Finding The Secret

More Than Conquerors
October 2003

“Then Jesus went with his disciples to a place called Gethsemane, and he said to them, ‘Sit here while I go over there and pray.’ He took Peter and the two sons of Zebedee along with him, and he began to be sorrowful and troubled. Then he said to them, ‘My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death. Stay here and keep watch with me.’
“Going a little farther, he fell with his face to the ground and prayed, ‘My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.’”
—Matthew 26:36-39

When we think of Jesus, we usually think about him being the Son of God, the Savior of mankind, and often forget that he was also fully human while on earth. As a human, Jesus suffered through the same pains that we struggle with.

Jesus had to endure shear physical pain through being beaten and dying on the cross. He had the option to call down legions of angels from heaven, but chose to accept the agony as a man. He died as a human being, tortured until he gave up his spirit.

As a human being, Jesus also suffered through emotional pain. We don’t often think of Jesus feeling lonely and discouraged, yet Jesus probably felt lonely when the disciples fell asleep in the garden of Gethsemane, knowing that they would all disappear after the trouble began. And he was certainly discouraged when he said that his soul was overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death.

The difference between Jesus and a normal human being is that he kept going, in spite of the pain, out of his love for us. In spite of the discouragement, the loneliness, and the physical torture, he chose to die for us.

Rooster’s Crow

I want to say that all this pain
Is something You can’t know—
But a broken heart is not strange to You—
You know the rooster’s crow—

—Joanna Spencer
© Joanna Spencer. Used with permission.

Heartbroken

All of my friends have left me
Just when I needed them most—
And yet with but one command
I could call an angel host!

But I’ve been called to do this,
In spite of being alone
To sacrifice all I have
For those who chose to disown

Soon I’ll drink the bitter cup—
Oh Father, take it from me!
Rather, let your will be done
As painful as it may be—

Soon I’ll be tortured and killed—
Shamed upon a wooden cross!
But what hurts the most of all:
My friends won’t help bear the loss!

Heartbroken, here I am—
A lion called as a lamb—
All hope of salvation gone,
Through the pain I must travel on.

Forgive them, loving Father,
For they know not what they do—
I take this path of torture
To bring them all back to You.

Jesus, Were You Anxious?

My dear Jesus, were You anxious
When You saw the soldiers coming near
To take You to that cross that Your loved ones feared?

Jesus, did You once wonder why You had to suffer
For us children that would someday have a chance
To accept or reject our Salvation that You offer?

Jesus, were You anxious when You saw the tears
Of Your dear mother and the ones that loved You so?

I want to thank You, today, as I feel anxious.
Although, I know that You are here with me, holding my hand,
As I face a difficult time in my life.

I say, “Well, I am only human.”
You were human on that day, my Jesus.
Did You once have anxiety, my Savior?

Thank You for going to that cross for me.
I know that You made a way for me
Throughout all eternity.

Thank You for showing me so much strength
In the crises that I face,
I give it all to You because You did, that day,
For me.

© by Sarah Berthelson
Used with permission
www.christianpoetry.org/sarah_berthelson.htm

The Love Of Christ Which Passeth Knowledge

I bore with thee long weary days and nights,
Through many pangs of heart, through many tears;
I bore with thee, thy hardness, coldness, slights,
For three and thirty years.

Who else had dared for thee what I have dared?
I plunged the depth most deep from bliss above;
I not My flesh, I not My spirit spared:
Give thou Me love for love.

For thee I thirsted in the daily drouth,
For thee I trembled in the nightly frost:
Much sweeter thou to honey to My mouth:
Why wilt thou still be lost?

I bore thee on My shoulders and rejoiced:
Men only marked upon My shoulders borne
The branding cross; And shouted hungry-voiced,
Or wagged their heads in scorn.

Thee did nails grave upon My hands, thy name
Did thorns for frontlets stamp between Mine eyes:
I, Holy One, put on thy guilt and shame;
I, God, Priest, Sacrifice.

A thief upon My right hand and My left;
Six hours alone, athirst, in misery:
At length in death one smote My heart and cleft
A hiding place for thee.

