Wineskins bursting with Welch’s imposter
Tooth decay and apostasy fostered
True Israel saw a wet Jordan from afar
While dry pietists, true religion did mar

O glorious day when wine flowed again!
Coming to the Table was no longer “sin.”
“Christmas is coming!” the saints of God cried,
While the elect of God, grace imbibed

For what is Christmas without fruit of the vine?
Grapes and yeast ineffably divine!
Or the yuletide labors of trappist monks?
Barley, yeast, pungent hops!

Man a receiver of so great a gift
The Incarnate God repairing the rift
A torn veil mending a tattered Creation
Restoring glory and celebration

To Christian men with Christmas cheer
The libations flow as God draws near
Through malted goodness in glass and goblet
The pagan and secularist could not know it

One conjuring spirits and friendlier gods
To improve his brew and bring him laud
The other dismissing the Grand Winemaker
As a fraud or fantasy or even a faker

Foolishly thinking that yeast acts alone
As a pure mechanism, as worker, a drone
When in fact it is an actor on the stage
Given by God, written upon the page

So drink up dear Saints in celebration
Of the Word in His Incarnation
Despise not the world made by our King
Enjoy it with manly thanksgiving

Triune love spilling over to men
The Son with his eye upon creation
Speaking weighty words though only few,
“Behold I am making all things new.”

But like our ancient brother Beowulf
We drink to remember not to forget
Assembled in their mead hall
Cheering tales of strength and courage

Feasting on the spoils of victory
To honor heroes who secured their peace
So we gather with hearts glad
Not an empty chest among us

Living in a land of peace
Conquered by a mighty arm
A trinity of tyranny
Held us fast in slavish dread

Till our hero crossed the se
And in the strangest port he landed
Forty days in the wilderness
Battled he with our enemy

Till the arm of power over us
By his strength was torn free
The first beast beaten torn and bound
He climbed a mountain no man has tried

In dark clouds at its peak
to lure the beast his chest he barred
His arms spread wide heart exposed
The beast drew near from the shadows

Just as it barred its fangs and bit
Our hero’s arms closed tight to hold
Without our great afflicter in his grasp
Off the great height of that cliff he leapt

Falling far, embraced they fell
Splashing into a bottomless deep
Writhing struggling he held it fast
Till that beast felt eternal sleep

Twas no accident they took that swim
This deep the home of our final foe
Luks within an ancient gatekeeper
Its depths the cellar of all dead souls

The corpse of the conquered beast
Sinking in the darkness
The gatekeeper seeing, chasing
Cries “father no” broken by his weakness

Our hero drawing sword and swimming fast
Pierces through our last tyrant
Its father gone his power lost
He succumbed without a fight

Breaking forth to glorious day
He led great company to the light
He brought us out to life and peace
And spread his kingdom wide

Our king has slain the beasts
And called us to his side
So merry me we band of brothers
Raise your glass of malty charm

And spread his kingdom
With thine own brandished arm

Hunger pushes to leave the woodpile fortress
But a nervous skyward eye holds him in its cleft
Looming death gliding above
The shadow that sweeps the sunlit grass
Table scraps more convincing
Drives him into the unprotected open

Scurrying with eyes squinted
Anticipating the irresistible grasp
Clutches built to pierce life
And fly away with its remnants
Safety of a fallen log
And locomotive breathing slows

Till visions of fallen roast stir a frantic dash
For the rickety fence line
Only to find its shadow a deceptive shelter
No covering for defense
From the looming blue above
Too far to turn back

Clawing the dirt to squeeze through the sun dried pickets
Nearly blind but seeing the cracked door
His shadow at the end of the tunnel
Hastily up the grayed porch stairs
Across the threshold
And into darkness

A heart’s sigh of safety
From the all seeing blue
Free to devise his thievery without fear
A slight rumble cuts it short
Ears back, crouching, breathless
Two yellow eyes
Blink in the dark ahead

Pen, Paper
          Beer Brashness
                    Cult Challenged
Frightened Flocks, Frightened Frocks

Knock of nails
              Tears of Terror
                          Made to Melt
Renewed Soul, Renewed Body

Blood bought Bride
             Washed in Word
                             Trust in Truth
Gloria, Gloria

                                 In Memoriam M.L.

In remembrance of Wittenberg, 1517

Traffic closing
Tension burning
Legs strain
And cry

Flesh resisting
Lungs rebelling
Quell fight
And ride

The riddles of God are more satisfying than the answers of man.
- G.K. Chesterton

A tale woven from the dark days of the universe
Before form and substance flung their flight
An Author so masterful yet so veiled wrote
The story that both delights and deters depending
On the reader’s ability to see and hear and know
The back story and intentions of the One scripting it all.

A tale that kills and makes alive, separated by mere
Moments, unashamed and unapologetic to man or his kin;
Does the author know what he is doing? We ask,
Frustrated and faithless but also hopeful to see behind the
Curtain, so thick and swarming, preventing a good look
Or an insight into the details; and yet a standing bid to trust.

A tale that promises an ending with more twists than
The best of epics penned by man; where every thread is
Tied up and connected in perfect justice and mercy.
In the meantime, man waits; we wait and wonder at how
The Author keeps track of all the characters and plots and
Subplots, confounding and colliding in ways we can’t expect.

A tale that holds in perfect tension the deepest needs
And the deepest flaws of man just so that at the end of the
Story, the readers’ eyes are fixed upon its Creator and every
Demand for resolution melts in the presence of the One who
Knew the last line before he scripted the first; And yet the
Author resolves His tale because resolution still matters.

The woman looked at
Her blanket and smiled,
“Thick.”

No need for more warmth,
For cold is no where
Here.

Burning skin blisters;
No respite to be
Found.

Plowing and harvest;
Merciless, constant
Glare.

For a brief relief
The man would gladly
Trade

A week of corn from
Unforgiving ground
Seized.

Spitting and spiting,
Elements against
Him.

A vision: the wo-
Man, carrying a
Bowl.

Tongue darts over lip:
Anticipation,
“Water.”

“No,” she coos gently,
“From sun parched straw
Taken,”

“Woven like fabric.”
Mocking angry sun
“Hat.”

But plenty on the brink.

He wore an orange tunic

Only warm water he would drink.

Monkish self denying

Refusing him to take

A rich cup of blessing

Found in the fire of taste.

Following close behind

Was one appearing earless.

Hat large enough to hide

Them tucked within its harness.

The duck bill on his forehead

Shrouded his eyes from light

And from warmth it cloistered

His crown in perpetual night.