Tag Archives: poems

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October 11, 2025

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following Jesus, The Christian Life

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Make Something New [another poem]

Good morning!

I’m back (surprise!), and I do have another poem. I promise not to turn this blog into my emo poetry journal (trust me, that is not where this blog is going as if it’s going anywhere because contrary to the rumors, I am not Taylor Swift).

This poem is about when God in his wisdom and goodness and kindness and love and holiness sometimes makes your life take a hard left turn off a cliff and what that can be like. *insert upside down smiley face emoji*

There comes a moment
When your hands are
Full of mess
And you have no more tries
Left in your body
And you can’t
Salvage it
Fix it
Heal it
Mend it
Because it’s
Too shattered
Too corrupted
Too poisoned
And you are too weak
To make it better
Because you are not God.

And God?
He lets it burn to the ground
While you scream at him to
Do
Something.
And he meets your gaze
Steady as starlight
And says,
“I did.”

And in a leap of faith
That rips the tendons of your trust
Cleanly from your bones
You accept his choice:
It will not be fixed.

And for a while you lie
Like a carcass of grief
And you wonder
What you could have done
And you blame yourself for the mess
And you cry
And you can’t talk to God
Because you can’t help but
Accuse the Allwise One
As if the Allgood were capable of evil.

But then
You must decide
What to do next.

And you must consider:
Is God defeated?

And your bones reject the truth
That he is undefeatable.
And you tell your bones:
Fall in line.
God is unstoppable.

And you must consider:
Is God good?

And your bones reject the truth
That he is always good.
And you tell your bones:
Fall in line.
God is good.

And you must consider:
Am I still going to follow him?

And your bones
Whine
And weep
And wail
Because you have nowhere to go
But to his everlasting arms.

And he is patient.
He waited
Something like
Four thousand years to send his Son
Did he not?
Long-suffering can hardly describe
One such as him.

He knows humans
Are creatures easily broken.

You ask
Why
You ask
Why
More times than you can count.

And he should be
Silent
Because the Universe Upholder
Answers to no one.
The Wisdom that invented
Gravity and light and time
Doesn’t have to answer back
To dusty souls
But
As always
He is more generous
Than a man could ever be
And he answers.
He says:
“You will see in time.”

At last
You accept:
He never meant to fix it.
You accept:
He knows what he’s doing.
You accept:
It is ruined
And so are you.

Then he says,
Like the first sighting of land
Like a deep, deep breath
Like a resurrection
Like a midnight moonrise
Like the first bud of spring
Like the striking of flint,
“Come, let us make something new.”

Further up and further in,
Rosalie

p.s. – but seriously, guys, have you listened to the new Gray Havens album? It is the simplest project they’ve put out lyrically, and it has been such a gift to me. Dave Radford sharing what the last few years of life have been like for him via the songs on this album is part of why I’ve posted these poems here.

p.p.s. – if you’re still reading this post and you are still reading this blog, let me know if there is any type of content you’d like (reading recommendations, gif-ful guides, serious stuffs, something about how to like a guy without marrying him [omg, remember that old rag of a series?? I should reread those and make sure there’s no heresy/insanity I should edit out *sweats*], something about why Megamind is incredible, something about KPOP Demon Hunters and how I judged it by its title but then ended up crying while I watched it *sweats even more*, my RuminationsTM, etc etc). I don’t know if I’ll actually… you know… do it… BUT I could give it the ol’ college try.

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September 11, 2025

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Uh, This is Random

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All Good Things [a poem]

Good morning, friends.

I could say it’s been too long since I last posted. That would be true. Let’s cut to the chase.

I’m posting a poem today, and I may post more poems and things in the days to come. No one really knows. These last 365 days have been everything I didn’t expect, and while I will not explain it here at present, for those who are concerned (or may be at the end of this post whoops): never fear, for I am well. Jesus’ grip of grace is strong. This is a lament; it is not meant to be anything else.

Whenever I post on here, I remember myself at fifteen–alone among the corn fields, following after God and encountering so many things I had no concept for, and the books and blogs my Father in heaven gave me to help me along the way. I pray this poem finds my fellow pilgrims at the right time.

