The Throne of God

The Throne of God

the trees creak and moan

       the rustling leaves sound like angelic music

black birds soar and glide on mighty currents

       swaying limbs bow before the Lord of the Dance

the dogwoods have faded – azaleas soon to follow

       everywhere behind the camouflage of spring

                   the choral cries of feathered creatures

                   hovering over all

a vast canopy of Carolina blue

       in my mind i go back to something ageless, ancient

                   a place that calls to me – draws me

                   a deep, eternal, internal beckoning.

the pull of my earthly homeland

            pales before this celestial longing.

still the natural gives me murky reflections

            of what is to come.

rows and rows of man’s brick and mortar,

            the appearance of permanence

                               that will in a moment crumble

much like my own earthly tent

boys on bicycles and butterflies in bushes

    shadow – substance  -  temporal – eternal

yesterday – the boy was me

today – the butterfly calls to my aging frame

            of new creations.

tomorrow – no more dimly lit mirrors

now – I stare at the heavens

            and with all creations declaring His praises

i behold the Throne of God. 

                                                  mark d. cooke, 04/01/1997

The Throne of God II

“I saw the Throne room!”  i sensed the awe in her voice

as man’s technology conveyed her words                                 

            from Raleigh to my study

The Throne room … seen through the eyes of the Spirit

where the temporal gives way

            to a far more permanent yet invisible realm

a mere glimpse to shatter all earthly care

            have I not captured

                        shadows of its image with the naked eye?

is this possible?  all around an autumn blaze

            declare the craftsmanship of Creator Spirit

                        brooding over His dominion

the anticipation of a world aflame with that same Spirit

    every tree a reflection of the one tree

    every stream pointing to the River

    every blade of grass crying out

                        “I will fade, but His word endures…”

animal sounds, insect vibrations

the restless noises of man in motion

in totality there emanates a message

“Something is coming!  Something is coming!     

  Something is coming!”

there is a destination to all of this

            a deep blue October sky

                        a phone call from a friend

reflections in the Book,

            words from anointed messengers

all beckoning me to prophesy to the wind

            “Come breath of God!  Give us life.  

Prepare us to see… the Throne of God.”                                                                                         

                                                                              mark d. cooke 10/30/1997

The Funeral that Became a Wedding

The Funeral that Became a Wedding

As I was running this morning, listening to a Misty Edwards’ worship album (music that always creates a thin place for me between heaven and earth), I began to pray for Renee Boutan’s family.

Reflecting on her father preaching, standing high above us, within the sacred walls of St. Philip’s, I saw that he was there in a similar thin place, his deep grief and sorrow pulling him down to the earthbound gathering below – we who strangely hold on to this fleeting, temporal domain, when the invisible, eternal realm is the greater reality – while the Word and the Spirit drew him to that place of incomprehensible joy, love and peace.

Suddenly my running route fades from my sight, and I glimpse through the veil to Heaven’s Throne Room. Renee is standing before the throne dressed in a simple, elegant wedding gown, her head bowed, and her face covered with a lovely, laced veil.

Jesus is sitting on His throne, but as he gazes upon Renee, he rises and makes his way down golden steps, until he is standing before her. He gently raises her head, lifts the veil, kisses her on the forehead and says, “Welcome my daughter, my sister, my bride. You are altogether beautiful, my darling, and there is no blemish in you.”

Renee, glowing with a joy and beauty unknown in the shadowlands, gazes into His eyes and simply replies, “I am my beloved’s and you are mine. Your banner over me is love.”

Jesus turns to the heavenly throng, a number that no man can number of every nation, tribe and tongue, “Welcome my love, Renee, to the marriage supper of the Lamb.” At that moment comes a roar, the sound of many waters, as all of heaven welcomes the lovely, fair princess.

The Lord then looks down, and there, through the thin place, stands Renee’s father, mid-sermon. Jesus, now the officiant, asks, “Who gives this bride to be married?”

Marc’s spirit replies, “Her mother and I do.” All the while, his message, his stories, his reflections roll over us, like the father of the bride handing his daughter to another.

Once again Jesus addresses him, “There is no grief so deep that I am not deeper still. Go now; draw from my well of love, joy and peace. Comfort your wife, your family, and my people, and remind them that I am coming soon.

“You have spoken wisely in calling all to not speak of Renee in the past tense, for she is ever with me, full of my life and glory. The brevity of her earthly visitation is forever a picture of how short the time is for all who await my advent.”

The scene shifts, while my feet pound the asphalt and Misty Edwards sings, “Because life, life is a vapor; but the brevity is what makes it a treasure. So feel it all like a love letter to the One you will live with forever. His eye is on the sparrow; His eye is on you.” And I remember the last time I saw Renee that wasn't in a hospital room.

Several weeks before her passing, I had gone out to the farm to pray with her and her mother, Trish. Renee, fighting for life with the pallor of death on her face, was planting a flower in the middle of the pasture.

Recalling that moment, I now see Renee walking hand in hand with Jesus in a glorious field of flowers, the variety and beauty beyond any breathless vista of southern France. In place of the veil, a wreath of lavender now crowns Renee's long, flowing hair, and both are barefoot.

She looks up into Jesus’s face and softly says, “When?”

The one who knows all things knows that she means, “When are you returning? When is the consummation of the ages? When is our family reunion? When will all be made whole? When is the final, great wedding?”

He looks at her with delight, smiles and replies, “Soon, my daughter, my sister, my fair one. Soon.”

mark d. cooke, 7-11-15