Peter Lilly: Poems

Time occasionally escapes its narrow tube of transport in waves of influence. There is one event so significant it feels like it is ever repeating because it's always unfolding in freshly realised implications, new dimensions of completion and pristine epochs of accomplishment. It is an event of bloody terror, an event of merciful healing. It is an event of violent killing, and event of peaceful giving. It is an event of overwhelming sorrow, an even of heart-deep joy. It is an event of whips and nails, an event of captives freed. It is an event of a cry forsaken, an event comfort for the isolated. It is an event of naked humiliation, an event of shame concealed. It is an event of goodness silenced, an event of amplified perfection. It is an event of blind condemnation, an event of liberating conviction. It is an event of ultimate death, an event of unquenchable life. Time did escape its narrow ...

This is the celebration of: the hinge of history; the spine of the book of the universe; the apex of the temple of the presence of God. Throughout history Humanity has been lost, we have been known by our selfishness, and by our cruelty to humanity. The myth of progress only serves to make one culture feel superior. But this is where things change. The thick skin  of calloused sin is broken and dissolved by the creator; redeeming  filthy flesh  by becoming  what we can now become through him. This is where things change. His un-stainable surface sticks out from within the landfill of sin in every uncompromising step he communicated: God's love; The personality of the creator; Freedom from judgement; Emancipation from slavery of selfishness; Humanities' purpose; And healing from pain. This is where things ch...

There is something in this nothing, this sorrowful gasp, this fast of disbelief. For the wave of excitement never expects the desert or death. Loss amnesia extracted memories of hope, hopeless insomnia gouged through rest with nihilist emptiness, yet purpose is enduring and truth is still breathing, despite every miss-belief and projections of human limitations. The truth of the pain is this; there is more than a consolation in this death. There were whispers of victory in the wind; but the noise of mourning drowned out its tender premonitions. There is something in this nothing, something more than consolation in this loss, this sorrowful gasp. How is one supposed to breath in this space between death and life? this Sheol on earth? this furrowed brow of question-mark day between redemption and vindication? How is one supposed to breath, eat or sleep in this vacuous void? What emptiness there was without expect...