Last week, we stood at the dawn of creation—light breaking into the void, order rising from chaos, and the world shaped by divine wisdom and delight. Now the story deepens. Creation is no longer merely formed—it is inhabited.

Last week, we stood in awe as the war in heaven reached its climax—rebellion crushed, pride cast down, and heaven restored to peace. Now the scene shifts. No longer are we watching conflict in the heavens—we are invited into the very act of creation itself. Let there be light. Genesis 1:3

The War Revealed The archangel Raphael continues his account to Adam, now describing what had been hidden: war in Heaven. Satan, no longer content with inward rebellion, gathers his followers and dares the unthinkable—he makes war against God. What follows is not chaos, but order under strain. Michael and the faithful angels stand firm.

A Troubled Morning in Paradise The book opens quietly. Morning comes, as it always has.But Eve is not at peace. She has dreamed. In her dream, a voice calls her.She is led to the forbidden tree.A radiant being takes the fruit—and invites her to do the same. She reaches… And wakes. ⚠️ The First Crack: Temptation Before the Fall Nothing has happened yet. No sin.No rebellion.No broken command. And yet—everything has changed. Because temptation has now entered within.

In Book IV of Paradise Lost, John Milton brings us down to earth—into Eden itself. Here, creation is not merely admired; it is inhabited. The air is alive, the landscape abundant, and everything exists in right relationship. And at the center of it all: Adam and Eve. They are not yet burdened by shame, nor divided within themselves. Their work is joyful. Their love is pure. Their communion with God is natural, not strained or hidden. Milton writes of them:

Last week we followed Satan across Chaos, that terrible gulf between Hell and the new creation. Milton made us feel the distance, the darkness, and the dreadful determination of evil moving toward its object. Now at last the long road ends. Satan comes to the threshold. And what he sees is beauty.

Milton gives us a moment of stillness before the journey begins. The fallen angels remain behind in Pandemonium — busy, restless, trying to build a kind of order in their ruin. But Satan rises above them all, not merely in rank, but in will. He chooses the hardest path. Not out of humility — Milton never lets us mistake that — but out of a fierce, consuming pride. Better to reign in Hell, he has said. And now he will prove it by action.

Last week, we began our journey into Paradise Lost by John Milton. Milton opened the poem with a solemn declaration of his purpose: to tell the story of man’s first disobedience and to “justify the ways of God to men.” Now the story itself begins. And it begins not in Eden — but in Hell.

Why Paradise Lost? Milton wrote this epic in the aftermath of political collapse. England had executed a king, tried a republic, and restored the monarchy. Milton himself had defended the Commonwealth and lost both position and eyesight in the struggle. Blind, disgraced, and physically broken, he dictated this poem. And what did he choose to write about? Not politics. Not his enemies. Not his suffering. He went back to Genesis. He went back to the beginning.

So this week, we step briefly away from epic poetry and linger with a short devotional poem: “I Met the Master Face to Face” by Lorrie Cline. This poem does not argue or explain. It testifies. And like many true testimonies, it begins with confidence. I met the Master face to face,And told Him all my heart;I said my doubts and fears were gone, And faith had made me whole.

We have listened patiently as Mutability made her case. We have watched the trial unfold, with Nature herself presiding. Now, in the closing movement of Canto II, Spenser asks us to be still. The judgment does not come with thunder or spectacle. It comes quietly — and decisively — in verse that weighs every word. Nature begins by acknowledging what no honest reader can deny: “For all that moveth doth in change delight.” This single line gathers everything Mutability has

Edmund Spenser was the greatest poet of his time, perhaps ever. Why? ---He knew the English language and was master of its words and rhythm. ---His theme and the message it carried was deep and spiritual. ---Spenser knew Jesus and the Gospel and presented it in the Faerie Queene. ---It is as alive today as it was 426 years ago when he died at age 47. ---Is my life counting for Jesus as his was? Is yours? Live for Him who died for thee.

Last week, we stood at the threshold of Edmund Spenser’s Cantos of Mutability, where the great poet turns from the virtues he has spent a lifetime shaping — holiness, justice, courtesy — and asks a deeper, more unsettling question. What happens to virtue, to order, even to goodness itself, in a world where everything changes? This week, before we go any further, it helps to know exactly where we are — and where Spenser is taking us.

Change, Time, and the God Who Does Not Change With the completion of The Faerie Queene, Edmund Spenser might well have laid down his pen. The great moral sequence was finished. Holiness, temperance, chastity, friendship, justice, and courtesy had each been given their place. Yet Spenser added something more — not another virtue, but a question. That question is Mutability. (the quality of being liable to undergo change or alteration.)

With Book VI, Edmund Spenser brings The Faerie Queene to its moral completion. After holiness, temperance, chastity, friendship, and justice, he turns to a virtue often misunderstood: Courtesy. For Spenser, courtesy is not mere manners or polish; it is virtue made visible in daily human life. The knight of this book, Sir Calidore, is introduced as one who embodies gentle strength: “Of all the vertues which in man are found,/Courtesy is the chiefest of them all.” Courte

The turning of the year is always bittersweet. We look back with gratitude, sometimes with sorrow — and we look forward with hope, sometimes with trembling. We stand between “what has been” and “what may yet be.” Few poems capture that holy tension like Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “Ring Out, Wild Bells.” It appears as Canto CVI in his long work In Memoriam, written over many years in the wake of the early death of his closest friend, Arthur Hallam.

When I was in the primary class at Emmanuel Pentecostal Church in the 1950s, we little ones stood on the platform and repeated "Pieces" like this one: I know of a name a beautiful name/ that unto a babe was given The stars glittered bright t/hroughout that glad night And angels praised God in heaven. That was my introduction to poetry at Christmas, how was I to know the poetry had been going on for centuries? Read on, and see why!

Edmund Spenser’s Book V of The Faerie Queene is the most severe, controversial, and unsettling book in the entire poem. Here, the ruling virtue is Justice, embodied in the knight Artegal, and guided—some would say driven—by the iron enforcer Talus, a relentless man of metal who knows neither pity nor pause.

I knew such women when I needed them most, when I was filled with passion. ---They were like Britomart in purity and worship manifested in their beauty. ---Faithfulness and a meek and quiet spirit was their way. ---We see them in Dante's Beatrice, Dickens' Agnes, and Jepthah's daughter. They can only be found in the beauties of holiness from the womb of the morning: (Psalm 110:3

Temperance and patience were a long time in being added to my faith. (2 Peter 1:6) ---I was a wild and crazy guy, hot or cold, like the Apostle Peter. --- Guyon proved a powerful example for me. ---I was caught in the Bower of Bliss and far from the House of Alma. ---But faith got me there through the power of the Holy Ghost. Sir Guyon's victory can be yours too. Read on!