our minds were made to mold meaning out of materials we're given moral codes and social mores may change but we hold the weight of commandments that are buried deep inside our flesh our bodies were built to break apart bit by bit until we are dust again breathing is a strong task and we are terrified of losing that breath and facing our souls our souls were spoken into being in a language that only One can really know our soul is soft and so easily conformed by words, thoughts and deeds we've done and left undone this mortality business is a serious one and I'm afraid we've become far too flippant about the gift of living we are the mercy of the Him who gave us this gift so let us hold fast to that mercy and care for our mortality mind, body, and soul wrapping it in warmest comfort and hope for eternity is drawing near
REFLECTION:
This poem has always been one that feels a bit brutal to me, but I was compelled to write it in 2023.
Our finitude is faced head-on here. No bullshit. The poem may make the thought of mortality digestible for some, but the poem is not meant to be digested, really. It’s meant to punch your gut with the truth that you must face yourself and what is actually happening to you: you’re dying, and you can’t stop it.
The first three stanzas paint the picture of three things we (generally- speaking) believe is true about ourselves: 1) we have minds, 2) we have bodies, 3) we have souls (or something we can’t quite see but we strongly sense). The mind is constantly making meaning, the body is actively becoming dust, and the soul is constantly being formed.
The next stanza interrupts the measured, metered observations. It bluntly acknowledges my feelings — fear that we are growing lazy in the serious business of living. We don’t think about our minds making bad meanings out of the nonsense thrown our way; we don’t think about our bodies day-by-day dying and how that should inform our lives; we don’t think about our soul’s formation by what we consume.
But the final stanza offers hope. We are not hanging onto ourselves here - we are hanging onto sweet Mercy. Our lives, given to us, are in the Maker’s hands, and while we continue to die, we are growing closer to the hope of actually LIVING. The living continues because of His Mercy — into an eternity that is on its way.