Poems by Greg Southard

Victory Over Temporal Death
It may well be that the joy in watching nature die
Hides itself in the knowledge that dying nature will rise again
After its term of cold slumber. Nature shows its wisdom in this,
Performing the role of Shakesperean player up on the stage
Where the curtain rises
on the greatest morality play of all time nightly.
Nature reflects the divine body of Christ
with every dramatic swoon,
By it glorifying the victory over temporal death each spring,
Raising its crops like hands at a true revival.Rest, Heart
Rest, heart the Whispering Genius will not strain his voice. He does not need to! His voice will echo in wilderness streams and sunset-kissed shorelines where any movable temple will choose to pitch its tent
for a night or moment. The silent, swift sound: A sweet savor of the spirit’s voice lifted up to the Father above. To listen is praise. To rest is obedience to the voice gently offering a glimpse into the presence
of the holiest of Holy.
The Many Names of God
I AM. Jehovah. Messiah.
Christ. Jesus. The First and The Last.
Father. Lord. Author and Finisher of our Faith.
We read about I AM and Jehovah
The way we read Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky.
We anticipate Messiah
Along with all lost and yearning souls.
Christ saved and continues to save our souls.
And to say “Jesus”
Brings out love or hatred
Or any feeling in between
Except for apathy or complacency.
The First and The Last
(Or Alpha and Omega for those into Greek)
Pretty much covers it all.
And doesn’t He cover it all?
Father with open arms
Lord who bends the knees
And Finisher who lifts us up again.
But what about Friend?
Who walks with us
Lays down his life for us?
Who would give so much more to us
Just to carry on a conversation with us,
If only to hear us call him,
Among the many other names, Friend.

Nature Myth
In the last days,
as night slowly descends
on the human drama,
Love will bring rest to the tired soul,
warming the frail, shivering frame
on the coldest night of the year.
In the last days,
as the air becomes too heavy to breathe,
Hope wil cease to float like a dream,
or any other unrequited pledge
in the roaring westerly winds of May,
or storm-gusts through falling October leaves.
It will descend into our lungs
and exhale songs & psalms of joy.
In the last days,
Joy will rush out to greet the world
like eleven excited apostles at Pentecost
with a message of love and hope
that only willing ears will hear.
That the truth, after all this time,
was indeed reflected in the myth of Nature.
Then in the last days,
Myth will cease to exist
in the past as primitive answers to our fears
as the stones will cry out
“Have you not read, have you not heard?!”
In the presence of an unwilling audience.
And as they run to find cover
beneath these lively stones,
they will know that the poets and prophets
did indeed eat at the Master’s Table.Return to our poetry section at:
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