Abhorred

For the proud look in the eye,
For the tongue telling a lie,
For the murders implied by a hate standing by, (Matthew 5.)
For this scheming heart of mine,
For these feet that evil find,
For false witness and vain strife,
Someone had to die.

Not for low self-esteem,
Not to grant a worldling's dream,
Not for a Benz agleam,
Not for more wins for my team,
But for sin - my sins extreme
Against the God who cannot deem
That I can stand in His regime
Unless He would first redeem.

Do you know how a loving God can hate?
He hates because He first loves His own glory -
His own name -
His own attributes -
The name we profane when we do not consider its weight -
Its majesty -
Its dominion -

Over colliding galaxies and orbiting bodies and shifting continents -
That He first shaped in the palm of His hand
And said with a word, "May it be -
It is good. I have fashioned this for the glory and praise and pleasure of Me - alone!"

And all of heaven cheered as they saw this planet,
Freed to spin throughout the dark expanse of space
About its nearest burning star -
To show His creative power -
For His glory.

His dominion extends over every nation, whether in peace or war -
To every city great or small,
To every person rich or poor,
To every creature of the forest, air, and seas,
To every blade of grass that they trample on,
To every cell, molecule, and atom -
Engineered like a little solar system, with electrons orbiting a nucleus,
To show His grand design, even on the smallest scale -
For His glory.

And the angels, beside themselves in adoration,
Respond with their every meditation:
"Holy is the Most High over all creation!"

And my life's reply?
Selfish ambitions,
Not-captive cognitions,
Partial submissions,
Apathetic renditions
Citing "too much tradition"
Of men's compositions
To give Him recognition.

I should constantly strive to do the things which make my Holy Father smile,
To know that He grieves when my heart is not God-besought,
Because He knows that He alone is the source of every perfect gift
And apart from Him I have no good thing at all;
To see my inmost man, with a heart adrift
even for a second, in my mind I fall.
And for even that careless step, I ought
To march with the hellbound ranks, one hundred-file -

Rather than to take the narrow path with room enough for one,
A road with jagged rocks, traveled barefoot by the Son
Of God, who took the forty lashes - smack! -
Was lifted to a cross and nailed there - whack! -
And died the worst of deaths to buy me back. (That was grace.)

My trifles I pursue,
The idols not eschewed,
The thoughts that pleased my old mind unrenewed -
The Lord must abhor each one,
Because for His glory to triumph over that, He had to kill His Son.