We were singing an old (1707) hymn on Sunday:

“When I survey the wondrous cross on which the king of glory died, my richest gain I count but loss and pour contempt on all my pride.”

I started thinking about writing theology as poetry, thinking it would be a good exercise in slowing down and reflecting. How can you write a crucifixion as a poem? Not a multi-point sermon, not a 6-part small group discussion, not an essay, but a poem. How hard is it to be clear and concise and evocative? How do you make yourself stop and reflect and write?

I do that, by the way. Not the poem part, the thinking part. I think often while singing, while standing in the church service. Nancy is used to me grabbing my Moleskine and writing. Sometimes I’m writing notes about conversations I had before walking into the service. Sometimes I’m writing notes about things that need to get fixed before next Sunday. Sometimes I’m writing things that show up here.

So as we were singing that song on Sunday, I grabbed my book and wrote, “But what if that story is true? The story of giving up everything for someone else?”

We had gotten to the third stanza about then.

“See from His head, His hands, His feet, sorrow and love flow mingled down! Did e’er such love and sorrow meet, or thorns compose so rich a crown?”

Isaac Watts, the one who wrote this poem, was looking at the picture of one crucified, blood, tears, whatever else flowing down. Sorrow, he called it. Love, he called it. And if the story is true, if there was a real, willing, self-sacrificial, walk-right-into-the-trap death, that flow would make you think about a fitting response.

I guess that’s what a poem would do.