Psalm #11 (Mustard Seeds:Cannonballs)

On Mondays I’ve taken to writing psalms. I’m late to the game this week due in large part to the fact that I took my oldest son on a fun-filled, extended weekend bike trip. These kinds of excursions have a way of robbing one of words, at least for a day. (Some things need to simmer, anyhow.) So, I’m kicking off my week a little late. I’m sure there’s a metaphor in there somewhere.

The changing of the seasons is a marvel for some. For others, it signifies the coming of a more melancholic season. I wrote today’s psalm for those others.

And after you take a gander at today’s psalm, join me on my Facebook page for a word association game. (It’ll be fun. I promise.)


Psalm #11 (Mustard Seeds:Cannonballs)


If addiction to grief were a thing,
such would be the carnal cravings
of those with the most authentic lives.
Children with velvet blankets,
we might rub the corners firsts. Then
we’d pull the edges over the eyes,
shroud ourselves in night, usher in
the dreams of the murder of crows,
the legion of doubt,
or the garden of Eden,
whichever the night might first give.

Lord have mercy.


If tomorrow’s healings rest in today’s faith
are we to bear the eternal fever?
The thing meant for hope–
the smallest seed of faith–
becomes a cannonball to be dodged
as if such a thing were possible.
If faith is a suspension of the will,
the laws of nature, of nuclear hatred,
fear, and the ashes of doubt
that cover every potential promise,
is such a thing possible?
We, our own little gods, have always
turned mustard seeds into cannonballs.

Christ have mercy.


There was a man, said Theophilus’ friend,
with demons aplenty and he lived
among the graves by the sea, among the pigs
on the overlook of the foamy unpredictable.
He was without his wits, and without wits
can there be a mustering of any worthy faith?
His demons were Legion, the usurpers of will,
and they were as obstinate as the tide, once,
but now no longer.

Only say the word and we shall be healed

Theophilus, the demoniac and I know this to be true:
every gentle hope of peace passes first through
addiction; then, through a Word; then through life
and into death. From sea to glassy sea, it moves,
plunging headlong into the sparkling forever.

Lord Have mercy.


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  • pastordt

    Oooh, Seth. Love this one. A lot. Have you read Gerald May’s “Addiction and Grace?” You might enjoy it. . . if one enjoys such topics. I found it enormously helpful, first in understanding that we are ALL addicts, to all kinds of things and that grace is greater than any and all of it. LOVE Andrew Peterson – thanks for that, too.

    • pastordt

      BTW, Disqus is funky all over the web tonite and I cannot subscribe to your comments, so if you wish to ‘discuss,’ do it on FB or by email, ok?

  • John Ray

    So Olivia had this pink blanket, the one with the satin trim that she would rub against her earlobe when she was tired… and last night I dreamed I was dead and entering heaven and was embarrassed because I wanted to see her first instead of Jesus. Hope passing through the fire indeed.

    • you’re a good man John Ray…one of the very best.

  • …just what I needed today (& maybe every day).