…everything that is illuminated becomes a light…
Too dark, Leonard.
Just after Solstice, the days still short,
the dark surprised me in its early arrival,
and your first song grabbed me
with its midnight-pitch grip,
and Isaac bound by demons,
crying, Here I am, Lord.
These days are dark enough; I
turned from you to Bach,
where even wintry Leipzig
could sing with counterpoint.
I did not want it darker. The darkness always gapes
and I have fought for life to prise
myself out from its grip.
A cry of what? Of pain?
I cry, I cry, out to the Light
to banish dark again.
Hold tight. Hold me tight:
what coverings I have sought,
cannot disguise my nakedness.
My shame burns garments – yet
You clothe in righteousness.
Hold me tight; You are enough,
yet I am afraid, and turn
to fig-leaves when rightly I should
bathe myself in You.
O Lamb, my joy, my garment of blood,
O hold me tight.
J.S. