Agape Love

Agape, photo by Marcelino Rapayla Jr., from Flickr, Creative Commons

This National Poetry Month I will be posting a sequence of poems, written last year and this year, for others in a series called Giving Poetry. In this series, people request a poem using a title, specific words, concepts, or ideas. After writing the poem, I send it to them, posting it on Facebook and on my blog. This is Giving Poetry.

Concept: Agape Love

Agape Love: for Crysty

The true friend, the sister, the brother,

looks beyond the self and to the other.

The Christian’s love doth commune!

It spills out into service and makes room—

space and time, for people, the body, His bride—

God’s church—under His cross—under His steeple.

Agape love is broken as bread and intertwines.

It pours out in communion wine—in joy—as we dine.

Agape love is a feast of fellowship divine.

His life and love poured out for yours and for mine.

© April 2, 2016, Robbie Pruitt

Lifeblood

Lifeblood

The embodied Word bleeds

When one speaks it

It pours out in hemorrhage

Giving Life for those who seek it.

© January 30, 2015, Robbie Pruitt

Blood, photo by Mate Marschalko, from Flickr, Creative Commons

Simon of Cyrene

Simon of Cyrene carries the cross, photo by Damian Gadal, from Flickr

“As the soldiers led him away, they seized Simon from Cyrene, who was on his way in from the country, and put the cross on him and made him carry it behind Jesus.”   –Luke 23:26

Simon of Cyrene 

Barely carrying the weight of me,

In from the country and into the city,

I watched from the periphery, 

Around noon on that day of doom.

Crosses were carried in the street.

The crowds cried aloud and chanted. 

He fell at my feet. 

From the weathered road His eyes met mine.

His compassion intertwined

With those who were to blame,

With my own guilt and shame,

And then, they called my name.

“You there! Pick up that cross.

It’s yours to bear.” I cannot stand,

Not under this weight of this command,

Nor take up this cross from His hand.

No burden this great had ever been born in Cyrene.

Never such a cruelty forlorn—never a thing so mean

—Never a thing this obscene.

The weight was lifted onto my shoulders, 

And I too was mocked by the crowd and soldiers. 

I was ashamed and He seemed to grow bolder.

He charged forward under great weight, 

As if to carry the world—This I did not anticipate—

Me hunched over, as He stood straight.

His eyes set on that cruel Hill as time stood still. 

He swayed gently at the fatigue and brutality.

Me with the tree and His face set on eternity.

Together we charged the hill with determination.

He would bring about the world’s salvation.

My task was but a gesture to appease Roman appeal,
But His burden and sacrifice was real. It would heal.

© April 17, 2014, Robbie Pruitt

Mullions

Window Through the View Finder, 
photo from Flickr, by BotheredByBees

Mullions

Darkness falls nightly.

At dawn, as morning breaks,

The sunrise is framed

Light shines brightly

Through the window

Eliminating darkness’ shadow

Casting crosses in silhouette

Allowing hope’s expression to show

In shifting patterns of morning’s glow


© August 15, 2014, Robbie Pruitt

Salt Creek

Photo by Bill Roth, courtesy of the photographer

Salt Creek

Twisted barbed wire

Like a crown of thorns

Calls back to a day forlorn

The weathered winter

And moss on the tree

Echo back from eternity

The roots spread

Into the mirrored glass

Of river—flowing past

Salt Creek flows ancient

As the ocean—Layered history

Rust, roots and rock—antiquity

© February 20, 2014, Robbie Pruitt

Poem inspired by photos and music by Jack Baumgartner: http://theschoolofthetransferofenergy.com/2014/02/20/salt-creek/

Simon of Cyrene

Simon of Cyrene carries the cross, 
photo by Damian Gadal, from Flickr

“As the soldiers led him away, they seized Simon from Cyrene, who was on his way in from the country, and put the cross on him and made him carry it behind Jesus.”   –Luke 23:26

Simon of Cyrene

Barely carrying the weight of me,

In from the country and into the city,

I watched from the periphery,

Around noon on that day of doom.

Crosses were carried in the street.

The crowds cried aloud and chanted.

He fell at my feet.

From the weathered road His eyes met mine.

His compassion intertwined

With those who were to blame,

With my own guilt and shame,

And then, they called my name.

“You there! Pick up that cross.

It’s yours to bear.” I cannot stand,

Not under this weight of this command,

Nor take up this cross from His hand.

No burden this great had ever been born in Cyrene.

Never such a cruelty forlorn—never a thing so mean

—Never a thing this obscene.

The weight was lifted onto my shoulders,

And I too was mocked by the crowd and soldiers.

I was ashamed and He seemed to grow bolder.

He charged forward under great weight,

As if to carry the world—This I did not anticipate—

Me hunched over, as He stood straight.

His eyes set on that cruel Hill as time stood still.

He swayed gently at the fatigue and brutality.

Me with the tree and His face set on eternity.

Together we charged the hill with determination.

He would bring about the world’s salvation.

My task was but a gesture to appease Roman appeal,
But His burden and sacrifice was real. It would heal.

© April 17, 2014, Robbie Pruitt