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Poetry: "The Call of the Thorns"

Craig Stewart

And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it: cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee (Gen 3.17-18).

No place for me appointed, no stage on which to stand,
My form is not befitting of Eden’s fairest land.
The vision of the Maker has shaped with tender care
A scene of matchless splendour, of wondrous beauty fair.

The trees in all their beauty, the gardens lush and green,
Sweet flowers in their glory array the tranquil scene;
The crystal streams meander, their dancing beams so bright
Reflect the perfect pureness of God’s unclouded light.

How blest the sweet communion as God and man can meet
Amidst a scene so splendid, so perfectly complete.
But, Oh my sad conception, and Oh my wretched birth -
A sign of the conclusion of God’s untainted earth.

For subtlety has entered, a seed so softly sown,
As man in discontentment would long for things unknown;
And there in that dark moment, as man from God departs,
My humble, poor existence, but honoured calling, starts.

Now men ascribe no value, no glory to my name,
No pleasure in my being, no knowledge of my shame;
My purpose not apparent, no beauty in my state,
The eye of man is blinded to the marvel of my fate.

For soon the day would darken, when hearts so cruel unite
To seek with great intention this object of delight;
And there, with gentle purpose, their rugged hands fulfil
The call of God’s creation, the purpose of His will.

The lilies of the valley, or Sharon’s fragrant rose
Are surely far more worthy, this emblem to compose?
But I, a crown of duty, a crown of shame and loss,
Will sit with regal beauty on a King upon a cross.

And there my form is marring, my furrows deep to plough,
My spikes forever scarring the Saviour’s blessed brow,
A Spirit now commended, the echo of His call,
And, with my journey ended, I at His feet can fall.

And there in Glory seated in scenes beyond compare,
I know I cannot enter the Golden City fair,
For, with Thy great returning, Thy world to be as new,
I wait the final burning I need to journey through.

And though I am not present in Thy great Home above,
My marks will speak forever of Jesus’ boundless love,
As there, in shining beauty, enthroned, majestic now,
A crown of matchless glory adorns Thy wounded brow.


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