Poetry

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No Truth In Beauty

Is there no truth in beauty?

The beauty of the forest conceals death, destruction and decay.
Animals and insects war with each other for food, plants for soil and sunlight.
In this war strange allies are formed such as bees and flowers, yet there is no mercy, no quarter given.
Very few animals or plants make it where pine trees were not choked out early.
Among the losers are weeds, flourishing mainly where man has cultivated.
Thorns and thistles the ground has brought forth to us!

The serpent had beauty to the ears, but was the father of lies.
The angel of light has beauty to the soul, but is an apostle of deceit.
The tree of knowing good and evil had beauty to the eye and mind, but was the source of death.
Possessions have beauty to the heart, but our hearts are deceitful.
These treasures rot away and possess us.
All is vanity saith the preacher.

Of the one who is called, the way, the truth and the life, it is said;
There was no beauty of form that we should desire Him.
To find truth is to be rejected of men, to fast from our sin.
We believe in a slaughterhouse religion, for it has no beauty that we should desire it and it is despised and rejected of men.
Men do not show their true side to those they love, but to those they hate.
Love your enemies.
The way to find truth is to take the rough path rather than the easier way.
Your way may seem right, but it may end in death.
The final temptation of Christ was to come down off the cross.
Take up your cross.

I have seen a strange cycle in the life of a child of God.
When he is first born those who are dead taunt him and urge his return to the dust of death.
Only those who will to live, either on the spiritual or physical plain, will live.
Those who are living are consoling and helpful, but as he grows a curious change takes place.
The dead, seeing the strength of life, yield respect to this.
Still unable to receive the words of life, yet they listen.
They can’t have fellowship with him for they are dead and he is alive.
A corpse makes for unpleasant company, yet his brothers and sisters, as he grows older than they, come to despise and reject him.
The lost become encouraging, the found detrimental, yet should he find the strength to persist, the dead also come to hate him.
He no longer has to beware for no man speaks well of him.

The living, the truly alive, walk a lonely way seeking, vainly, those with the smell of myrrh and aloes on their garments.
In this solitude he finds God.
In this silence he can hear the still small voice which the noise of conflicting understandings and desires drown out.
The grain of wheat has fallen to the ground, but abides not alone.

To live is to row upstream, to stop progressing is to go backwards.
The way of a child is dependence, the way of an adolescent is independence, the way of the mature is interdependence.
The truth is a rock of offence to those who reject it, a stumbling block to those who embrace it.
Where there is no struggle there is no progress.

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