Today's Poem Inspired by Psalm 2:1-3
Why do the kingdoms churn with such wild fury,
their voices rising like storm-waves against a cliff?
Why do the peoples weave their endless counsels,
plotting shadows that dissolve before the dawn?
The crowned heads gather in their marble halls,
the sceptered ones lean close in torch-lit rooms,
their whispers sharp as arrows dipped in pride.
They speak as one against the Lord of hosts,
against His Chosen, set upon the holy hill.
“Let us break free,” they cry, “from every tether,
let us snap the ropes that bind our sovereign will.
No longer will we bow beneath His law,
no longer wear the yoke of His decree.
We are the masters now; the world is ours.
Cast off the cords, shatter the ancient bands!”
Yet high above the clamor of their striving,
beyond the reach of any mortal throne,
the One who framed the stars in silent order
looks down upon their tumult and their boasts.
His laughter rolls across the vaulted heavens,
not cruel, but vast, the sound of unshaken peace.
They rage as children rage against the tide,
they plot as if their ink could rewrite heaven’s charter,
they lift their fists toward the unblinking sun
and think their shadows might eclipse its fire.
The bonds they hate are mercy in disguise,
the cords they loathe are woven out of love.
They are the guardrails set along the precipice,
the gentle reins that keep the wandering heart
from plunging headlong into the abyss.
They are the law that teaches what is holy,
the statutes that reveal the path to life.
To burst them is to choose the barren waste,
to cast them off is to embrace the void.
The freedom that they chase is only bondage—
the heavy chain of doing what they please,
the iron collar forged by their own hands.
Still the Anointed stands upon the summit,
the Son declared in everlasting purpose,
the King whose right it is to rule the nations.
The raging cannot drown His quiet voice,
the plotting cannot dim His steady light.
Though every throne conspire and every tongue
pronounce rebellion in a single chorus,
the decree has gone forth from the highest place:
You are My Son; today I have begotten You.
Ask of Me, and I will give the peoples
as heritage, the ends of earth as possession.
So let the kings take counsel while they may,
let peoples murmur vain imaginings.
Their fury is a passing summer thunder,
their schemes a mist that vanishes at sunrise.
The One they scorn has already prevailed;
the bonds they broke were only in their dreaming.
In time the tumult quiets, the proud heads bow,
and every knee learns what the heart refused:
submission to the Son is perfect freedom,
and refuge in His name is endless joy.
O nations, hear the psalm that never falters—
why rage when mercy waits with open arms?
Why plot when grace has written the last word?
The cords you cast away are cords of kindness,
the bonds you burst are bands of saving love.
Come, kiss the Son before the anger kindles,
lest you perish in the way so swiftly chosen.
Blessed are all who shelter in His shadow,
who find their rest beneath the wings of heaven,
where every raging ends and every plot
dissolves like smoke before the rising King.
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