Sad, solemn, slow, with dusty step,
familiar, homeward way they tread.
Each passing face, each passing scene,
this day of sadness nothing mean.
In grief, perplexity, and pain,
their peaceless hearts recoil again
from crucifixion, death-filled tomb –
what light can penetrate such gloom?
In conversation deep confined,
each to the other’s thought reminds
of every detail, deed, and word,
three tragic days of death conferred.
Their questions deep – how could it be
that Christ should die, defencelessly?
Was he not Son of God with power?
Where then such might in Pilate’s hour?
No hope, no future for these two
disciples from Emmaus who
once heard that voice and saw that One
whose earthly work seemed all undone.
A faster footfall on the way
disturbs the dust in evening’s ray.
One overtakes, then joins in step –
their eyes from recognition kept.
The stranger first he questions why………
To read the whole of this narrative poem, go to
The Easter Stranger in full
A few weeks before Easter 1993, two 10-year-old boys abducted 2-year-old James Bulger from a Liverpool shopping centre, battered him to death and left his body on a railway line.
Sixteen years later Britain was shocked again.
Near Doncaster in Yorkshire, just before Easter 2009, two boys aged 10 and 11 brutally tortured two other boys aged 9 and 11 for an hour and a half. Both victims needed serious hospital treatment. Their tormentors have recently been tried and sentenced.
This poem was written after the murder of little James Bulger.
What matter today
if a cross stood high on a hill
two thousand years ago?
What matter today
if there
a Man hung dying
in company with criminals?
To most,
long years have faded fact to history books
to lie like fragile threads in ancient tapestries,
a mingled pattern of some fertile tale
construed to build a church
on gullibility.
Self-freed,
our media age needs no such creed,
no faith, no God to reckon with,
no concept of beyond to analyse and capture
on its video and film.
Instead, our media power
projects its flood of violence on our fragile land,
disfiguring,
slow-motioning to death its people
in the focus of a godless dream.
And a vacant cross
still stands,
calling a lost child’s nation
back to life.
John Puckett
The only hope for our media-driven society is a return to the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ.
Agnus Dei
they sang
echoes of an ancient cry
of prophet wild
on Jordan’s bank
mystery spanned eternity
infinity the source and end
provision planned
in love
to man
for God
a remedy to cross the gulf
sin’s chasm
gaping wound
unhealed
till that great Baptist cry
‘Behold the Lamb!’
declared fulfilment
imminent
on Calvary
John Puckett
After hearing Gounod’s lovely choral work “Agnus Dei” on the radio, the next day, these few lines came to me.
The truth embodied in those four words, ‘The Lamb of God,’ is so vast, no human effort or composition can do more than merely begin to explore its fulness.
Our response to John the Baptist’s proclamation should be our purest worship.
John chapter 1 gives the full context.
Do you know the love of Jesus
and the comfort of his care,
and the sweetness of his presence,
just to know that He is there?
Troubles try, and sadness sickens,
worries multiply and vex,
but remember Jesus promised
‘I will never you forsake.’
Mountains great may be still greater,
problems ever complicate,
but be sure, if you love Jesus,
you are never left to fate.
When He died for helpless sinners,
all sin’s consequences bore,
He became our perfect refuge,
peace and rest for evermore.
Pain-free life He never promised,
never said you’d live at ease,
but his love and care make troubles
stepping-stones to find his peace.
Why not trust this loving Jesus,
give yourself to his true care,
all your worries give him fully,
all your troubles let him bear?
He is able, He is able,
He is mighty, He is true,
He is loving, kind and gentle –
He has given himself for you.
John Puckett
Strange quietness before the storm
as though the waiting air
breathed in to brace itself
against the coming blast.
Yet far above the deep-lulled earth
like furious remnants
of some elemental race,
cloud scraps, distorted,
curled, in brief illumination,
cross the moon.
A man looks up
and knows that earthly peace
at best is fragile, brief,
and often, dark beyond
the present settled calm
the storms of life
stride swiftly
on the winds of time.
What need my soul
to find your rest
in Him alone
whose name is Peace!
His heart-born calm
is not disturbed
by earthly tempests wild.
