosa

Israel Pilgrimage—2006

Twelve feet below
the hustle and bustle and hawking
the crowds, the spices, the wares
of the present Via Dolorosa
lies an ancient pathway
of trodden stones
Yeshua[1] walked upon
in sandaled feet
on His way to Calvary
2000 years ago

ancient stones
stumbling stones
stones Yeshua, weak and weary
likely fell upon as He carried
the cumbersome crossbeam
along that terrible path
to Crucifixion

I remove a shoe
to feel the coolness
of hallowed ground
against my bare sole

We begin singing
Were You There When They
Crucified My Lord

and tremble
tremble, tremble
at the reading
of the Suffering Servant
in Isaiah 53

seem to disappear
It almost feels
like it’s happening here

There’s something
about it

isn’t there?

Maude Carolan Pych

[1] Yeshua is the name of Jesus in Hebrew

Sunday, April 6, 2014

Brand New: "A Poem for Lent"


I scan Google Images
looking for a depiction of the Crucifixion
to illustrate a Lenten poem on my blog
I’m unable to look squarely at the pictures—
Many are so heart-wrenching, so gruesome
I have to turn away

I think of the four Gospels
providing matter-of-fact statements
to tell us Jesus was crucified
sparing us details
of His suffering

Oh, I’m well aware
it is 2000 years later
and no holds are barred
when it comes to portrayals of violence
I go to the movies
I watch TV

I’ve squirmed through
The Passion of the Christ
with my heart beating fast
and eyes tightly closed
during the bloodiest sequences
I’ve read A Doctor at Calvary[1]
in which each and every stain
on the Shroud of Turin
is elaborated upon
in minute medical detail

I do not need
more graphic words and pictures
My mind’s eye sees
His thorn-crowned Head
His nail-pierced hands
My mind’s ear hears

Father, forgive them…
          …why hast Thou forsaken Me?
It is finished.

At last, I click on an image—
a crossbeam, a circle of thorns
and three nails

I post it to the blog
insert my poem

and shudder
a most grateful shudder
that Jesus, my beloved Savior
endured that terrible Cross
for me

Maude Carolan Pych

This is a brand new poem. I hope you find it to be a piece that inspires personal meditation on Jesus’ sacrifice for our sins. I’d love to hear your thoughts about it. Comments are always welcome.

[1] A Doctor at Calvary by Pierre Barbet, M.D., published by Image Books, a division of Doubleday & Co., Inc., Garden City, NY