I did not see them go there with their flame
to burn the city’s heart, the city’s bones.
I did not see the past fall down in ash
or hear the cries of covenant in pain.
I did not hear the gongs of history clash
or see foe-cities’ gods fight in the square.
Yet in me is a city dead, and groans
of all our cities lost and yet to come.
In all our homes are ghosts, and everywhere
are souls displaced from homes, and everyone
has lost their way from some-where to where-else;
I do not know their places or their ways,
yet in me is the city’s call, the pulse
of beggars in a dust-heap singing praise.
If what Christians believe is true, then Gide knows now what all of us will know before long. What is it that he knows? What is it that he sees?
(Francois Mauriac, “The Death of Andre Gide”)
Was it better by far to be wily, in the end?
Maintaining to the last where Montaigne had failed,
were you applauded for living your art?
The wager – held firm to the last –
carried you further than most will willingly go.
Even Sartre, expelling God to the margins of thought,
rejected your logic, your choice of your filth.
Was your choice for all? In clenching your jaw,
you made God relevant, at every call.
Headphone-bound, children sing as I round the corner.
The nonchalance of late morning traffic greets
a flutter of flight – black and white feathers –
painting the street in uncontrolled strokes:
a rise, a swoop, a leap, a fall.
Ballet-graced, yet deadly in its implications:
too wild, too close to the turmoil of wheels.
Cars persevere. Children sing:
Veni Domine, et noli tardare.
O come; no delay. Around the tyre-tracks of the day,
a magpie fights death as it flies.
The bee is not afraid of me,
I know the butterfly.
Busy as themselves, they bustle
in explosion of hum and hive.
Contained, less fearsome, they pattern out their piece of wall
in splendour of black and Emperor’s yellow.
Intricate weaving, a tight-packed fabric of sweetness and protection,
this is nothing to startle at.
Yet children cannot play with them or with each other,
and deathly stings signal the sickness, not create it.
Until lion and lamb are united,
and babies can rest in the serpent’s nest,
until we have no fear of bees killing or dying,
until then we wait, and watch glory from afar.
Beauty still buzzes and demands our sight.
What fuels my pride is nothing like
what You gave up – true God, true man –
when you bowed as low as bowing goes,
as low as heaven spans.
What strikes my face is feather-like
beside the spear that pierced Your side;
my burdens roll onto the floor
beside the death You bore.
What mercy waits, my God, my God,
at bleeding, nailed, twisted feet,
is life abundant; this is death
which, dying, we call life.
Too fast you walk down the mountainside;
momentum gathers, yet of a false and fleeting kind.
A fig tree full of leaves, but fruit sorely lacking,
you see the glory but faint at the sight of blood.
Slow down. It is a long road and your companion lingers;
His death puts brakes on our downward slide.
Listen: past, present, future all gathered in Him,
the words of life may echo
if you heed the words of death.
Should those who have faith in Christ seek their salvation through their own works, or anywhere else?
No, they should not, as everything necessary to salvation is found in Christ. To seek salvation through good works is a denial that Christ is the only Redeemer and Savior.
(New City Catechism)
the chasm is too wide, the gap
too vast for any Good to bridge.
attempts to straddle death with works,
however beautiful, are only
in an infinite sea.
And know this:
all the ladder-clambering to
which the dying soul will turn
ascend the smallest rung,
can only slip, and slander grace
the sinner from her knees.
in our best attempts, our finest deeds,
our kindest actions, whitest fleece,
the width of grace’s arms which span
the heavens and the earth to take
into its cleansing grip.