There is something that’s arisen-

Emerging from the ground.

It breaks out

Through the

Post-modernist earth

But its roots go further down.
 

 

.

At first it’s only little,

As it starts its progress

Just a small inner circle-

Rolling towards the cliff edge         
 

 
                                                     .

It stops

For a moment

Before

It falls

Then:

Down

the

slope

of

Relevance

It tumbles                                                                                           .

 

 

Down, Down

And further down

It rolls, it goes, its spins,

Away from the cliff

Where the Truth

Has always been                                                                                          .

 

 

And so it rolls

And as it goes

It kicks up all the dust

And as the dust and dirt

Stick

To it

The circle grows ever vast                                                                 .

 

 

Voices herald the circle

As it picks up on its pace

And while it continues to hurtle

They cry:

“Look!

A new Christian way!”                                                                         .

 

 

For the old grew rather narrow”

They say,

“The consequences

Unpleasant

And our churches

Too small-minded

For the world at present.                                                                     .

 

 

And for us,

The Christians,

To claim

That Jesus

Is the only way

Is quite arrogant

Wouldn’t you say?                                                                                        .

 

 

And then

What if we are rejected,

Despised and maligned?

A common truth

To all

Surely we can find”                                                                                      .

 

 

And so the dust of Relativism

Is added to the ball

It grows ever stickier

As it continues on its fall                                                                              .

The voices grow louder

As the ball gains more ground

And as the dust shifts-

Disturbed-

By the wind

Something else

Is found:                                                                                             .
 

 

“The Mysticism

Of our forefathers!

The voices shrill again

Add that

To the sphere”

And so

Pagan spirituality

Is regained-                                                                              .
 

 

(Increasingly it is clear

That the expense

Is at the cross’s

Offense-

So

It is

Abandoned)                                                                                                 .

 

 

Bigger and bigger

The ball grows

As it moves along

Its way

And more and more

The dust does variously

Accumulate                                                                                                  .
 

 

…The dust of Tolerance

Is gathered

Political correctness too…

And all the while

The voices cry:

(As the winds blow through)                                                                         .

“Pragmatism works!

Our structures

Will grow big

Who cares now

About Truth

When better stuff

Will stick?”                                                                                                  .

 

 

And so it goes

And on it rolls

Down the way

That, to man, seems Best

And as a new way

Is Mapped out

The Old Book is left                                                                                     .

 

 

But For a moment

If we stop and turn away

From the ever-rolling ball,

If we look toward that cliff top

Where the Truth still stands tall:                                                                   .

 

 

An old rugged cross

Remains

Defiantly erect.

For the sacrifice

Once offered there

For man

Is perfect                                                                                           .

 

 

And The Blood

That was shed,

At the foot

Of that cross,

Still cries out aloud.

But with it-

Look!-

There is gathered

A small, faithful crowd.                                                                       .

 

 

They join in the cry

As they gather

Round the cross

“How long O Lord?

How long

Must we too

Suffer loss?”                                                                                                          .

 

 

They look not down

But instead

Look up

And To heaven

Make their plea:

“Oh God, revive us!”

For they know

The answer lies

Only

With

He                                                                                                               .

 

 

For our hope

Lies not

In some new way

Of mans invention,

but rather in

The Revival

Of the ancient paths-

As we seek

God’s intervention.                                                                                       .                                                                            .

.                                                                            .