Hero Held Out For

by Seth Wieck

He created us with one simple breath,

And then shortly after we fell to death.
But ever since we’ve been spending our lives
Clamoring and clawing, toiling with strife,
Fighting this longing for eternity
With sticks and stones and shameful bribery.

And though it would have been much more simple
To crush us, and let hist’ry be forgetful;
He managed to soften a single man’s heart,
And plans for restoration began to chart.
“How much,” we have to ask, “Did Noah not know
When God prism’d through rain the first rainbow?”

And then there was the building of a nation,
But the plan was to do it with such a ration
That it would all begin with one old man
And his wife whose womb was dry and barren.
Though he tried, it was only the promise
That conceived a son and proved God honest.

Oh, it would have been much more simple
To crush us, and let hist’ry be forgetful;
But hist’ry has been the pen in His hand
Reminding us that though we have been banned
There are still pages left to be written
In a love letter from One who is smitten.

If the tidal rise and fall of nations
Is a true barometric indication
Of the lengths that He is willing to go;
If the God who wields hist’ry as a note
Should favor us, should extend us that grace,
Would we really be so out of place

To suppose He might put on the skin of man
To be buried when He bears the sin of man
So that the once and always sinful man
Might come to life when He is raised again?

If this is true, then I must recommend
That you forsake me – us - and fall for Him.
Because ours isn’t much of a story,
It is so poor, and told so, so poorly.
I’m doing the same, I think you should know.
It’s only fair. I really do love Him so.

Anno Domini - An Advent Sonnet

by Seth Wieck

In the year of our Lord was a great hush;
400 years since He’d spoken a word.
No man or woman had felt the great rush
Of His wind, felt fire, quake, or still small voice heard;
No prophet with pen in hand was carried
Along by His Spirit, but sat unmoved
To speak from fathers to sons - sons were married -
Had sons of their own still no words to prove,
No dreams to interpret, no visions to explore;
Just the round turn of the world, the sliding of stars
Through the sky, crops to plant, crops to store.
All was silent as night, night was quiet as stars.

Then the Word that began it all went to press,
And the Word that was Light, that Word became flesh.