Hell – A Poem

HAPPY Magdelene, to whom

Christ the Lord vouchsaf’d t’appear!

Newly risen from the Tomb,

Would He first be seen by Her?

Her by seven Devils possest,

Till his Word the fiends expell’d;

Quench’d the Hell within her Breast,

All her Sins and Sickness heal’d.

– Charles Wesley, Hymn III, Hymns for our Lord’s Resurrection

 

In a time of solitude last week, I reflected on this stanza from Charles Wesley and wrote the following poem.  This is a reflection on what it feels like on my worst days when the “Hell within [my] Breast” gets the louder word.  There is hope buried in the poem, though.  Here it goes:

 

Hell is not a place

but a face.

Hell is not a he or she

hell is me.

Hell is in me.

 

Hell is the place my sick heart tabernacles

unaware of fiendish shackles

not self-imposed

but self-inflicted;

until evicted

by the One who fixed it.

 

Hell is the sick heart – at the start –

which fell apart

like fragile art

placed neatly into childish hands

who could not know the Artist’s plans

for, lack of listening to instruction

historically leads to mass destruction.

 

Hell is each thought, each word, each deed

which is performed out of the need, to

win and take and force my druthers

that always ends up costing others

and satisfies a deeper lust

to just…

become the God I must

have been made to be.

So –

worship me.

Author: Chris McFadden

Christ follower. Husband. Father. Pastor. Student. Sometimes writer. Lover of board games.

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