Man, Death and Their Mutual Friend

An original poem by Helena Noel

Might there be sweeter friend to man than Death?

  For Death, 'tis thee who, patient, holds the door.

Thy bedside watch endures 'til final breath,

  And thine the grasp our trembling hands secure.

A mother mourns the son beyond her reach,

  But thou, O Death, take each in thine embrace

To guard these guests within thy gothic keep,

  And how such saints are gladdened by thy face!

Yet would not all be hellish but for Christ?

  Without Death's King, thy keep? A brackish hole!

Thou wouldst leave all entrapped in lifeless night

  If not for Heaven's Light to grace each soul.

Thou dost indeed most sweetly hold the door,

  Yet thou art gate to He Who's sweet still more.

Christ is Not the Center of My Life.

In this moment, I couldn't love Jesus more. He is amazing, He's my hero. I love Him, and can hardly wait to be with Him in Heavenly bliss forever.

The prophet Tobit, blind and
praying for his own destruction.

 But He's not the center of my life.

Yeah, I can practically hear the record scratch, see jaws drop, and little old men are all going blind at the sheer unquestionable blasphemy of those abominable words that I just typed across this page. The Hellfire is licking at the corners of all of our screens, now that I've said it. That is, if you haven't punched those screens out from righteous zeal and indigence. How can I dare to claim to love Christ if he's not the center of my life?! Isn't that the tagline for this blog? To "point back to God with a Christ-centered life?"