Sometimes it seems
Like all the endings are sad.

The baby is unrecognizable because it’s been too long since I’ve seen him,
The pastor lies and manipulates,
They smile at me but hurt the ones I love,
The dog is buried along with my childhood,
The church falls apart,
Too many goodbyes must be said,
The brotherhood between Cassius and Darrow and Roque is destroyed and so are real life brotherhoods flayed before my eyes,
Harvey becomes Two-Face,
Theoden buries Theodred,
The Tales of Goldstone Wood go unfinished while lesser stories are penned,
The voices of the children no longer fill the meadow,
The brother lives too far away,
It really was just a dream,
The girl calls and tells me her mother has died,
All these ghosts
They haunt me.

There are days
And battles
And parties
And conversations
And dance floors
And forts
And joys
That are irretrievable
Dead now
Existing only in memories
Joyful yet
Unmistakably
Colored with loss
For I cannot return to them
And sin has assured
That they will never live again.

These ghosts
Are like
Hunger pains
Or swallowing a sea
Or suffocating
Or endless bleeding.

Must it all
Come to grief?

Is anything safe
From sadness?

Is any
Friendship
Memory
Hero
Joy
Safe from the loss
That seems
So inevitable
So inescapable
So irreversible.

Will they by my enemies until our resurrection?
Does the hero have to die?
Why do I have to watch as my sister cries?

Longing and loss
These twins.
The longing for:
The lost things to be found once more
The unfinished things to be written
The dead things to rise again
The return and redemption of it all.

Why must I now regard
All warmth as fleeting
All safety as illusion
All belonging as temporary?

In these times
I groan with the earth from which I was taken,
My soul crying out within me:
Come, Lord Jesus, come.
Come make all the sad untrue.
Come reign in unmitigated goodness and might.

Help me, oh dear God
For I am sick with longing for home.
To bid longing goodbye
And always be satisfied
To tell loss farewell
And hold all joy securely.

For until I go
To the New Jerusalem
All good things must come to an end.

This poem ends sad, but in the words of Dave Radford of The Gray Havens: This is not the end.

Further up and further in,
Rosalie

p.s. – seriously, I promise I’m okay. I’m coming out on the other side of these things, and that’s why I’m posting this here at all. Jesus is really as strong and good as he said (I don’t have a specific verse to reference, just the entire Bible), and he gave me a beautiful set of parents and siblings who have pointed me to the Bible and fought with me and for me.

p.p.s. – if you didn’t get that reference about Cassius, Darrow, and Roque, you should read the Red Rising trilogy by Pierce Brown. You’re welcome, and I’m sorry. Also, if you didn’t know (as I didn’t know) that Anne Elisabeth Stengl stopped writing The Tales of Goldstone Wood (arguably some of the most beautiful Christian art of the 21st century) to write spicy romance novels (trash), now you know. I am still not over that. In fact, I’m getting upset right now just thinking about it.

p.p.p.s. – if you want to talk about God’s providence, we have to talk about the release of Benjamin William Hastings’ Sold out, sincerely album coming within days of life as I knew it coming apart.

p.p.p.p.s. – okay, I’m done for real now.

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June 2, 2020

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God, Life, The Christian Life

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My People Carry a Wound [a poem on racism]

I’ve said before that I’m not much of a poet and don’t really know what I’m doing when it comes to poetry. That remains the same as the last time I shared a free form poem. So keep that in mind.

I wrote this poem because it was necessary to write to help me process the events of the last weeks. After praying and grieving and being confused and feeling bombarded by news and social media posts expressing genuine grief, rage, and condemnation, I still felt heavy (because apparently that’s what sin makes you feel).

So I prayed some more, grieved some more, wrestled some more, thought some more, got off social media for a few days, and asked God a lot of questions. I expect that cycle will continue. At the end of this round, there was finally some peace and clarity.

It was helpful for me to write My People Carry a Wound; I hope it’s helpful for you to read.

