A poem by John Piper

My God, my King, my Emperor,
My all-designing Engineer,
My Rider through the skies, with roar
And speed and help, my Charioteer,

My Judge, my Advocate, Release,
My Doom Averted and my Ransom Met,
My Execution and my Peace,
My Friend, my willing Surrogate,

My wind-borne Life, my Health, my Death,
My Door to Paradise, my Gain,
My everlasting Lungs, my Breath,
My final Thorn, my End of pain,

What must you give or take, my God,
That we might live and never die,
When we have died? What kiss or rod,
My King, must your fierce love apply?

A thousand days and nights pain free?
A hundred years with solvent banks?
Touch down without a casualty—
Again! How many giving thanks?

Or must it be catastrophe?
A crash? A million rich made poor?
A helpless child swept out to sea?
A grief? A virus without cure?

Whatever, O my God, my King,
Whatever you must give or take,
Waste not, my Lord, this suffering,
But come and shake this world awake.

And then, this sleep of death behind,
Slay every dream that once enticed
With emptiness. Light every mind
To see, alive, the worth of Christ:

Our Life. Our Everlasting Health.
Our endless Waterfall Of grace.
Our faith’s Reward. Our Wealth.
Our Pleasure Infinite. Our All.

©John Piper’s most recent book is Coronavirus and Christ

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