Being
Under
Satan’s
Yoke

A Yoke of Oxen

Here, a “yoke” is a bar or other object used to link two animals together while they are working: usually in reference to a “yoke of oxen.” That is, a pair of oxen are linked together and caused to do work, as in plowing a field.

So, if we are “busy” under Satan’s yoke, this would imply that we are linked with him, and he is mercilessly spurring us on to work without rest. This is much in the same way that Israel was made to serve Egypt in the Old Testament:

And the Egyptians made the children of Israel to serve with rigour: And they made their lives bitter with hard bondage, in morter, and in brick, and in all manner of service in the field: all their service, wherein they made them serve, was with rigour. -Exodus 1:13-14

Some work is needed and good

Since man’s fall in the garden of Eden, God has expected us to work for our food. “In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread” (Genesis 3:19). Yet I believe that there is such a thing as too much work, or perhaps rather, distracting work. It’s good for a person to work hard and earn their keep, but sometimes the pace and the scope of the labor is excessive.

Work becomes excessive when it goes beyond what is normally necessary, and is motivated by greed, pride, selfishness, or ungodly priorities. The devil wants to wear us out doing all sorts of meaningless and useless things, never making a true difference for eternity. Never coming into a true fellowship with our Lord and Savior: Jesus Christ.

The Yoke of Jesus Christ

Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light. -Matthew 11:28-30

Notice that is says, you shall find rest for your souls. The kind of enslavement that Satan puts us under, and the kind of freedom that Jesus brings us: it’s spiritual.

Even though man’s busyness appears to be only physical, there is usually an underlying spiritual motivation. Why would a millionaire work so hard for even more money unto the point that it nearly kills him, except he is bound by materialism. Why would someone press onward and neglect spouse, family, and friends all for an occupation, except he is serving another master.

Busyness is frequently the sign of an inward spiritual malady.

Except the LORD build the house, they labour in vain that build it: except the LORD keep the city, the watchman waketh but in vain. It is vain for you to rise up early, to sit up late, to eat the bread of sorrows: for so he giveth his beloved sleep. -Psalms 127:1-2

Even though the author of the following poem wasn’t a Christian, I still think that the message it conveys is very helpful and also biblical. It’s a poem about perseverance, and overcoming whatever difficult circumstances surround you to accomplish God’s will in your life.

The Winds of Fate

One ship drives east and another drives west
With the selfsame winds that blow.
‘Tis the set of the sails
And not the gales
Which tells us the way to go.

Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate,
As we voyage along through life:
‘Tis the set of the soul
That decides its goal,
And not the calm or the strife.

-Ella Wheeler Wilcox

I also thought I’d share a couple of Bible verses to go along with this poem:

That we henceforth be no more children, tossed to and fro, and carried about with every wind of doctrine, by the sleight of men, and cunning craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive; But speaking the truth in love, may grow up into him in all things, which is the head, even Christ: -Ephesians 4:14-15

Ye are of God, little children, and have overcome them: because greater is he that is in you [the Holy Spirit], than he that is in the world [the devil]. -1 John 4:4

These things I [Jesus] have spoken unto you, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world. -John 16:33

Here’s a poem dealing with the unpredictability and uncertainty of life. In a moment’s notice, any one of us could be dead, and from there, judged to all eternity into either heaven or hell. A passage of Scripture that is mentioned at the end of the poem, and parallels well with the theme of it, is Psalm 95:7-8: “To day if ye will hear his voice, Harden not your heart, as in the provocation, and as in the day of temptation in the wilderness:”

The Hidden Line (The Destiny of Men)

There is a time, we know not when,
A point we know not where,
That marks the destiny of men
To glory or despair.

There is a line by us unseen,
That crosses every path;
The hidden boundary between
God’s patience and his wrath.

To pass that limit is to die–
To die as if by stealth;
It does not quench the beaming eye
Or pale the glow of health.

The conscience may be still at ease,
The spirit lithe and gay;
That which pleases still may please,
And care be thrust away.

But on that forehead God has set,
Indelibly a mark
Unseen by men, for men as yet
Are blind and in the dark.

And yet doomed man’s path below
May bloom as Eden bloomed;
He did not, does not, will not know,
Or feel that he is doomed.

He knows, he feels that all is well,
And every fear is calmed;
He lives, he dies, he wakes in hell,
Not only doomed, but damned.

Oh, where is this mysterious bourn
By which our path is crossed;
Beyond which God himself hath sworn,
That he who goes is lost.

How far may we go on in sin?
How long will God forbear?
Where does hope end, and where begin
The confines of despair?

An answer from the skies is sent,
“Ye that from God depart,
While it is called today, repent,
And harden not your heart.”

-Joseph Addison Alexander

A few days ago I shared a poem called The Anvil – God’s Word. I really enjoy poetry, and plan to post more poems (with a spiritual message) here in the future. Yet, part of me realizes that poetry is a severely under-appreciated art-form.

If it is perhaps only for my own self, to collect and publish poems for my own enjoyment, I’ll still continue on. It’s as if a story or a thought has been purged of all superfluous or extraneous words, and the remaining sweetness is distilled into a concentrated gem called a poem.

So small, they’re easily missed by the rest of the world. And so, in this same vein, I thought it would be fitting to publish a poem written by my great-grandmother, Stella Halsten Hohncke. The poem was the theme for her radio program “Parade of Poets,” which to my knowledge was broadcast during the 1930s – 1950s.

The Poet

The poet weaves a dream,

With warp of thought and fancy;

The woof is sometimes drab and often gay.

