Returning

I live because Jesus died.

One day, I must die too,

and on that day I will sing in tune,

with a great many people the same as I,

Who realise that Jesus has brought us life.

And so in Life, I have to die,

To the wants of this world,

To all my pride,

To seek not my fortune,

But the fortune of others,

Through accepting the life that Jesus offers.

I must die, and he must live.

And so in life, I must give

All of me, to follow his plans,

To one day die in this foreign land,

Nothing,

In this world is worth,

Anywhere near,

To what was bought,

Through Jesus blood,

And Jesus death,

At Calvary.

Fare well my comfort,

Fare well my zone,

Let the Spirit lead me,

To where I go.

And one day,

After my life,

It has been lived,

I will reach my home.

The Carpenter

I live for what life can never give,

I live for what it is

that death shall certainly bring;

Not a prison cell but a manor.

Death holds the judges verdict 

It sends the prisoners in chains.

Imprisonment and hell - 

Yet the sentence has already been born.

Death is justice on earth, 

A natural consequence to life,

Those who live die,

Yet those who die may now live.

The selfish nature of our race,

The constant inward looking we face,

We give away pittance, 

While pittance is all most have.

Those in pittance, do not escape,

For if their tables were turned (though it is hard to say),

They too, with unlimited hoards,

Would quickly turn,

Would quickly hoard,

And pittance too is what they'd give.

The blackest of plagues is infused in our bloodstream,

Circumstance lets it dim,

The spot is stuck and cannot stay,

Out damned spot! Out I say!

This disease is our master,

Who captains our ship,

He takes us away and steers the common boat,

And among the rocks we onward go.

This devilish captain makes us kings,

We hold a circle that steers our way,

Yet circles it runs into reefs that fray

the very soul - and foundation of ourselves.

The terrorists we are, we sail our seas,

We raid and rob by deserts, by trees,

By the lush and by the desolate we take what is not ours,

And we do not let go,

To with what we fill our ship.

The Carpenter who built our ship,

Who made its sails.

And knows his woods,

By his seas, 

He has come down from his workshop.

Walking with sandals in common clothes,

While the rebellious storm rages as the terrorists lurk.

They've murdered and stolen from others,

From themselves, They've stolen the carpenters ship.

But it is not anger that brings this man,

It is not revenge, 

Nor paying back what is owed.

He comes to the beaches of his world,

Where sea meets sand.

The terrorists rage and plot.

The carpenter knows our lot, and tears they stream from his eyes.

His beautiful ship is battered with sails torn,

If only they would let him repair it!

They deserve to be tried for their crimes of hoarding,

Their "treasures" sinking their ship.

The devilish captain within us all,

Sees the Carpenter on the shore, 

The devilish captain, he wants more!

He wants the blood of him who made the ship.

Surging forward towards the man, 

They hurl spears in his feet and hands,

And rushing towards the shore, They nail him to a tree.

For your crimes, Carpenter!

For your crimes, you are judged!

For rebuking our hoards,

An defending the blood,

Of those whom we have destroyed.

The blood of the terrorists seeped into the sand,

And with a nailed hand the carpenter he groaned,

Reaching for his people, (the terrorists in his boat),

"I forgive you and by my wounds you will be healed."

In death the devilish captain cheers,

The victory has been won.

No more of this man,

This Carpenter who stole our fun.

In death the Carpenter was chained,

He faced the judge 

The judge he cleared him.

There is nothing wrong in this man!

Though free to go

and to have the terrorists tried and hung,

The Carpenter held his tongue,

And only said,

"In death, I will take their crimes."

The judge he wept,

The jury spat,

The Carpenter was condemned.

Death was his cell, yet his cell could never hold,

One who was so pure, one who was so bold,

To pay for all our deeds,

To die.

The Carpenter rose,

Out of his grave,

With the right to judge and the right to save.

To the murderers he bellowed and cried!

"Bring back your ship and I will repair it!

Kill your captain and live with me,

I will nurture you in my workshop!"

Across the seas, still they scoffed,

Yet some turned back away from the rocks,

They killed their captain, Died themselves,

And into the arms of the Carpenter they fell.

The Carpenter defeated death,

And in his life he offers life.

A beautiful garden with manors and woods,

The Carpenter gives it all.

The devilish captain is a disease,

And with our race he is well pleased,

For they love him,

And are slaves to his journeys.

Yet,

Nevermore shall I turn

Back to the devilish captain,

Who I was plagued by.

The devilfishes captains life bring death,

Yet by his death, the Carpenter brings Life.

And so I'll nail the nails in me,

To see him flee,

In death he has been defeated.

I live for what life can never give,

I live for what it is

that death shall certainly bring;

Not a prison cell but a manor.

A manor with rolling hills and glens.

Justice?

What a land we live in, I hear them say.

Of rugged mountain ranges; a land of sweeping plains.

A land of mystic beauty,

A world unlike no other,

A time and place in synthesis on its own.

I'd like to believe it - what they say,

T'would be much joy to say t'is right.

To see a land as is proclaimed,

In unison, many who'd fight,

To see justice,

And us help thus,

To be a land of rights and freedom.

Yet our failures, they began,

In nations, not our own,

Yet here they are today.

We watch and stand,

Not a stone is thrown,

As we view the innocent pay.

Streets of filth, roads of death,

Though seemingly they feel alive,

We live to take, with all our breath,

In our own needs, we seem to strive,

And as a nation - no as a people,

We disregard that behind the steeple,

Yes that man who was not his own.