Nailed to the racking cross, than bed of down
More dear, whereon to stretch Myself and sleep:
So did I win a kingdom,—share my crown;
A harvest,—come and reap.

—Christina Rossetti

Two Planks of Wood

It’s just a couple planks of wood,
Some nails, and thorns; a sign.
It could never build much of anything.
But, it built a bridge Divine.

The chasm wide between the worlds,
Of darkness and of light,
Were spanned with two old planks of wood,
Some nails, and thorns; a sign.

It was all wrong, it all was right,
Because the only way
To span the gulf (restore our souls)
Hung on the cross, that day.

The strongest force in the universe
Dripped down, a crimson red,
And demons tremble in its wake,
With, “It is finished!” said.

The work was done in majesty,
The blood line clearly drawn!
We overcome the vilest test;
Our testimony and His song!

The sign up high, above His head,
Needed one word to be true.
He was the King of Kings, Who
Sought for me and you!

Oh, beautiful and purest Love,
Throughout eons of time,
Brought, humbly, by two planks of wood,
Some nails, and thorns, and a sign!

© 2003 by Joan Clifton Costner
Used with permission
http://underhiswings0.tripod.com

Pilate answered, “What I have written, I have written.”
John 19:22

By His Stripes

Jesus, (nailed on the tree)
Battered and bruised for you and for me;
Jewels and diadems should have been on His head.
He wore a crown of thorns instead.

Bleeding, beaten, to endure such pain;
And all of it for mankind’s gain.
Grace unfolded in untold measure;
To some it was loss, others, heaven’s treasure.

In His death and resurrection, all God’s demands were met.
Every one should be grateful Jesus didn’t reject
Laying down His life for you and for me.
By His stripes, we were healed when He hung on the tree.

The Mother Mary
V.

Life’s best things gather round its close
To light it from the door;
When woman’s aid no further goes,
She weeps and loves the more.

She doubted oft, feared for his life,
Yea, feared his mission’s loss;
But now she shares the losing strife,
And weeps beside the cross.

The dreaded hour is come at last,
The sword hath reached her soul;
The hour of tortured hope is past,
And gained the awful goal.

There hangs the son her body bore,
The limbs her arms had prest!
The hands, the feet the driven nails tore
Had lain upon her breast!

He speaks; the words how faintly brief,
And how divinely dear!
The mother’s heart yearns through its grief
Her dying son to hear.

“Woman, behold thy son.—Behold
Thy mother.” Blessed hest
That friend to her torn heart to fold
Who understood him best!

Another son—ah, not instead!—
He gave, lest grief should kill,
While he was down among the dead,
Doing his Father’s will.

No, not instead! The coming joy
Will make him hers anew;
More hers than when, a little boy,
His life from hers he drew.

—George MacDonald

The Man

I know a man that knows me well,
Manipulates and strong compels.
I can’t resist his hateful voice.
Sometimes I feel I have no choice.

This man knows what I long for most;
Encourages me when I’m noosed.
He leads me straightway to my fall.
And soothes, “It will not hurt at all.”

I hate this man and he hates me,
Yet I am bound and cannot flee.
I’m tired of tasting of his meats,
For every time it’s bittersweet.

At night when I am all alone.
He stares at me, makes my soul groan.
His twisted grin pushes me down.
In this black sea I’m sure to drown.

My heart has wept and prayed he’d go,
Then proven words are just a show.
For when the tears, at last, are gone.
My foolish heart bids him stay on.

’Tis why I’m in this miry plight.
This fleshly heart won’t put forth fight.
I gnash my teeth and scream so loud,
Yet noise is soft in the man’s shroud.

Why can I not seem to escape?
Why won’t deliverance take shape?
I curse the man and bleat in pain.
His influence is my soul’s bane.

“Show us the man,” you say, “let’s see.”
Friends, I tell you that man is me.
The carnal man spoken of old,
And I ask God to wrench his hold.

—Samuel Popiel

“Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?
Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or
nakedness or danger or sword?… No, in all these things
we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us.”
—Romans 8:35, 37

If you have any comments or questions, or if you have a poem to share, please send an e-mail to bgraber@neo.rr.com

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