Poetry

The Hand, by Mark Skelton.

Marked through love, His hands, scarred, strain

Still further than they might have guessed.

Those, which held God's generous gift,

Now open-palmed revealing all.

Missing from this moment's gain,

One comes who doubts such truth could be.

Until he feels the open wound,

He will not trust their cowards' call.

Here they gather once again

Locked in their fearing. Now He stands

Revealed; He comes with gentlest word,

The doubter, shamed, before Him falls.

They recognized His love; the pain

He carried for their freedom's flight.

What unseen wounded hands still love ?

He sees, He knows, and blesses all.

The Visitor, by Mark Skelton

For the Feast of the Annunciation.

I came, because He sent me here.

It did not seem too promising,

But, as I entered in the room,

My ancient heart began to sing.

There was a sense of something good

That whispered in the very air.

I spoke her name, she turned and gasped.

I was, of course, a stranger there.

The message, which I had to give,

Was one that sounded quite absurd.

This peasant girl, this ragged maid,

The destined mother of the Word?

What fool's experiment was this.

I waited for her heart to slow.

He tends to choose as most would not.

I knew her answer would be no.

She thought. I waited.

As did all The thousands who were gathered round.

She could not see them, did not hear.

Each angel, breathless, made no sound.

And then she spoke with trembling voice,

But courage, vibrant, strenthening.

And with her 'Yes' the heavens could breathe;

For here, a worthy throne, my King.

The Samaritan Woman, by Mark Skelton

In shameful fear she waits till, in the heat

She skulks to find the shadows where she'll lie

In hidden sadness, house to well, not meet

The sneers or shouts or hatred in their eye.

But now her veil of calm is torn away;

A stranger sits and watches her approach.

His look she cannot read, and yet He stays;

No normal words of anger or reproach.

He asks, He listens, lets her speak her thoughts.

She feels years of abuse turn tail and flee.

A hope unbidden rises from her core.

He speaks the miracle: 'Yes, I am He'.

She leaves her water jug and, fleet of foot,

She rushes back renewed this five times wife.

Knocks on the doors that normally slam shut,

'Come, meet the one who brought me back to life,'

They come but do not know He soon will feed

A hunger, which they do not know they hold.

He offers water, bread and, in their need,

This shepherd draws each sheep within his fold.

Sanctuary Lost but Reclaimed, by Mark Skelton

A poem in response to the LOUDfence event held at Christ the King, Plymouth.

Once gates had kept the evil out

And people found their safety here,

For those who came met those who cared

And hope breathed gently, calming fear.

Then suddenly the doors clanged shut.

And Innocents turned to the sound.

They saw the shadow turn the key,

And darkness swallowed holy ground.

Now rainbow, ribboned out of hurt,

Proclaims in colour sorrow’s range.

And voices, too long used to shame,

Now see in cloth their call for change.

A call which catches in the wind,

As Spirit breathes this fence to life.

And as the ribbons start to move

The God of Love rejoices.

Good Friday, by Mark Skelton

The blackened sun, the bloodied nail,

The taunts from scornful passers-by.

The grief, the agony; the frail,

Weak friends who run, leave Him to die.

Then women who stayed faithful still,

Who stand and force themselves to see.

The soldiers gambling, as they kill

One who alone could set them free.

The tree stands empty now; Its fruit

Removed and stored in borrowed cave.

Its branches fixed, and, from its root,

A life bursts out which ends the grave.

The Raising Of Lazarus, by Mark Skelton

Drawn from the darkness by his call,

I stumble into life,

Yet still I'm bound by bands of stuff

And know I'll die again.

My sisters weep and cling to him

And hold my hands in theirs.

They see in him our future's hope,

And yet his pain remains.

The shadow of a borrowed tomb,

His body wrapped and still,

But then he'll rise and leave those cloths,

They'll not be used again.

Bartimaeus, by Mark Skelton

In dark, I cower draped with mud and damp.

Sit cornered in this helpless, sightless stream.

Their fog of disregard is dank and cold,

And so died every hope I dared to dream.

My ears attuned to hear, in friendless mist,

Those conversations I could never share.

I grub up scraps of comment, crumbs of news,

Thrown down by those who see but do not care.

His name, a word that lingers in the shade.

It sheers the shroud of darkness like a sword.

And years of quiet despair are blazed to hope

I find my voice and shout against the horde.

For years, I hear the change in those who pass.

The faltering, the hurrying, the scorn,

But now, I sense a quietness, a calm,

This change, a power i have not met before.

Those, who before have quietened me in shame,

Whose voices drowned my pleas and cries of pain,

Now turn, I sense, and look at me anew.

And see me, human, worthy once again.

I cannot see but hear some gentle breeze

And through my darkness I am offered light.

I rise and, with a confidence unknown.

I cast away my cloak, receive my sight.

The Rich Young Man, by Mark Skelton

So confident I came to meet this man of tales.

Since birth a silver spoon has helped me shine.

I've charmed or smarmed or graced each place I've visited,

But suddenly His question drew a line.

I've sought, in honesty, to live a life of love.

I've never consciously denied the good;

But here, He did not fall, like all, beneath my spell.

He turned and questioned, just because He could.

My life convicted in its confident repose.

My off'rings drawn from gifts that overflow.

"Can you," He challenges, "give more than stores received?"

And in my shallow love, my heart cried, "No!"

I turn and walk away with thoughts so new to me.

I, who have only ever known acclaim.

Convicted in my lack of generosity,

I see His look of love that eases shame.

So much has passed since that man made me see myself. Though at the time I crawled away in tears.

Though He has gone from me, gone from the world of men,

He walks within my heart and calms my fears.

I follow, from afar, the One who challemges.

And came and saw Him murdered on a hill.

But, from that place of death and lonely suffering,

He said, "Come, follow me." I said, 'I will!"

The First Temptation, by Mark Skelton

Floured rocks lie baking in the sun,

His hunger mists its way across the sand.

If he spoke but a word, just one,

He'd soon have fresh bread in his hand.

To use his gifts, misuse that trust,

He'd change direction, move to worlds unplanned.

To take the bread, it's clear he must

Reject the Father's outstretched hand.