Note: “My people” in this poem refers not to white people or black people or all people but simply Americans.

old old wound (1)

My people carry a wound

It is an old, old wound
Carried by: many generations
Maybe even
Every generation

It is a deep, deep wound
Inflicted by: many hearts and hands
Maybe even
Every heart and hand

We have torn at the wound
As if it can be healed or cleansed
By scraping and clawing

And yet
And yet
And yet

After hundreds of years
The wound is worse
Our hearts are worse
Maybe worse off than we’ve ever been

The wound remains
Infected
Bleeding
So torn open
So full of poison
We wonder:
Will it ever heal?
Will we ever heal?

//

Brown, white, black, blue
The wound is so old
Brown, white, black, blue
The wound is so old

//

Do we even know:
Who we are without it?

Do we even know:
How to be without it?

Without the anger
Without the bitterness
Without the fear
Without the hate
Without the pride
Without the prejudice
Without the revenge
Without the shame
Without the self-pity
Without the sin

//

We don’t know the difference
Between
Justice and revenge

We don’t know the difference
Between
Humility and guilt

We don’t know the difference
Between
Foolish pride and simple confidence

We all try
To bind our wound
We install rules, systems, protections
We protest
Riot
Stay silent
We spread awareness
Get educated
We make arguments
Demands

“But, no, I don’t understand”
“But, no, you don’t understand”
But, no, we don’t understand

And so
And so
And so

And we sow more wounds
Into that old, old wound
And more blood drips
From that deep, deep wound

//

We say:
We must fix it
We can fix it
This can’t go on

And yet
And yet
And yet

The work of our hands doesn’t last
For how can we prevail against
Such a wound?
Our emancipations
Our movements
Never seem to
Get momentum
Stick
Last

A few decades or a few years
We find:
The wound is just as bad
As it ever was
Except maybe it’s worse now
Because with every generation
Its roots run older
Its roots run deeper

//

We want:
To blame one side

But:
We are all to blame

Because:
Sin is in all of us

And so:
Hurt people hurt people

And so:
No one has the high ground

And so:
We are
None of us
Innocent

//

Some on all sides
Will carry the wound
Down to hell

Some will reject
The Jesus way
The only way

And justice has two ends:
Jesus’ blood on the cross
Or
Jesus’ righteous wrath on the last day

And Jesus is:
Sadder
Angier
Holier
Than I am
Than you are
Than we are

So justice will be had
In the end
But will we ever heal
Before the end?

Are we doomed to:
This sundering of soul
This prejudice of pain
This madness of murder
This brutality of heart?

Everything we sow in the wound
Returns as a violent revenant

And yet
And yet
And yet

Where our reason ends
Where our means end
Where our guilt ends
Where our anger ends
Where our ideas end
Where our pride ends
Where our way ends

There is the God of love
With a gospel of peace

And where the gospel is sown
Old things pass away
And new things grow

For where the gospel of
Grace
Compassion
Mercy
Patience
Is sown in
The heart
The mind
The soul
The body
The wound…
Grace grows
Compassion comes
Mercy multiplies
Patience perseveres

And yet
And yet
And yet

The growing is difficult
The growing is slow

The dying of the old things is difficult
The dying of the old things is slow
The dying of the old things
Flies in the face of all our instincts

For in the dying of the old things:
Sin: must be called sin
Wrong: must be called wrong
Everyone’s sin
Mine
Yours
Ours

Calling out wrong
This we know how to do

And yet
And yet
And yet

There is more
And it is not easy

For after sin is named
Mine
Yours
Ours
In order to hold to the gospel
To hold to the path of peace
To hold to the
Plainly spoken marching orders
Of the Lord of the gospel
It is not reparations
It is not revenge
It is not wrath
It is not silence
It is not ignoring
It is repentance that must come

Repentance
On my hands and knees
On your hands and knees
On our hands and knees
Seeing
Feeling
Reeling
Under the weight
Tasting the sorrow
The evil
The unholiness
Of sin gone back so many generations
And so rampant in our generation

And then
And then
And then

The turn
The forgiveness
The healing

The difficult growing of the gospel
Bears the fruit of holiness
Bears the fruit of forgiveness
Bears the fruit of Christ-likeness

For when
The gospel of Jesus Christ
Is sown in the wound
The impossible
Becomes possible

And then
And then
And then

The blood that heals our wound
Is the precious blood of Jesus
And the weight of all that sin:
My sin
Your sin
Our sin
My racism
Your racism
Our racism
Falls on Jesus

And then
And only then
The wound can close
And we will bleed no more.

