Sown (Sonnet 0002)


A kernel of wheat I remained alone.
A coat of many colors I’ve adorn.
Bravado ceased when by His hand was thrown.
You did not bow, but rather lent me scorn.

Beneath the soil, earth’s darkness mutes my groan.
My thirsting soul despairs where it’s been thrust.
A seed-a-dying, naked, here You’ve sown,
Lies thwarted and forgot in dungeon’s dust.

What’s this!? Baptized am I in heaven’s dew?
Has double-helix mem’ry heard a Word?
The dance begins, roots, shoots burst forth on que,
Old garments shed so new, with blade, are gird.

You to such increase of the ground belong.
Take bread and wine and sing Redemption’s song.

By Ron Silflow

Genesis: The Joseph Story

John 12:24 Verily, verily, I say unto you, Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

Zechariah 8:12 …the ground shall give her increase, and the heavens shall give their dew…

Psalms 63: 1 … my soul thirsteth for thee, my flesh longeth for thee in a dry and thirsty land, where no water is…-

If I Were Abednego

Why me?

Crisis descends.

Why me?

Fires stoked thrice.

Why me?

Fires stoked thrice, twice.

Sheer terror.

Why me?

Such injustice!

Such crucible tries my weary faith.

Fires stoked thrice, twice, plus one.

Why me?!

Yet, what binds me, burns.

Eye scales drop as ashes,

And I see.

I see Another.

Unsinged, I gasp!

Unhinged, I grasp

The one alongside.

Saving me through,

Not from,

The furnace.

My complaint shifts to query,

Why YOU?!


(Inspired by Pastor Bryan Clark, sermon, Trial By Fire, Daniel 3:13-30)

Between Cherubim

My heart is on the search.

Taut cords emerge from intensely outstretched hands.

Yearning for intimacy.

More than the intimacy sought under every rock

As I lick the earth.

Then, my mind’s eye gets a glimpse of You!

In that open space ‘tween Cherubim.

Inviting me.

I recognize that Hand on my shoulder.

Taut cords once emerged in outstretched, nailed agony.

Now gathers me in.

Cherubim take flight.

Wildernesses Rock




Cleft Rock.

Rock riven.

None other Rock.

Wildernesses Rock.

Smitten Rock bleeds waters.

Quenching waters quicken thirst,

Thirst for my Pursuer,

Pursuing to save.

Salves my heart.

My riven heart.

Flesh, from




Inspired by:

1Co_10:4  And did all drink the same spiritual drink: for they drank of that spiritual Rock that followed them: and that Rock was Christ.

Exo_17:6  Behold, I will stand before thee there upon the rock in Horeb; and thou shalt smite the rock, and there shall come water out of it, that the people may drink. And Moses did so in the sight of the elders of Israel.

Exo_33:22  And it shall come to pass, while my glory passeth by, that I will put thee in a clift of the rock, and will cover thee with my hand while I pass by:

1Sa_2:2  There is none holy as the LORD: for there is none beside thee: neither is there any rock like our God.

Psa_18:31  For who is God save the LORD? or who is a rock save our God?

“Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee; let the water and the blood, from thy riven side which flowed, be of sin the double cure, cleanse me from it’s guilt and pow’r.

ROCK OF AGES, CLEFT FOR ME, vs.1, Augustus M. Tolplady, 1776.

Eze_36:26  A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you an heart of flesh.

Joh_7:37  In the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried, saying, If any man thirst, let him come unto me, and drink.



I know not how you found me

In such unlikely place.

Mary laid You in my heart.

Cold, stone, manger of a heart.


Your beams began their warming,

My soul to penetrate.

Yes your beams sang forth their shine

Where marrow and bone entwine.


O’erflow a manger with life.

Of things cut down and slain.

Provender for lowly beast,

God Himself the blessed feast.


You work Your ways in secret,

Yet angels sing it ‘broad.

O manger, spill forth glory.

Spill forth this Christmas story.

Tent Within a Tent

A man extended his arms forward

so the blanket over his head formed a tent.

Through the opening, cradling a favorite doll,

And a stuffed tiger, crawled the two-year old

in pigtails and pj’s.

New pj’s.

It was dark inside.

Her pupils dilated so she could see

a tiny space.  And grandpa.

Yet something wasn’t right.

She hurriedly left to return with

more of what was precious to her.

A blue horse.

Second favorite doll.

Pink princess brush.

Every item was shifted and tilted

Until they passed inspection.

It was quiet.  Still.  Holy.

Her excited breath the only sound.

Two sets of eyes met.

She whispered, “It’s great, isn’t it!”

A gray-bearded man smoothed his linen robe.

New linen robe.

White.  Blue.

Hemmed with pomegranates and bells.

Though he limped, he limped with dignity

Through burning, wilderness sand.

Clutching a bowl of blood.

Lambs’ blood.

He stooped and entered the tent within a tent.

It was dark inside.

He could smell a hint of lanolin

Mixed with the pungent scent of incense borne on

Whispy streams of smoke.

Something was amiss.

He hurriedly hobbled out, bells tinkling, to return

With more of what was dear to him.

Twelve stones.  Emerald.  Carbuncle.  Topaz and more.

It was still.  Quiet.  Holy.

He could hear his own breath.

With his eyes closed

He saw he was not alone.

He lingered long,

Then whispered, “It’s great, isn’t it!”

A priest.  A son.  Pierced hands.

Wounded feet and side.

Enveloped in a new robe.

White.  Blue.

Stepping where only angels tread

He stooped to enter the tent within a tent.

Left arm cradled the all costly bowl of blood.

Lambs’ blood.

No light needed.

It was Holy.  Still.  Quiet.

For a moment he waited, breathless,

Until he knew he was not alone.

Father and son embraced.

They lingered.

Father, he whispered,

“It’s great isn’t it!”

Cowherd’s Sonnet

              Sonnet 0001

In a place where milk streams toward the pail,

My heart spills complaint like grapes crushed for wine.

O God!  What God grows mute at such prevail?

To scorn these wings once scaling heav’ns sublime.

Is this my fate?  My station a cowherd?

Have not I walked in academic halls?

To wear such splattered dung be my reward?

I shake my fist that to this end, I’d fall.

Yet, in my rage, I watch sparrows descend

To deftly pluck their barley kernel meal

From cattle dung, no less, such daily bread,

Then up to parlor rafters praises peal.

Struck dumb at such epiphany revealed

My melted heart, to God’s provision, yields.

by Ron Silflow