His pattern is his imagery.

And when his work is done,

A  careless world looks on…

And goes its way.

Last eve I passed beside a blacksmith’s door,

And heart the anvil ring the vesper chime;

Then, looking in, I saw upon the floor

Old hammers, worn with beating years of time.

How many anvils have you had,” said I,

“To wear and batter all these hammers so?”

“Just one,” said he, and then, with twinkling eye,

“The anvil wears the hammers out, you know.”

And so, thought I, the anvil of God’s Word,

For ages skeptic blows have beat upon;

Yet, though the noise of falling blows was heard,

The anvil is unharmed—the hammers gone.

—Author Unknown

Below is a poem that I wrote for the 4th of July almost exactly four years ago. I had been a bit angered a few weeks prior to Independence Day by some people who insisted that America’s greatness was due to simply courage alone, or bravery, or strength alone. I thought how nearly every country under the sun has claimed to be valiant and strong, and how were we any different? Were we just lucky?

What follows below is a poem of our country’s independence from a Christian perspective, and secondly, how we have sadly fallen away from our roots.

Independence Day

I walked through the land, both fruitful and free,
And asked in my heart, “how came this lib’rty?”
Then said the Great King – and who will hear it?
“Not might, nor power, but by My Spirit.”

“But what of our strength?” before Him I said,
And visions of valor, danced in my head.
“Nay My son, just look to the heathen,”
“For all will defend, to each in his season.”

A search then was made,
And all creatures bade,
Whomever would come,
To find now the sum.

“My life for my cubs,” growled a great bear,
And all they agreed, through war and through wear.
And so it was found, from greatest to least,
A strength for the fight, from man down to beast.

I walked through the land, both fruitful and free,
Again in my heart, “how came this lib’rty?”
“Oh when will you see! – when will you hear it?”
“Not might, nor power, but by My Spirit.”

Of beasts most base,
Our demise to haste,
Had His Spirit not flown,
Had His trumpet not blown.

Had He not seen, from His judgment seat,
Our brave bodies broken: to ravens for meat.
And where had we been, this ‘perilous fight?’
Our blood and our bones, to dogs for delight.

As salt without savor,
As men without favor.
Yet, He wrought with His hand,
Said, “My counsel shall stand.”

Before Him we cried, from doors without locks,
Foes gathered outside, the battle now knocks.
Straightway He heard us, His words He did keep,
“I will not delay, no longer to sleep.”

His anger did seethe,
His sword to unsheathe,
He grinned wide His teeth,
Time full for His heat.

He bit with lion’s cheek,
And tore with eagle’s beak.
His arrows He did spend,
Their armies He did rend.
Upheld our setting sun,
Till His vict’ry we won.

A lesson we learn, taught by descendants,
A warning we hear, of our independence.
Vigilant in keeping, a garden so royal,
For seldom are ceasing, the serpents to spoil.

I saw among living, many were dead,
The land of the free, held captive with lead.
As strongholds of sin, heaped loss upon loss,
Yet none gave regard, our vict’ry the Cross.

Our silver to tin,
Store more and more sin.
Gold into rust,
In riches we trust.

I walked through the heavens, both fruitful and free,
And asked in my heart, “how came this lib’rty?”
“Oh when will you see! – when will you hear it?”
“Not might, nor power, but by My Spirit.”

To meet our Maker,
Our souls to anchor,
Heart’s cleansing soap,
To Jesus our hope.

 Here’s a poem I wrote a couple years back. I originally was going to write it for Christmas, but I didn’t finish it in time, and the subject matter actually fit in more with Easter than Christmas anyway, so it seemed more appropriate to call it an “Easter poem” than anything else.

So, here it is:

SonShine

I. Creation

Man in God’s image, the Serpent made haste,
Newly-formed glory, the darkness – it raced.
A blackness that binds, twisting hay of rope,
Yet God’s light unwinds, sunshine ray of hope.

In coldness and sin, glazed over and iced,
We troubled had been, by dragonous geist.
Of stings none compare, no adder nor asp,
His venoms ensnare, and desperately rasp.

Yet God soon then spake,
While devils did quake,
Of Whom He would make,
To come for our sake.

II. Incarnation

Hope of all nations, in manger did lie,
God’s Sunrise made flesh: the Dayspring from High.
Soon all men would see, this bright heav’nly flare,
Illumined to be, God’s gift made aware.

‘Twas God in man’s flesh, the Serpent made haste,
Newly-formed glory, the darkness – it raced.
A blackness that binds, twisting hay of rope,
Yet God’s love unwinds, sunshine ray of hope.

So love became flesh, the world’s shining star,
More royal and blessed, than prince, king, or czar.
Yet He was the Lamb, His visage soon marred,
Spotless sheep’s figure, soon mangled and scarred.

III. Crucifixion

To Calv’ry He tread,
To die in our stead.
He dripped and He bled,
That tree now stained red.
From Love’s eyes ‘twas said,
“My flesh are you fed…”
Then gave up the ghost,
Fell lifeless and dead.

A crime of all crimes, though none comprehend,
Christ sealed down below, soon upward ascend.
The Dayspring in flesh, God made His Sunrise,
Triumphant o’er death, God made His Son rise.

IV. Glory

Man in Christ’s image, the Serpent laid waste,
Newly-formed glory, the darkness – outpaced.
A blackness that binds, twisting hay of rope,
Yet God’s Son unwinds, sunshine ray of hope.

Unlocking sin’s toll,
A crimson keyhole,
The blood of our King,
To Jesus we cling.