It’s nearly a year since The Consolations of Writing was born, so I thought it was fitting to call today’s poem “Consolation”, in honour of Simeon, the faithful man who waited and waited to see the consolation of his people and found it unexpectedly in a baby brought to be dedicated one day in the temple.

Consolation

Having waited and waited,
having sat for ages this side of the veil
in this rich but passing temple,

having longed to see past Herod,
past Caesar, past the law’s letter
to the promises,

having lingered long in the wilderness,
long in this dying tent and long
before this shadow of promise:

I see my salvation.

Many I see fall and rise, and
many will oppose this sign –
a sword will pierce your own soul too –

and temples fall and kingdoms melt
yet in this child, smaller than
my arm’s breadth, I

can see with eyes unveiled, and hear
with ears unstopped that all
promises sound a full Amen.

Dismiss me now, Lord. I have seen
my consolation here.

Today’s poem was a difficult one to write. Most of the time, I manage to find some way of approaching whatever topic, event or person the liturgical calendar brings up for me that day. Occasionally, however, I refuse to write a poem because of fundamental disagreement with what has been included for that particular day. Today was almost one of those days. However, I have been able in the end to write a poem about Charles I, the king of England executed by the Puritans in the British Civil War, although I do not agree with the Prayer Book’s description of Charles as a “martyr”. Those disagreements aside, I have made the most of the story of Charles’ death and the reasons for it to shape a poem that reflects my thinking on the subject.

Of Tyrants and Worthy Deaths (For Charles I, King of England)

The church is heaving at the seams,
The king declares his rights,
The knights are taxed to pay the king
And Parliament’s cast to silence.

Churchmen fight with churchmen who
Design their buildings other ways,
And Gospel truth is set against
This or that tradition.

And earnest men on either side
Yell and do not listen,
While Cromwell takes the tyrant’s head
And makes himself a tyrant.

O God – was this the way You planned
Your bride, Your priestly nation
To show itself before the world
Was this Your hope, Your vision?

Preach, O God, to our dead bones;
Break through all our folly.
King Jesus, crowned upon the Cross:
Show us what is holy.

There are many kinds of light,
and many things by light are seen
and all our minds receive the light
which radiates the world;
by this the things of earth all shine
so we may learn and ask and know,
yet this proud earthly light will pale
before the light that shows
what only God’s bright fire unveils,
and gives our sight its power.

The least varnished words are the sweetest
When they drip with golden truth;
The strongest tongues are those which slice
Through pretense and through lies.

And God Himself chose wilderness
To be His earthly stage;
He blessed the poor and blessed the meek
And silenced all our pride.

But first your companions will not understand you.
Though they stand with you on the Damascus Road
They won’t see what you can see:
A blinding light, descending scales,
An arrow pointing where you must go.

What, they wonder, has taken Saul?
It’s time that we were getting on.
The same purpose had burned in them, yet they
Cannot see the light you see
Nor know the voice that calls you now.

Take their arms; they will walk with you,
Though they shake their heads in wonder
And will leave you, I suspect, once you
Have lost the scales and changed your name;
They won’t walk this new road with you.

There are new arms to receive you:
Hands laid on you in prayer from those
Whom days before you swore to kill;
A body now to take you in
Which once you kicked against.

The road you will walk is lonely;
You must learn how much you will
Suffer for His name. But feel
These praying hands now placed on you;
Feel the scales drop from your eyes.

Perhaps you see then flashes of
The lonely road that you must walk,
Descending from the city walls
Of places where they seek your blood.
You will know all that soon enough, for sure.

But feel these hands and know these scars;
Know these wounds were born for you.
Though death will chase you, do not fear.
You are made new and have new life,
And you are not your own.

The road is long when your walk is lonely
And the world is not always your friend.
Some houses will not take you inside their walls
And some cities will drive you away.

At Thessalonica, they’ll roar till you leave;
At Ephesus they will pursue you.
Riots will rage and courts will declare
That the world is not always your friend.

Yes, the road is long when your walk is lonely,
But Christ’s body has many parts.
You once were their foe, now you are one
Of the parts whom His love draws together.

The world is not always your friend, it’s true,
But your greatest friend is its king,
And the road will never be lonely so long
As His body unites in His love.

Vincent spoke on his bishop’s behalf
(For his bishop’s speech was faulting)
And the fervour of his brazen words
Incensed his Roman lord.

Did Vincent die from the truth that rung
In every word he spoke?
Did his God supply the words he said
That pierced the governor’s ears?

God’s reply was silent then;
Diocletian seemed to win.
Yet He swore to give us words
When called before earth’s kings.

My words condemn me; they are loud and shrill
And show the dirt within.
And yet when called to speak the truth,
I find that my speech fails.

God who hears the martyr’s cry,
Who heard all Vincent’s words,
God of the brash and weak alike:
Speak in my defence.