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.

When The King Comes to Visit

“Your throne, O God, will last forever and ever;
a scepter of justice will be the scepter of your kingdom.” – Psalm 45:6

“When Jacob was told, ‘Your son Joseph has come to you,’ Israel rallied his strength and sat up on his bed.” – Genesis 48:2

When the King comes to visit

I’ll do my best to sit
I’ll rally all my strength and
I’ll make a show of it

Because the the throne of the King

lasts forever
lasts forever.

When the King blesses my sons

You know – I won’t say a thing
I’l bend the knee, I’ll bow my head
I’ll kiss him on his ring

Because the scepter of the King

Is justice and peace
It’s justice and peace.

When death finally knocks on my door

I’ll take the keys to my tomb
I know I won’t be sleeping there long –
It’s just another borrowed room

Because the King, he went on and beat death

And I’m gonna stand up, too
Someday I’ll stand up too.