Is the best judge, writer or poet,
When they judge others by themselves ?
Who judges the ways of the Kingdom
Through eyes that seem to be deaf ?.
They blame "The carpenter's Son"
For the cause of highland "Black labour",
But can't see past misty mountains
That He came to be the Saviour,
From being "a miserable soul"
Who carries the Raasay seaweed,
For life is lived from within
It's the only spring of peace.
Many blame God for starting
Humankind's aggressive claws,
Not stopping man made hunger
Nor stopping man made wars,
Nor the "writhes and wallows of death"
Where "life rots as it grows",
But God is a Fatherly life giver
And we all reap what we sow.
He intervened in human suffering
To reverse our Human ways,
To reverse the death trajectory
And give life a meaningful face,
We all know that life is not easy
And labour can slouch the head
But God is not the source of pain
For God is not the source of death.
Please don't judge God by your hurt
And by a work wrinkled highland frock,
For God cannot be judged
And therefore God is not mocked.
This poem is in response to discovering the great highland poet; Sorley Maclean from the Isle of Raasay. He was clever, skillful, brilliant, has many awards and is well renown. But I am tired of well respected men blaming God for problems that He has given provision for remedy.
For He will be delivered to the Gentiles and will be mocked and insulted and spit upon. (Luke 18:32 NKJV) Now the men who held Jesus mocked Him and beat Him. (Luke 22:63 NKJV).
God is blamed for many things but...
Do not be deceived, God is not mocked... (Galatians 6:7 NKJV)
A Highland Woman (English translation from the Scottish Gaelic)
Hast Thou seen her, great Jew,
who art called the One Son of God?
Hast Thou seen on Thy way the like of her
labouring in the distant vineyard?
The load of fruits on her back,
a bitter sweat on brow and cheek,
and the clay basin heavy on the back
of her bent poor wretched head.
Thou hast not seen her, Son of the carpenter,
who art called the King of Glory,
among the rugged western shores
in the sweat of her food’s creel.
This Spring and last Spring
and every twenty Springs from the beginning,
she has carried the cold seaweed
for her children’s food and the castle’s reward.
And every twenty Autumns gone
she has lost the golden summer of her bloom,
and the Black Labour has ploughed the furrow
across the white smoothness of her forehead.
And Thy gentle church has spoken
about the lost state of her miserable soul,
and the unremitting toil has lowered
her body to a black peace in a grave.
And her time has gone like a black sludge
seeping through the thatch of a poor dwelling:
the hard Black Labour was her inheritance;
grey is her sleep tonight.
Calvary (English translation from Scottish Gaelic)
My eye is not on Calvary
nor on Bethlehem the Blessed,
but on a foul-smelling backland in Glasgow,
where life rots as it grows;
and on a room in Edinburgh,
a room of poverty and pain,
where the diseased infant
writhes and wallows till death.
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