I Can't Make You Love Him

Jesus in the House - www.Godvine.com

I CAN'T MAKE YOU LOVE HIM

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.

He Is Risen From The Dead

HE IS NOT HERE

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

In His Steps...Down the Via Dolorosa

AT 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

Millenniums

seem to disappear

It almost feels

like it’s happening here

now—

There’s something

timeless

about it

isn’t there?

Maude Carolan Pych

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[1] Yeshua is the name of Jesus in Hebrew

Brand New: "A Poem for Lent"

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.

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