Catechism 52

What hope does everlasting life hold for us?
It reminds us that this present fallen world is not all there is; soon we will live with and enjoy God forever in the new city, in the new heaven and the new earth, where we will be fully and forever freed from all sin and will inhabit renewed, resurrection bodies in a renewed, restored creation.
(New City Catechism)

No fall.
When the door swings out and, face-to-face we realise
all our clutching life could only mimic, never be,

we shall not fall
for all our walking here has been stumbling.
Now we stumble –
for who wouldn’t, when wandering in cloud?
Then we shall move

in the fluency of union,
fruit restored,
life itself again – no shadow –
and never will we grasp for knowing
that we are held

and stay.

No turning

I dreamt a ferryboat dream where,
crossing some unknown stretch of deep,
we struck another time and you
were lost into the depths of There,
and, Orpheus, I wandered far
where loss and past commingled in
faint glimpses of your head – behind
only, never quite your face.
And when re-united, by those turns
that dreams sometimes have when full known,
I wondered where within the tale
we stood – if I had turned behind
and lost you, only now to have
you back again, in some sweet form
of ancient woe retold with joy,
or if the worst was yet to be.
All dreams will pass, and I awoke,
the ferry gone, and all of our
dark passings-by now still.
And in the stasis of the night,
I looked up to the ceiling, through
the roof, to stars – white-bright, though dead –
and still were all night’s ferryboats;
no shadow turned, or clung onto
the glimpse of dreams to be.

Before we save the daylight


The city is quietly occupied, the day protected –
as though something must be done.
Watch a screen by all means,
but first gather friends,
and walk to the shops to lubricate the day.
Or hit the streets, if you choose –
to enjoy unexpected sunshine, and the hum,
like a ball hissing through the sky,
of a city in agreement.
Deeper meaning is lost, yet perhaps we still glimpse Sabbath:
a quiet acceptance that today we need not be boss.
Whatever sport we make, however we will spend
the lost hour of this night –
rejoice now in daylight,
in a moment which can neither be bought nor saved,
yet beckons the endless holiday,
the game that can only be won.



I gather moments like raindrops,
         like snowdrops:
these microscopic buds of spring
         tricked by sun
     to come out, one     by one;
  I see
how hesitant can be
              can be
     the grandest glimpse of things
               and sing.

I catch the way your moments dance
         from distance –
yet close enough to ring
         the shadows into song
       in soft, legato days  of praise.
   I find
how hopefully we hold
               and hold
      in tentative expectancy
                  to see.

You hold our hope in moments of joy,
What we do not expect
          grips tight. I neglect
       too soon what we know.    Let go
     of fears
that pass. Joy is forever,
       the things that stir our hearts in song.
               Not long.


Catechism 1

What is our only hope in life and death?
That we are not our own but belong, body and soul, 
both in life and death, to God and to our Saviour 
Jesus Christ.
(New City Catechism)

Not my own; what then?
Within this case, these bones, this skin,
World seen through these squinting eyes,
Heart held in this pulsing cage,

     I see, I look, I hold, I yearn,

And fail to yearn for what will be.
Not my own, but bought by grace,
Remaining in this human frame,
I must give all for all He gave

    And learn to yearn
    With grace-shaped heart.

I watch these other hopes fall off
Like leaves, like dross, like passing light,
Watch eternity stretch, bind, hold,
And gather me in with hope.


You’ve heard, of course, how Blaise Pascal played dice –
An arbitrary way to find the truth,
As though the logic, weighed up in a trice
(A coin tossed in the air), could render proof
Redundant. Can eternity be found
In such impulsive propositions? We
Feel that faith should demand much surer ground.
All the same, cast your eyes about you; see
The endless space of universe and how
Your eyes cannot contain, nor can your mind,
The start or end of anything. Well now:
Trust your instinct, trust the facts you find;
Either way, your trust’s a game of chance,
But God pursues us in this fretful dance.

Faith and Sight

“Am I okay?” the question asks itself.
The mind retreats within to make reply
And eyes forever dart towards the shelf
(The cupboard open, fruit left out to dry).
Unsettled souls put back the oil of joy
And rifle through supplies to find the seed.
The memory bank’s a plastic, moulding joy,
Responsive to the anxious way we knead,
New lies put in for truth, new fears for peace.
For we transform the past each time we check,
And, moulding former years, these years can’t cease.
There’ll always be new jokers in the deck,
New ways to stop ourselves from singing praise
And counting blessings in these blessed days.

The lies I tell myself are always true;
I make them true with every strained belief,
Confirming in myself the self I rue
And batter in my mind without relief.
The other possibility is faint;
It’s scarred by life, by nails, by Cross’s shame.
I take white surfaces and then I paint
Dark colours which I call by my own name.
The patterns which I paint declare in me
The ridges and the grooves; the light I leave
For other selves. I paint the worst in me.
Tomorrow I will see what I believe:
Far safer for today to say the worst
Than trust the best and end up still accursed.

The leap required steps out into thin air,
For air is all I see, and yet I know –
Know what? what’s known? – the promises are there
Yet soft like wind and silent like the snow.
The space of possibility is vast
And frightens as it welcomes and gives flight;
It echoes with the failures of the past
And glares with futures, blank for being bright.
Determinism sings a well-known strain,
The soundtrack of tomorrow’s yesterday.
If I should leap or if I should refrain
Is something which my history dare not say.
The answer lies in scars which, scarred for me,
Give rise to feet and lift me in their plea.

Lift feet and jump: the air is thick with grace;
The ground caves in the longer that you stand.
The chasm opens more the more you pace,
Yet time and space are pebbles in His hand.
No terra firma stands beneath your soles,
For land is weakest when it’s built on fear
And while you wait these fast-expanding holes
Make nothing of the truth that now appears.
So live: eternity is wide and welcoming,
And give: give all; the best you’ll give is loss
And glory’s weight outweighs the loss you bring.
When truth burns bright, it will burn out the dross
And emptiness will fill with very Light,
More deep than grave, more radiant than sight.