Good Friday

Lent ends with a mirror:
I am the mocker, the spitter, the thief.
Like a child resenting their small role in the pageant,
I greet grace with a petulant, What about me?

This is me.
My role is the soldier with the reed and the crown,
the voice crying, Crucify! and, Messiah, come down.
I’m Judas and Pilate, am Herod, am the priests;
am the nails in the feet and the spear in the side,
am the object of all mercy’s most prodigal gifts,
am the face of Christ shining in victory.unnamed

From dust and ashes (After a poem by Nelly Sachs)

We travel through cosmic debris.
All the time a war wages – starshower missiles,
misguided asteroids.
The mayhem is our doing.
Harmony – meant to be sung –
ended with us.
Begin again with us.
From ashes we stand,
cupped hands opened to receive,
to re-enter Your orbit.

(Inspired by this translation of Nelly Sachs: https://nellysachsenglish.wordpress.com/2015/09/20/whoever-comes-from-the-earth/)

Rainy Day Sermon

saint_paul_rembrandt_van_rijn_and_workshop_c-_1657
Saint Paul – Rembrandt van Rijn

The text is darker in this weather,
     more emphatic, as though
while he wrote,
         outside prison walls Saint Paul
            saw the fall
of some Ephesian rain-drops and thought:
            If my plea should fall on hard soil…

Did he see the runaway slave
     in the wet, uncertain,
standing at
         his master’s door, with letter
            dripping ink
on solid Colossian stones, and fear
            a silent and stony reply?

Raindrops soften soil. Outside is damp,
     garden drenched. Too much heart
is a flood
         when heart hears abject pleading.
            Letter drips
today with softening truth, and yet
            for all my rain I still am clay.

Debt

Acknowledgment sounds with our morning yawn:

We have been in need; we have been held safe.

And the quiet of the dawn routine declares

That we are weak, are strangers to this day.

Awaken slowly. Infants in the world,

What will you do now? Fresh from the night’s grace,

Will you shake your horn’s fist at the first sight

Of anguish lurking at the silent light?

Forgiven much, enrage. The open space

Of day defies you. If all now unfurled,

How would it be to wait, to be, to say

Yet not my will? Grace’s true cost lies there

And we are not prepared. Our kinship chafes

As we seek love, reluctant, through the dawn.

Northbound at dusk

Jeffrey Smart painted this dying day:
burnt orange in floating smokestack steam,
needle-lights stretching in fluorescent dream,
the sojourn of light sinking in silent sway.
Daytime paints its canopy away
and minutes pass in inches as we glean
each moment, weigh each instant gram by gram.
Apologies buy flowers; much to say,
yet time is rare. I wish that now could be
a canvas on a wall that we could share.
I cross the bridge; I mount the street of bells.
Ascend, descend; the sound within us swells,
and expectation greets the seated air.
No movement; move. I gather you to me.

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