With love and prayers for the hurting,

Rosalie

p.s. – songs to listen to: Side by Side by Wilder Adkins and Carry the Fire by Andrew Peterson.

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February 12, 2019

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God, My Writing, The Christian Life

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The Day of Nevermore [a poem]

To be clear, I am not a poet.

I enjoy poetry and have tried many times to write poetry. It rarely works out, and I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s “worked out” in this case.

For instance, I don’t really know where the commas are supposed to go, so I stuck commas at the end of each line and periods at the end of each thought/stanza/thread.

Also, it’s not a traditional poem, but it’s also not a straight up free form poem. Sometimes it rhymes. Sometimes it doesn’t. Some parts are three lines, and others are nine or ten. That kind of bothers me. But it is what it is, and I’m done tweaking it.

Here I present: The Day of Nevermore.

the day of nevermore

I look to the Day of Nevermore,
And yearning swells within me,
Deep and rising to an outpour.

In bed I lie awake and think and ache,
For the day of Nevermore,
Is the last day of heartbreak.

Light will rise and darken nevermore,
Finally, I will see my Savior-Lord.

And every sorrow that sent the strong,
Weeping to the shower floor,
And every vice that gripped and gored,
And every lie that broke and bruised and tore,
And every note of strife and discord,
And every curse that burned to the core,
And every failure that cut like a sword,
And the grief that seemed the only loyal mentor,
And every shameful word and awful act of war,
And every loss the dark night had in store,
It will all be over forevermore,
Come the Day of Nevermore.

The Day of Nevermore,
It’s the first day of forevermore.

These words will be no more,
On that bright, bright Day of Nevermore:
Alone, afflicted, abused, accused
Bleeding, bruising, bitterness,
Blame, betrayal, brokenness,
Crushing, cruel,
Division, dejection, depression,
Distress, damage, disappointment,
Enmity, emptiness,
Failure, fault, frustrate, fear,
Grief, guilt,
Hate, hostility, harm,
Inferiority, inequity, injury,
Lament, loneliness, loathing, lacking,
Misery, marring, mauling,
Plague, peril, prejudice, poison,
Ruin, regret, rejection, revenge,
Slander, scorn, spite, sorrow, shame,
Tragedy, trouble, trial, torment,
Ugliness, uninvited, unworthy,
Vitriol, venom, vice, void,
Wounded, wretched, war,
All such words will meet their final end,
When God does as He intends.

Nevermore will nightmares invade our rest,
Nevermore will we crumble in the test,
Nevermore will doubt destroy peace,
Nevermore will weariness overtake,
Nevermore will pride divide,
Nevermore will shame overshadow,
Nevermore will fear bind and break,
Nevermore will grief overflow,
Nevermore will hope seem vain,
Nevermore will strength wither,
Nevermore will suffering reign.

It will be on the Day of Nevermore,
The mending of all that came before,
Perfection He will forever restore.

We won’t puzzle over what He’s doing anymore,
We’ll see it clearly on that Day of Nevermore,
And we’ll answer with a shout, a song, a roar,
And God Himself we will forever explore.

I look for the Day of Nevermore,
It will be the best day,
And every day after will be even better,
Forevermore.

In the dark I lie awake,
I wait for the Nevermore daybreak.

Do you write poetry? Are you a traditional or free form poet?

With love,

Rosalie

p.s. if you want a piece of encouraging excellence, check out Dear Heartbreak by Heidi Melo. I love it so much I printed out and put it on my bedroom wall.