I am jealous for you with a godly jealousy

2 Corinthians 11:2

Oh, how the old harpist loves their harp!

They cuddles & caresses it, as if it were a child resting on their lap.

Their life is consumed with it. But watch how they tunes it.

They grasps it firmly, striking a chord with a sharp, quick blow.

While it quivers as if in pain, they lean forward,

they intently listen to catch the first note rising from it.

But, Just as they feared, the note is distorted & shrill.

They strain the strings, turning the torturing thumbscrew & though

it seems ready to snap with the tension, they strike it again.

Then they lean forward again, carefully listening,

until at last a smile appears to their face as the first melodic sound arise.

God to is dealing with us.

He’s Loving us more than any harpist loves their harp,

Our Lord finds you nothing but harsh, discordant sounds.

So He plucks our heartstrings with torturing anguish.

Tenderly leaning over us, He strikes the strings & listens.

Hearing only a harsh murmur, He strikes us again.

His heart bleeds for us while He anxiously waits to hear the strain

“Not my will, but yours be done” Luke 22:42

Now, this is a melody as sweet to His ears as angels’ songs.

And He will never cease from striking the strings of our heart until

our humbled & disciplined soul blends with all the pure & eternal harmonies

of His own being.

A selected adaptation

Oh, the sweetness that dwells in a harp of many strings,

While each, all vocal with love in a tuneful harmony rings!

But, oh, the wail and the discord, when one & another is rent,

Tensionless, broken & lost, from the cherished instrument.

For rapture of love is linked with the pain or fear of loss,

And the hand that takes the crown, must ache with many a cross;

Yet he who has never a conflict, wins never a victor’s palm,

And only the toilers know the sweetness of rest & calm.

Only between the storms can the Alpine traveler know

Transcendent glory of clearness, marvels of gleam & glow;

Had he the brightness unbroken of cloudless summer days,

This had been dimmed by the dust & the veil of a brooding haze.

Who would dare the choice, neither or both to know,

The finest quiver of joy or the agony thrill of woe!

Never the exquisite pain, then never the exquisite bliss,

For the heart that is dull to that can never be strung to this.


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