The Reformation in 95 Words

Indulgences, receipts for forgiveness bought;
A long way from sin merely fought.
A monk was incensed. Straightway he nailed
A challenge to debate that derailed
The reigning Roman emperor (excuse me, Pope)
From his building project of largest scope.

Soon as the Theses on the church door were pinned
The world came to realize that it had sinned.
As soon as Christ’s blood upon the Altar rings
The soul in faith from damnation springs.
In what shall we trust, the Church’s bare word?
Trust in the Bible, in which Life is stirred!

Soli Deo Gloria!

Pity Whom?

My wife and I were talking about today’s world, and images came into my mind of what today’s cosmopolitan looks like, and so I decided to write this poem. The lack of rhyme and meter is intentionally self-referential to today’s world.

Pity Whom?

Imagine a man, so connected, wireless, viral;

Two lives he lives. One is public, the outer shell.

He texts, tweets, and emails (what’s the USPS?).

He Facebooks, blogs, and builds a digital life.

His work is constant distraction.


The other life, the inner shell. Video games, anonymous online presence.

Chat rooms for many purposes. Pirated movies, streamed.

Thinking no one sees him, he builds a secret double persona,

Oblivious to the real danger.

His play is constant distraction.


What could have been personality streams out the digital highway.

Building two shells cross-ways to one another

Around a vacuous space. No core. How can a machine

Of MB and GB and TB connect to life and meaning?

He is the machine. We become what we worship.


Pity whom? I thought we were supposed to pity

The poor, benighted tribes in earth’s remotest regions.

Then again, how can a person pity who has no self?

Maybe the tribes have a center

That can connect to God through the God-man


Much more easily than we can. Good night,

Modern machine. It’s nice to write all of this

On my shiny new computer, on my blog.

In Flanders Fields

This famous poem is perhaps too familiar to us. I’d like to offer a literary analysis of some of the ideas in this poem that may not be perfectly obvious on the surface.

Firstly, notice the poppies. Poppies are a symbol of forgetfulness. Opium is made from poppies, and opium is the drug of forgetfulness. Twice this poem mentions poppies, once at the beginning and once at the end. In the first instance, it is as if creation intends to forget the dead. In the last instance, it is the dead who will NOT forget, even though the forgetfulness of the drugged sleep of death seeks to overcome their awareness. Notice the neat chiasm of the first and last lines, forming a bracket around the middle: Flanders fields-poppies…poppies Flanders fields. Notice also the careful distinction between “blow” in the first line and “grow” in the second to last line. Forgetfulness only stirs at first, but it grows over time. This would be to “break faith.” Breaking faith means either forgetting and taking for granted what was won by the dead, or it means failing to protect in the future the liberty won in the past, or both.

Secondly, notice the larks. Larks are a symbol of laissez-faire attitudes. They may be “bravely singing” (“bravely” here does not have a positive connotation, in my opinion), and yet the noise of war drowns them out. Such attitudes about war are unseemly.

Thirdly, notice that John McCrae actually gave the dead a voice here: “our place…We are the dead.” This is a remarkable literary device. The dead speak, though they die. It is another indication that the dead are not unaware of what happens in the world. The dead are watching…and judging the living.

Fourthly, notice the torch, always the symbol of liberty. This symbol passes from the dead to the living. The call on the living is to protect it and fight for it, as the dead have in the past. “To hold it high” also implies using liberty for that for which it was intended.

In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

A Wedding Poem

My brother is getting married to Susan on September 22 (Bilbo Baggins’s birthday, by the way!). I have been furiously scrambling to get a song written for the occasion, which my wife will sing. It is going very well, and I hope to have the song complete next week. I thought I would post the poem that I wrote for the song. This poem is based loosely (very loosely!) on Psalm 45.

Thou art glorious, Princess, in thy holy space
With thy robes all woven with gold and with lace;
And the oil of gladness anointing thy face
As thou goest in towards thy king.

In thy majesty, Prince, we can see all thy grace
With thy noble mien and thy footsteps apace
And of cowardly thoughts in thy mind not a trace
Can be found. Of the twain we shall sing.

Now the Bridegroom has gone to prepare thee a place
That the bloom of thy flower shall fill a fine Vase.
Until then, He’ll give thee more grace upon grace,
That one Day, the Bride He shall bring.