He rules the raging storm itself
and speaks superior power
to fear-filled hearts
“Be still.”
John Puckett
Have you ever stood and gazed at the night sky in a countryside winter, when an uncanny stillness breathes all around you in the mild and moist Atlantic air?
It’s good, Lord, just to meditate alone
and let your truth my restless mind subdue;
unchanged while worlds have ebbed and flowed,
your Word flows now in soft assurance to my soul.
Storm-echoes of the thunder fade to peace
and quiet blue the rain-clean sky controls,
and you again, Lord, demonstrate your power
through stormy wind, and fair, you rule.
Untroubled peace would soon breed man’s contempt
and all-sufficient seem his prospered way.
Your care commands the stormy cloud to rise
lest man unhindered, proud, his soul destroys.
The storms of life, Lord, come at your command.
At that same word in your good time they go.
You care for me, my Lord, in your great love.
I know that you’re in charge.
Be still, my soul.
John Puckett – after a thunder shower.
Unlearned and ignorant,
mere nobodies,
just fishermen,
inferior mortals,
far below
proud priest and Pharisee and Scribe.
For such to preach or teach
within those holy temple walls
was tantamount to blasphemy –
just like that other Man from Galilee.
No problem that
for two apostles bold,
fresh-fired by God
to minister his mighty word
and heal a cripple forty years from birth.
Unscared by priestly threats,
they blazed the scene
with resurrection life.
Unlearned and ignorant maybe,
but far above proud Priest
and Pharisee and Scribe
supreme they stood,
and spoke those holy words,
“There is no other name
by which we must be saved.”
And Rulers, Elders, Scribes and haughty Priests
compelled to marvel
and to note
“These men had been with Jesus.”
John Puckett
Read the story in the Book of Acts, chapter 4.
No room for tears
within the eye
of Pharisee or Scribe.
No space
to feel the weakness
or the sadness
of another’s fears
or tragedies.
No place
for that infirmity
of mortal flesh and blood,
that frailty
of the human heart and mind
when helplessness
cries out for care.
Poor Scribe
poor Pharisee –
the careful dot
and comma of the word
must not
one moment
be ignored.
Your ‘god’ demands
perfection in your faith
before he gives.
Your ‘god’ denies
that great High Priest
who came
compassionate
with tender heart
to touch
the agitated weakness
of humanity.
And always
always
always
there are plenty of stones.
John Puckett
“But Jesus went to the Mount of Olives. At dawn he appeared again in the temple courts, where all the people gathered round him, and he sat down to teach them.
The teachers of the law and the Pharisees brought in a woman caught in adultery. They made her stand before the group and said to Jesus, ‘Teacher, this woman was caught in the act of adultery. In the Law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?’ They were using this question as a trap, in order to have a basis for accusing him.
But Jesus bent down and started to write on the ground with his finger.
When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, ‘If any one of you is without sin, let him be the first to throw a stone at her.’
Again he stooped down and wrote on the ground.
At this, those who heard began to go away one at a time, the older ones first, until only Jesus was left, with the woman still standing there.
Jesus straightened up and asked her, ‘Woman, where are they? Has no-one condemned you?’
‘No-one, sir,’ she said.
‘Then neither do I condemn you,’ Jesus declared. ‘Go now and leave your life of sin.’
John 8:1-11 NIV
Self-righteousness flourishes too easily in every one of us.
’Tis not for the ninety and nine he goes
on a dangerous midnight search.
’Tis not for the ninety and nine who sit
in security safe in the church,
whose paths are set in the well-fenced bounds
of conventional Sunday suits,
while the songs of their souls sound dreadfully cold
to the biker in leathers and boots.
’Tis not for the ninety and nine good folk
who chapter and verse freely quote,
nor for those who appear so exactly sincere
as their Bible-text pencils take notes.
’Tis not for the multitude stuck in the fold
that the Shepherd is mostly concerned –
but for wanderers lost in the soft ways of sin,
Jesus’ eye with compassion-light burns.
For the sinner perplexed by the pattern of life,
for the one from the hundred astray,
for the one who abandons the standards of God,
determined to go his own way,
for the one who has tasted the sweetness of sin,
and discovered how quick it decays –
’twas for him that the Shepherd went out in the night
of that sin-uttered “Crucify!” day.
