Good Friday

Why call you now this Friday good
    On which my Savior died?
His tortured body and his blood:
    He hangs there crucified.
‘Tis good, for Jesus’ sacred head
    Was wounded for our sin.
His blood ran down; with arms outspread
    He died to save all men.

Why call you now this Friday good,
    The shame upon the cross?
Messiah hangs upon the wood
    And he must take the loss.
‘Tis good, for now our debt is paid,
    Through him we owe no more,
And in the tomb his body laid:
    Praise Christ, our guarantor!

So call we now this Friday good
    And lift our praises high,
For blood and body now our food
    Have brought salvation nigh.
Our Lord and Savior, Christ the King
    Has died to set us free;
He took the blame for everything
    And brought us victory.

Speak

There has been a dearth of poetry here in the last three months.


How can I hear your voice, my God, my king?
The only voice I hear is mine alone.
I speak, I cry, I plead for anything
And hear no more than wind, than wisps windblown.
How can I do your will, my Lord, my God,
When I hear nothing from your righteous mouth?
How can I hear your voice? I have no prod
To lead me on, but my desires uncouth.
Where are you, Lord? Where are you, God? I cry!
I need your voice! I need your Spirit now!
What can I do? Without you, I will die,
While struggles, suffering, furrow all my brow.
My God, you save; you say you speak to man,
But why can I not hear your voice? Who can?


(Yes, I do need prayer. A lot. Funny how I write more poetry when I'm feeling like this.)

Preview

Prologue

The small, ferrety man shivered. The dimly-lit chamber in which he stood was strangely warm, almost uncomfortably so, but a thrill of fear walked up and down his spine, sending tremors through his limbs. “I, I beg your pardon, m-my lord,” he stammered, “b-but—my wife—”

“Yes, yes.” A voice, soft and silky but laden with menace, came around the back of the carved wooden chair, echoing off the hard stone walls. “She will be... restored... in time.” The man shivered again. Somehow, those words were far from comforting.

“But—but—what assurance do I have?” His voice quavered and he tried to master it. “I may not help you.” His attempt at confidence sounded weak, and he knew it.

“Assurance?” The voice sounded surprised, as if this was a new idea. “Assurance?” it repeated, scorn now evident. “I give no assurance for such matters. The only assurance I give is that you will never get her back otherwise. Now leave me.”

A tongue of fire flared up from the chair, and two tall figures stepped from the shadows on either side of the solid metal door, as if in response. They were robed in black with some sort of design embroidered in red thread down the sides and back. The design itself was hard to make out in the flickering torchlight. Though the man saw no weapons, he could sense that the guards were dangerous. He meekly complied with the order and was swiftly escorted out of the chamber and back into the city, wondering what would become of his dead wife.

1. Llyren

“Help!”

He searched frantically through the rubble. Where was he? He had to find him before it was too late. There wasn’t much time left. Where were the others? He heard someone calling out. Who was... Why couldn’t he remember their names? Something was wrong. His hands felt weak as he tried to move the rocks aside. He felt as if he was wading through quicksand. Soon it would be too late. Suddenly, a hand shot out of the rubble. There was a burst of flames, and then...

Llyren jerked upright, sweat trickling down his face. He felt around frantically, trying to remember where he was as his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness. His hands grabbed hold of soft sheets, and he breathed a sigh of relief. A dream. That’s all it was. A dream. Yet it had felt so real.