Today's Poem inspired by Matthew 7:24-25
Upon the hill the Teacher spoke,
His voice a quiet thunder rolling through the crowd,
words that carried weight of ancient stone
and promise brighter than the rising sun.
Therefore, He said, everyone who hears
these sayings of Mine—not merely listens,
not nods in passing admiration,
but hears and does, obeys and lives them out—
is like a man of wisdom, deep and patient,
who chose the rock when others chose the sand.
He came with shovel, pick, and steady hand,
digging past the loose and drifting earth,
through layers of convenience, comfort, pride,
until he struck the bedrock, cold and sure,
the place where no flood could undermine,
no wind could shift the angle of the base.
There, stone by stone, he raised his dwelling,
walls of truth mortared with humility,
roof of faithfulness against the sky,
a house not built for show but for survival.
And then the heavens opened.
Rain descended in relentless sheets,
not gentle springtime showers but torrents
that turned the valleys into raging rivers.
Streams rose, swollen with the weight of heaven's wrath,
rushing against the slopes where houses stood,
carrying away the shallow-rooted dreams
of those who built too quickly, too complacently.
Winds howled from every quarter of the compass,
gales that tore at eaves and rattled shutters,
beating upon the structures men had made
with all the fury of a world unmoored.
Yet on the rock the house stood fast.
The rain slid down its walls like tears unheeded;
the floods surged round its base but could not lift it;
the winds pressed hard, yet found no purchase there.
It did not fall.
Though shaken, though assailed on every side,
though timbers groaned and windows rattled loud,
the foundation held—unyielding, deep, eternal.
Because it rested on the rock.
O hearers in the valley, see the contrast:
one house collapses in a roar of ruin,
timbers splintered, roof torn off and scattered,
foundation washed to nothing in the torrent.
The builder stands amid the wreckage, stunned,
while on the ridge above, the other dwelling
remains, a beacon through the driving storm,
its lamp still burning in the window's frame,
its chimney sending smoke against the gale.
For every life is building, day by day,
with choices laid like bricks upon a base.
Some choose the shifting sand of self-deception,
the easy slope of pleasure, power, praise;
others labor long to reach the rock—
the rock that is the Word made flesh and dwelling,
the rock that bore the cross and rose unbroken,
the rock declared in psalms and prophets' visions,
the cornerstone the builders once rejected.
The storms will come; they always come.
No life escapes the deluge of affliction,
the flood of sorrow, temptation's driving blast,
the wind of judgment sweeping through the years.
But those who hear and do what Jesus taught—
who love their enemies and turn the cheek,
who seek the kingdom first and trust His care,
who judge not harshly but with mercy's measure,
who pray in secret and forgive from heart—
will find their house, though battered, standing still.
So let us dig, O Lord, beneath the surface,
past every layer of our own resistance,
until we touch the solid rock of Christ,
and build upon Him all our days and nights.
When rain descends and floods arise once more,
when winds beat fierce against our fragile frames,
may we not fall, but stand, because our lives
are founded on the Rock that never moves.
No comments:
Post a Comment