What love! What compassion! What limitless care
in his seeking for one who is lost!
Oh, what infinite pity must quicken his heart,
to go out on that search at such cost!
And the organ plays softly,
the hymn board is fixed,
the offering taken for mortar and bricks,
and so few in the pew
in compassion can search,
for the Shepherd, like them,
we have shut in the church.
John Puckett
When a rather unconventional young man began coming to the morning service of a traditional chapel some years ago, I was struck with how easy it is for us in our churches to become self-contained and self-content.
In the shadows softly waiting
when the sun is at its height,
to emerge when all the glory
of the day gives way to night,
always patient, Jesus watches,
when we need no light to guide,
when we think our strength sufficient,
when we need no help besides.
Yet with love and understanding,
when our independence fades,
when our path is plunged in darkness
by the unexpected shade,
through the shadows He approaches,
sympathetic to our plight,
when our darkly-felt foreboding
would exclude each ray of light.
See Him there within the shadows;
do you think He doesn’t care
for your troubles and your heartache
so impossible to bear?
Can you now perhaps remember
how He suffered on a Cross,
how it looked as if for Him at last
His life was wasted, lost?
Yet such darkness was essential
to God’s full salvation plan
for by that the Lord extinguished
all the judgement due to man.
See Him later, resurrected,
breaking through the darkest hour,
see Him, hopelessness replacing
with His life-transforming power.
It is sometimes through the shadows
of an inconvenient night
that we come at last to Jesus
who alone can give us light.
Don’t delay to go and meet Him;
He knows how your sorrows feel.
Every injury and heartache
He has gentle power to heal.
John Puckett
What hope if I alone must strive
commandments to obey?
Could all my self-constructed good
withstand the Judgement Day?
Supposing I could keep one day
completely free from sin,
would that be good enough from God
eternal life to win?
If I protest my innocence
before the accusing Word,
would that persuade the righteous Judge
to leave my case unheard?
Nothing that I articulate
can cancel out God’s Word.
Indelible his judgement stands –
with him I must concur.
No works of my poor righteousness,
no deeds that I think good,
can take away my total need
of Jesus’ precious blood.
Provision made beyond my dreams,
impossible to fail –
my Saviour dying in my place;
his righteousness avails!
John Puckett
Outside the camp
in mocking cruelty
they crucified
their King.
‘Away with him’
they cried,
and thus
religion triumphed
for another day,
the status quo
preserved for priests
impelled by hatred
to defend their faulted cause.
Too blind to see
the God-writ symbols
of their ancient rites,
the pointers
to the Prince of Life
they pierced
and pinned
outside the camp.
They saw their deed
a timely vindication
of their careful rule
to keep the Roman peace.
This self-appointed Christ
suits not their concepts
of Messiah come,
too mild to liberate
their Israel from this pagan yoke.
Dark prejudice saw not
this faultless Christ,
Messiah born to live
and die
deliverance
for the greater captives
chained in slavery to sin.
Outside the camp
his death-cry founds
a kingdom
mightier than a thousand Romes,
and crumbles all the edifice
of Judah’s temple fair.
Outside the camp
in death
he slew the greater foe –
and I go free!
John Puckett
Written after reading in the Book of Hebrews, chapter 13 – ”Jesus also suffered outside the city gate to make the people holy through his own blood. Let us, then, go to him outside the camp, bearing the disgrace he bore.“
Hebrews 13:12 NIV
The Valley of Sorrow is lonely and dark,
And I entered with dread and with fears,
For the chasms below
Held sorrow and woe
Too deep for the comfort of tears.
But, lo, as the way led through lonely abyss,
Through canyons of doubt and despair,
The chasms of night
Became gardens of light,
For the God of all comfort was there.
I saw miracles done in the depths of the vale
By the God of an infinite love,
And a tenderness shown
That cannot be known
In the glare of the sunlight above.
By Betty Reusch
I came across this poem many years ago, and I would love to know who Betty Reusch was or is. My internet searching comes up with nothing useful. Can anyone help?
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