Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own.
A Sonnet, Melodious or Otherwise
Yesterday I challenged you to try your hand at writing a sonnet. Here’s my effort.
No Cowper, Crosby, Newton, Watts, or Stowe
Can wring the language dry of rave acclaim
Of Christ whose attestations tower higher. No!
Their pens run out of ink before the Name
Finds written all that poets could describe
Of endless power, limitless domain.
Not every fluent tongue from every tribe
If speaking all at once could ever drain
The lexicon of that which could be said
About the One who gives his son to die,
The One who raises Jesus from the dead.
The poets fail. The hymnists, too. And I.
We know we fail, but strive for lyric lines
To voice our happy praise of his designs.