the art of love

I am too satisfied
with the things I say
the things I do
the attitudes
of heart
that shape my reactions
after day.
I too easily accept
quick assessments
of my own righteousness
in situations
where I have been
anything by
I am too skilled
at mounting
plausible arguments
to make me feel okay
about what I think
what I desire
what I say
what I do.
I am too defensive
when a loved one
tries to attempt
to call me out
and suggest
for a moment
that what I
have decided
or done
is less than
I am too
with the state of things
You and me
too relaxed with the nature
of my love for You
too able to
my need for Your
In the recesses
of my private
there is so much
that I am able
to convince myself
is right.
There are attitudes there
that should not be.
There are words there
that should not be
There are thoughts
that do not agree
with Your view
of me
and mine.
There are desires
that take me in a
different direction
than what You have planned
for me.
I make decisions
based more on what
I want
than on what
You will.
So I am hoping
wise eyes
that are able
to see through the cloud of
and see myself
as I actually
I am praying
wise ears
that are able
to hear through
the background noise of
well-used platitudes
and hear myself
with clarity.
I am longing
a humble spirit
that is willing
accept and confess
what You reveal
as You break through
my defenses
and show me
to me.
I am hoping
a broken heart.

–taken fromĀ Whiter Than Snow by Paul David Tripp

A broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise. – Psalm 51:17

a constant whisper

lay down your arms

So what does it have to do with me,

this poverty child?
this homeless birth in a busy town?
these shepherds searching for angel-announced hope?
this little boy wandering among the shavings of newly planed wood?
these dirty feet from dusty paths of Middle Eastern villages?

What does it have to do with me,

this unremarkable vagabond?
this traveler with his motley pack of men?
these weird sayings and mysterious stories?
this healer man with crowds of broken citizens?
these jealous leaders plotting evil?
confusing predictions about a future unclear?
these hungry crowds fed by a little boy’s lunch?
prostitutes and drunkards made to feel welcome?
these courageous declarations while standing in the synagogue?

What does it have to do with me,

this palm branch carpet processional?
this private dinner in a rented room?
this basin unused with proud men at the table?
this dark garden echoing with painful prayer?
these three asleep, with a friend in torment?
this kiss of death with soldiers as witnesses?
these trumped-up charges by jealous men?
this bruised and bloody back?
this crown of thorns with flowers removed?
this Roman ruler washing his hands?

What does it have to do with me,

this cross dragged outside of the city?
this dirty, bloody man nailed to a tree?
these criminal companions hung on either side?
soldiers gambling for the clothes of the accused?
sword to the side to finish him off?
this scarred corpse placed in a borrowed crypt?
these women surprised at the body gone?

What does it have to do with me,

this story so removed, so long ago?
this one wise and suffering man?
Palestine graced, hope rejected?

What does it have to do with me?

This story is my story, each chapter is for me. This unattractive man of humble beginning and ignominious end is the Hope of the Universe. Mercy is what it has to do with me; it is what the sin struggle of my heart requires.


taken fromĀ Whiter than Snow by Paul David Tripp

celebrate the homeless



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