HEAD(hed), (n.) 1. the top part of the human body or the front part of an animal where the eyes, nose, east and mouth are. "Your brain is in your head." DIBS(dibz), (n.) 2. a thick, sweet syrup made in countries of the East, especially the Middle East, from grape juice or dates. [Arabic "debs"]--World Book Dictionary, 1976.
Actually, it’s an ad-duck-tion. I missed the perfect opportunity to say, “and they’re in a row, too!” Silly goose.
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The Tongue Of A Ready Scribe (Day 3)
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"My heart overflows with a pleasing theme; I address my verses to the king; my tongue is like the pen of a ready scribe." (Psalm 45:1)
When you write a letter, how do you begin? “Dear . . .”
Do you write your Mom or Dad (you do write your Mom, or at least call, right?) in the same way you would your boss or a judge or a Congressman--or the President? Seems the higher up the ladder you go, the more language seems to change--or it should. Of course you should always give Mom the highest respect, right? There is respect . . . right?
This musician could have one day said, “Check out this new song I wrote on the way to the palace” (or something like that). But he doesn’t. He puts pen to paper and pours this love song onto vellum or parchment, etching the song into a permanent form. So permanent, it’s been on record (pun intended) for thousands of years. Remember how the song is also addressed to lead singers everywhere--so this song can be played by anyone who knows the lyrics. Over the course of time, it’s been translated into every known language of the world! So it can be sung, or at least read in any culture. Genius, I tell you.
But this says something about the King, doesn’t it? Who is this King? If you were the writer, what would you say? Our writer here is a “ready scribe.” He’s given thought to the “good words”, his “pleasant theme” because his song is for the King! He’s thought over the words of this love song, for they must be just right. A well-written song grabs you, works it’s way in and won’t let go. This is where we begin to make our way to the wisdom hidden of this song.
The weight of the simile (“my tongue is like the pen of a ready scribe”) shows how the “good words” of the song are not lost to the air but are carefully chosen and given longevity. You’ve heard a “slip of the tongue” but there is no “slip of the pen” here. There is discipline, diligence on the part of the writer. He writes with skill.
But why? Why does he write thusly? The reasons are simple: first, he recognizes the King is above him. Writing carelessly insists that the one with most authority bow down to him and this cannot be. The King deserves the best. Second, he loves his King and he loves the one who the King loves, that is, His Bride. Careless and sloppy writing does not show love nor help express it. Besides, insulting the King is one thing--speak lightly of His bride--that’s worse.
July 2004 I went to Kenya, Africa to speak in two Pastor’s Conferences on the subject of Man, Sin and Salvation. At the end of each day I left just over an hour for questions (half the time were questions touching the subject of my lectures, and the other half for “open questions”; that is, people could ask anything). For the next few weeks, I will be sharing the questions that were asked of me, and my answers—and believe me when I say these people really know how to think! Question from Kenya #1: “Men and women who saw God in the Bible: Why did they not all die?” [“ But He said, ‘You cannot see My face, for no man can see Me and live! ’” (Exodus 33:20) was the basis of the student’s question]. Answer: First, consider those who did see God—how did they respond when they saw Him? They were instantly aware of their sinfulness, and God’s holiness and righteousness (to name a few. And notice also that each responded in an attitude of worship, bowing down): Abraham built altars, wors
“My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee, Wherewith whole shoals of martyrs once did burn, Besides their other flames? Doth poetry Wear Venus' livery? only serve her turn? Why are not sonnets made of thee? and lays Upon thine altar burnt? Cannot thy love Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove Outstrip their Cupid easily in flight? Or, since thy ways are deep, and still the fame, Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name! Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose Than that, which one day, worms may chance refuse. Sure Lord, there is enough in thee to dry Oceans of ink; for, as the Deluge did Cover the earth, so doth thy Majesty: Each cloud distills thy praise, and doth forbid Poets to turn it to another use. Roses and lilies speak thee; and to make A pair of cheeks of them, is thy abuse Why should I women's eyes for crystal take? Such poor invention burns in their low mind Wh
“In primitive times, when man awakes in a world that is newly created, poetry awakes with him. In the face of the marvellous things that dazzle and intoxicate him, his first speech is a hymn simply. He is still so close to God that all his meditations are ecstatic, all his dreams are visions. His bosom swells, he sings as he breathes. His lyre has but three strings—God, the soul, creation; but this threefold mystery envelopes everything, this threefold idea embraces everything. The earth is still almost deserted. . . . He leads that nomadic pastoral life with which all civilizations begin, and which is so well adapted to solitary contemplation, to fanciful reverie. He follows every suggestion, he goes hither and thither, at random. His thought, like his life, resembles a cloud that changes its shape and its direction according to the wind that drives it. Such is the first man, such is the first poet. He is young, he is cynical. Prayer is his sole religion, the ode is his only form of