The Whole of Christianity

We were considering the Christian idea of ‘putting on Christ’… What I want to make clear is that this is not one among many jobs a Christian has to do… It is the whole of Christianity.

— C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity


The Hunger

From deep inside, a hunger,

A longing raging blind,

It gnaws, it flows, it seeks

Its very heart to find

A something not yet seen,

A someone not yet found,

A piece felt missing – core,

Through all the fabric wound.


My eyes, they long to see thee –

But wherefore art thou – love?

They scan the beauty in the oceans,

And glorious skies above

For things that can be traced,

By eye – its outline make,

Yet these soul leaves, scattered,

In its blinded searching wake.


Full of beauty, to be sure,

Perfection? In every line!

And though they fill my heart,

This lovely fruit and wine

Yet looks for more my heart,

The fresh turns into brine

Is it still not enough?

Lassitude creeping, comes in.


Mind seeks out the secrets,

Mysteries wonder-filled,

That soar so high, then plunge,

Encompass all the world

Hungrily I read – consume it,

This knowledge free to take,

I revel in the open space,

These perfect idylls make.


This burning fire and hunger,

An endless search for bliss,

End of all my searching,

Of all consuming – still this

A fire that burns on the inside,

Worries the edges and frets

Dissatisfied – hungry, rumbles,

How hide from close regrets?


My soul so longs to feel thee;

A friend, a soul – a heart

Longs to be seen deeply –

Craves touch to the inward part,

My heart – it longs to love thee,

A you it cannot find,

Find? Not so – how find – 

How “see,” when to thee I am blind?


And yet, perhaps – could be,

This blind heart yet may find

Not by sight, or touch, or sound,

But by a secret sense

A sense called forth by another –

A secret larger still,

Could be – eyes closing to “all” around,

Soul finds a deeper thrill


That looking past the flowers,

A Gardener there I’ll see

And shifting sight beyond

The presents, find The GiverHe

Perhaps the threads were beautifully

Woven, as words within a tome,

Maybe another, softly waiting,

Made all the trails lead Home.


Maybe my eyes thus shifted,

To new sight from inside,

Can learn to hold focus,

On The Man, although he hide

Through all the splendors ’round me,

May I learn to see Thee

A Man, a Giver, fount of Love,

Who gives things thus to me.


Such lovely birds and roses,

Delights that soar and peal

But I, fool – child, forget, I

Leave Man for cart and wheel

And then I wonder why,

My heart and soul are wasted,

Feel tired at end of day –

I played with toys, and pasted.


And The Giver walked away.

Oh, gentle gardener – how alone

Must feel thy heart; when for

Thy roses’ beauty we moan

Yet our heart’s lonely too,

Forgets so that secret part

-That spirit sense that calls

Us in to All Thou Art.


Thou’lt not leave us alone,

Dear maker, thy thread runs deep

Through all our fibers woven

A hunger for life, thine – keep

Thou art within, art without –

Our deepest longing see;

Thou wilt not leave us i’ the dark,

Unless thou cans’t save, and free.


~Beth Frances