CATHOLICITYBLOG: The Protestant Boy and the Virgin Mary

CATHOLICITYBLOG: The Protestant Boy and the Virgin Mary

 Have a Good read!

The Good thing about that Friday?

After the cruel nature traditionally associated with the likes of two days ago, one would wonder why it can be called good. Nothing about the proceedings of that Friday - from Caiaphas' House through Herod's to the Calvary and the tomb - suggests pleasantness. Is it the gory sight of the scourged man, manhandled beyond telling, or the denial of the Man by His most trusted person? Nothing seemed good about it, and rightly so.
However, fast-forward the hands of the clock to today, we see something special; something never witnessed in time: We see the empty tomb, the carefully folded linen, and what else - the man on white. Hardly could anyone believe theirs eyes, but it is true; truer than the reality of our existence. Our hope is renewed, and we regain our impetus. Cruelty has not won; but love has been vindicated. Today wouldn't be born without that memorable Friday. That is why it is called GOOD. The resurrection was necessitated by the Cross of Calvary. And so we look back and bless the Lord for that single day. That day became the turning point in time, and nothing can ever change it...

SACRED HEART

Have a Good read!

O dearest Heart Most Sacred,
My Lord's Guile-less, Lowly and Meek
Deign I ask, to tie as one to Thee, Mine;
Though most frail than all that erred.

As gentle she'd be as art Thou,
If in Thy embrace warm she's found.
Doing the one thing she learns from Thee,
My heart should learn to live the vow.

                                      Chimbuoyim

To The Heart Of Jesus

The flame of  Love

Which way to Your heart, Lord?

Not as if I’ve come to a cross-road,

Just wary of the one I currently tread on.

Like to a king’s lodge, the path that leads

So as beautiful and more should this be

Everything it is but comely and straight

Just then I wondered: this just can’t be

Maybe it’s not a road at all; maybe no more

Could be it leads to nowhere; just endless.

As I rise from the umpteenth fall, I knew awe,

Felt the cold hands of loneliness taking my breath

Then they crept in en masse, the fear kind-less

That’s a rocky road, the roughest I’ve met

The sun gnaws at my flesh; I’m scorched and wet

The hills I climb, not like what I’ve seen

The cold chilly breeze seep through my pores

It’s got a trail, snake-like, as the tricky meanders’

Lay-about bones along vivified the terror not there

The ‘unsure next’ lurks by, yet here we go

Down-the-spine-shiver stays, but ahead we row

Fleet of stairs up ahead, but burden for tiring legs

Can only hope I’m still on track, hope

Just outside the city walls, an alien territory.

Then by the open gate it hits – something’s familiar

A blazing flame red, amidst a fount of blood

It’s an unlikely route which leads here

No wonder a just few feet venture

At least rest’s assured in the flame of love, mercy

The Subjective God

Part of it, we are, it seems 

Always, of this ‘subjective’ madness

More pronounced even in our time

By the ‘truth’s arch-fiends’

Just a matter of personal opinion

For them hiding under its pinion

Is the question of a Being called God

Oft’ than not dismissed as mythical

But what could be more mythical?

Or is it a case of being poetical?

Than an applause for the weird,

What could be weirder?

For the defeat of goodness, they plot

As would say, the Psalmist who taught

From the world they seemed to have expelled

The One whose it is

Now after our hearts they go

To rid of it what remains, and so

Truths employed to replace the Truth;

‘What is’ with ‘what applies to me’,

Kenosizing the earth of Divinity
And ripping off hearts, their Paternity
Are steps already taken
As they make a miscellany of gods

On The Cross-Road

Somewhere in the middle
A thought flashed, with which I could meddle
‘Since no cue was forth-coming,
I’d just hit the ground and be running’

You, having found you on a cross-road
To make a choice can be to you, a hell of load
North or South, East or West
You never know which is best

Even harder it is, making a choice
When each seems to appeal with more voice
But there must be a road not taken; at least three
Tragically or not, only one is free

But still caught out in the in-betwixt
The situation must be remedied, fixed
Wait no longer, and for nothing fickle! 
Your Heart can solve the riddle 

Austyn Chimbuoyim

THE MASTER'S ART

Done and dusted, are the Arts of the Saints

We look and wonder

Without actually seeing a yonder

How fair the impressions of brush and paints

Like pencils, they were, in His hands

To write and to draw

That, on which we now gaze with awe

And the Creator’s slates on which is scribed His artistic strands

Tested and proved, the science of the Saints

Though nature wants it soft

Rough and tough it’s as oft

And out of the crucible it stays devoid of taints

Yet they only mimed the One Masterpiece,

Mimesised the real Model

And gained the ‘saintly’ label

Love is the art; sacrifice the science

It matters; it’s what brought them there

The Master’s Arts,

The Creator’s Science

Get on the wings, but only if you care…

                                                                                                Austyn C