Seven excuses and two poems

Well, I've fallen behind on my goal of posting a poem here every week.  This old blog is cold more often than not, but just when I thought I'd decided to take it down, my sister said I shouldn't, if only for the sake of past posts.  (Bless your heart, Val.  :-)

I have seven excuses for my inconsistency - and photographs to prove them.  They are below, in no particular order or number of appearances.  ;-)

"When I wear my striped cap, I'm the engineer..."
(Quoted from I'm Taking a Trip on My Train, one of Eli's favorite books of late.)

This one of several photos we took for cousin Ariana's Flat Stanley project.

Here is my response to John Owen's 5th chapter of Overcoming Sin and Temptation: "What Mortification is Not."  I hope you are able to figure the five things it isn't from the verse below.

Master of Disguise

First, he’d have you believe his Demise is actually a probability

 –which it isn’t, though at times you chose to believe it, scraping

by as you are on your own self-righteousness and quasi-strength.

If playing dead doesn’t work, there’s Dissimulation –slander

masquerades as concern, pride plays as prudence.  You’re convinced

your heart is cleaner, too: in reality, it’s only more cunning.

Then there’s his intent to maintain an appearance of Dignity-

to persuade you that as long as you present a sedate

exterior, wickedness within is of no consequence.

If you rally on one front, he will attack another; you celebrate

at the northern border, only to be conquered from the west,

sin’s servant still – your master has merely Diverted.

At your periodic disgust or pain-fueled determination, he may

withdraw under pretense of defeat; but Discontinuous will strike

as soon as your alert abates, in full strength to seek your death.

-Sarah Mowery

And here is my response to the 6th chapter, in which Owen asserts that mortification consists in a habitual weakening of sin at the root.  This is a very rich chapter.  When it comes to summarizing the depth of the ideas contained therein, my poem lacks.  But here it is, regardless.  (Just a note: the title is a word-play.  "Barabbas" means "son of the father.")

Son of the Father

The old man is crucified – in principle, that is,

which leaves you the task of daily crucifixion.

Oh, your desire will struggle at the first!

He will cry out at the pounding of the nails.

The weight and the writhing when the cross is lifted up

may be more than you think you can bear.

But you must!  Listen, listen -

his cries grow hoarse, he gasps for breath.

Yet his dying pangs may be fierce: be strong!

This, your assignment every day,

lest Barabbas return, to murder in your streets.

-Sarah Mowery