A people like ours in ruin,

Killed the man who spoke of love,

Perfection, he cared for the blemished,

And though murdered, he reigns above.

For such love, like this I can't explain,

I try,

I stutter,

I cry,

I mutter,

But nothing seems to come.

I murdered a man upon a cross,

Yet he decided to pay the sum.

Acts

This week I have been reading through the document entitled "Acts of the Apostles". Through reading it has really struck me how detailed and accurate this document is. It was written by man named Luke. Luke was a disciple of the early church in the first century A.D. he wrote this book to a man named Theophilus. He wrote this as a first hand witness of being a traveller with the apostle Paul. He was a doctor and academic who gave up his life a s a doctor of the physically to be a doctor of the spiritually sick. The accuracy he writes with, the first hand witnesses he travelled with and the document he compiled that is the gospel of luke and Acts is written from the first hand accounts of people who knew Jesus and first hand account of luke himself. The earliest fragments of these two volumes written to Theophilus date back to the century after it was written in. These fragments show that the words have not changed to a degree that affects the meaning of what was written - even in 1,900-ish years.This fact alone is quite incredible. The gospel of luke is actually quoted by Paul in one of his letters meaning that it must have been written in paul's lifetime and thus was written before 67ishAD, Probably around 60AD. The historicity of this book is undeniable - it is an incredible source thats only point of controversy is wether Jesus rose from the dead. The historical evidence is so overwhelming through the 27 different documents that make up the new testament plus many other non biblical documents written by Josephus and Tacitus to name a few. The documents all line up and agree with each other with Luke the Doctor contributing the document that really ties every other one of the documents together. He was a smart man, a doctor who states that in compiling the books of Luke and Acts he went to the eyewitnesses (The 11 disciples, the other at least 70-odd other followers including James and Jude as well as Paul). This was a document based on the key witnesses of who Jesus was and with great detail showing definitive knowledge of the Mediterranean.

The historical and documented evidence for Jesus is overwhelming and through reading the book of Acts I was totally struck by the call to which those who accept the truths in the gospel are summoned. 

The call is to preach the gospel to all peoples, and just like Paul my mission is to do many many many msisionary journey's around my university (Macquarie University), my city (Sydney) and the wider world.

The historical facts are as absolute as the force of gravity.

The call is to tell others and through the Holy Spirit let us pray that they may not be ignorant to the facts and accept the great news that from the beginning the Lord God has planned to make a way for us to return to him and through coming down himself as the man they called Jesus he died to save us all that we can live in eternity with him. It is not about what we can do because we are helpless (look how many wars we started) but what God has done for us.

He has left us on this earth with the Holy Spirit so that as many people as possible may come to know him. This is our call!

Let us preach this good news to everyone.

Amen.

Currently I find myself at Macquarie University.

     I have joined an acapella group which I enjoy immensely. I have made an effort to be always on time with my assessment tasks and am part of the Christian Group on campus. My course content is interesting and I love to learn what I am taught (Psychology with a Diploma in English Secondary Education). I enjoy what I do.

           In the end however, my degree, my love of singing, my knowledge and my friends will be turned to food for moths, eternal bars of rest, a voidness and dust of the Earth. What I do won't matter. Without a God there isn't much hope in life. With humanity eventually becoming nothing. Nothing matters there is no right and wrong. But as a Christian I do believe there is a purpose in life, and my purpose isn't any more important than any other's purpose. Even though what I do will go to the grave, I do believe in right and wrong and that there is morality among humanity. Despite the fact I will be wiped off the face of the Earth in my death, I am not scared or frightened but will cherish every day and enjoy what meaningless things I participate in.

    I will enjoy being able to sing!
    I will enjoy what I learn!
    I will enjoy being comforted in my God.

Rubble

Where is the glory of Solomon's Kingdom? 
Gone to ruin like Babylon and Giza,
Where is its gold and its wealth?
Gone, now but rubble of a bushfire.
Where is its power and victory?
Its Might now like that of the sand.

Show me your merit,
I'll tell of its demise.
For gone, all will be to nothing,
Both the fools and the wise.

Rubik's Cube

Your life's a Rubik's cube,
Four by four by four - I'll never solve it,
Red, green, White and blue,
Different shades, the latter is you,

I like to hear your words, your sorrows,
I like to assure you of better tomorrows,
Yet they never come,
What is it like in your mind?

Your mind's a puzzle to you and I,
The blue stands out; I see you cry,
The red is similar to marks you've made,
Your legs, your arms, judgment you've laid,

Why? For what reason? You're loved,
You see no olive branch nor pair of doves,
The green of life from the cube seems lost,
The hope through white 'tis tossed,

The pills you took that day; why I met you,
Your body dumped, pumped and stabilised,
Though you're physically fine,
I look to your mind,
Your eyes are see through,
Beautiful and deep,
Yet so steeped,
In misery and pain,

I sit beside you puzzled, holding my cube,
You talk and I'll listen,
Your eyes, they don not glisten,
But send shards of death through words,

Snatched from my hand you distract yourself,
Click. Click. Turn,
You try not to focus or your heart will burn,
I can't solve it.
And neither can you.

I see you collapse. I feel stabbed,
I want to help, yet you're beyond and trapped,
Beautifully torn, a puzzle indeed,
No hope that you see,
No hope You'll be freed

Like the cube in your palms,
This puzzle will remain,
Yet useless I feel when I see your frame,

Torn, ripped, beyond.

~ Beautifully torn and a puzzle unsolved ~