Somehow always in the shadow
Of that larger, louder brother,
Always kept behind in lists,
Not taken up the mountain-top;

And yet the small one heard Him speak
Whose words were fire in his heart
And went to get his brother, said,
We’ve found the one who is the Christ.

If all the small ones in the world
Could do deeds as large as his
And reap eternity from seeds
Sown in smallness – let’s be small.

They will look on Him they pierced –
If they can look Him in the eye,
If they are not blinded by
The blazing Son’s bright, golden light
Refracted in the clouds –

They will look on Him, the first,
The last, the bright, eternal One,
And see His sceptre and His keys,
And if they have still knees to bend
They will fall to the ground.

They will look on Him they scorned,
They mocked and tried and nailed down;
And, if they see His face for all
The glory, they will hang their heads
In broken recognition.

They will look on Him who sits
Upon the throne, and to the Lamb,
And if they see two thrones, two kings,
The Ancient One and Son of Man,
They will see just one pure light,

And they will bow with gladdened knees
Or chastened hearts or dread or fear,
And know that He, the one they pierced,
Was dead, now lives, forever lives
And ever reigns, our King.

The day will come when all our wrongs
Are shown for what they truly are
And all our motives, all our deeds
Will shine or rot before the Son;

The day will come when all our tracks
We covered up and all we burned
Will be revealed and we will stand
In all our nakedness and shame.

And on that day our brothers and
The ones we wronged and flung aside
Will know the justice once denied,
Vindicated by the truth.

And then the truly noble ones
Will be the ones who heard the truth
And did not quake before its power,
But hit the road and spread it wide,

Who, hearing they were reconciled
To their creator, made it known
To brothers and to enemies
That all might hear it and be saved.

Let us turn to every age that has passed, and learn that, from generation to generation, the Lord has granted a place of repentance to all such as would be converted unto him.
(The Epistle of Clement to the Corinthians)

From age to age, the anchor stands,
The anchor in the waves of death
And all we brought upon ourselves:
All the envies of all Cains,
And of all Adams eating fruit.

The anchor holds us; we cannot stay
Secure in the tossing waves;
From age to age, we have all drowned,
And yet this anchor holds in place
All those who reach out, lost at sea.

And Clement throws his anchor down,
Hurls his life into the waves,
To him whose way is in the sea,
Although his footsteps were not seen,
To him whose anchor holds us firm and still.

When the time approached that God had ordained, that she which had despised the reign mortal should have the reign of angels, she lay sick of the fevers and turned her to the wall, and they that were there heard her put out a sweet melody; and when one of the chamberers had enquired of her what it was, she answered and said: A bird came between me and the wall and sang so sweetly that it provoked me to sing with it.
(From The Golden Legend by Jacobus de Voragine)

A princess and wife at fourteen;
Always seen bearing and giving out bread.

Friend of beggars and hostess to lepers;
Thief to her own fortune; to others, bounteous.

A widow at twenty;
Four years later, taken home,

A song in her heart, the cross in her bed;
A life lived to be laid down and given.

In the meantime, nation will rise against nation;
The earth will quake and rumours will spread;
Many will stand and say, I am he,
And many kings will kill other kings.

If at times you quake too with the earth,
If your prayers sometimes shudder in silence,
Lift up your eyes, wipe the dirt from your face.
These are the birthpangs beginning.

For all that is precious and new
Must be born somehow;
And for hearts of flesh to rise up within us,
Our hearts of stone must first break open.

When King Henry sought to absolve his guilt
Planting a Carthusian order –
A penance, they say, for killing a priest
Who had changed from a friend to a thorn –

Hugh came across from Avalon to
Lead the new order he’d placed there,
No less a scourge to Henry’s proud will,
Yet winning him with his blunt talking.

A challenge to kings – to King John, like death’s stench –
He scorned gold’s temptation, and did not relent:
A friend to the helpless; a thorn in the side
Of the powerful few; a voice for God’s truth.

Protected, they say, at night by a swan
Whom he took as his friend and companion,
Hugh knew well how the righteous sleep safe
While kings tossed and turned in their castles.

Hilda’s mother had a dream:

She was searching for her husband,
Banished by the Briton king,
And she, searching, could not find him,
Though she looked wherever she could.

And yet it came to pass in her dream
That beneath her garment she found
A jewel, radiant and bright,
Covering all England with its light.

The light was not her daughter, yet
It shone within her, shone into
The hearts of monks and kings and herdsmen;
Those who found it searched no more.

I was too busy yesterday writing another poem to note that my fairly long break from writing the liturgical poems was over and I now had another poem to write. This one is for Margaret of Scotland, a remarkable woman normally celebrated on November 16 but, due to my disorganisation, remembered here today.

The Beggar Queen
(For Margaret of Scotland, Queen and Helper of the Poor)

You’ve heard the tale of Norman armies,
William at the lead, at Hastings,
Knocking down King Harold, taking
England in their swooping grip.

Perhaps you’ve heard of Edgar Aethling,
Nephew to the late King Edward,
Chosen to succeed King Harold,
Stopped by William of Normandy.

But have you heard of Edgar’s sister,
Margaret, Scotland’s refugee queen?
Have you heard the tales of her
Prayers and constant charity?

Have you heard of how Queen Margaret
Stole the Maundy Thursday offering,
Giving it to every beggar
Who came by the house of God?

Have you heard of how she welcomed
Those who fled from William’s power?
Have you heard of how she took in
Enemies and begging lords?

Have you heard of how she lived
Upon her knees in endless prayer,
Scotland’s queen but God’s firm beggar,
Begging nothing for herself but

For God’s kingdom, everything?