A Note to the Reader
Dear Reader,
We are living in sobering and sometimes cruel times. Words are cheap, and they are also sharp. Names are given lightly—some in jest, some in scorn, some in fear—and they can follow a soul farther than they should.
This poem was written for that weather.
It does not pretend the earth is kind, or that every tongue is just. It only dares to say that the last word is not the world’s. What God hath called His own still stands when lesser voices have spent themselves.
If you come here bruised by what has been said of you, read slowly. The names that matter were spoken before the morning stars, and they have not been withdrawn.
Go forth in joy; thy name is sure.
—The Poet
Fear not: for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy name; thou art mine.
—Isaiah 43:1
Who shall lay any thing to the charge of God’s elect? It is God that justifieth.
—Romans 8:33
Let earth still speak, if speak it will;
the Father’s naming holds thee still.
He calls thee Mine, as ones He keeps
when waters rise and darkness creeps.
He calls thee known, and precious too—
not spent like dust the wind blows through.
Beloved, held ere light was made,
ere morning stars in joy were laid.
Chosen in Christ, before the sun,
holy and blameless, not by run
of works, but by His own delight.
Accepted in the Beloved’s right.
A child of God, of Spirit born;
no foundling left, no name outworn.
Not slave, but child; with Christ made heir—
the Father’s portion thou shalt share.
Redeemed, not with corruptible gold,
but with the blood the prophets told.
Forgiven, far as east from west.
Made righteous, justified, and blessed.
A new creation—old things past;
the former life is overcast
and gone. A saint, because He called.
Sealed till the day the graves are walled
no more. A temple, living, His,
wherein the Spirit dwells and is.
His workmanship. A citizen
of heaven, not the dust of men.
Hid with Christ in God. His friend.
His sheep, whom none shall pluck or rend.
A royal priesthood. Salt and light.
A branch that liveth by His life.
More than a conqueror, through the love
that will not let thee go thereof.
So let the lesser tongues still say
what names they will, and pass away.
Go forth in joy; thy name is sure:
Beloved, chosen, Mine evermore.
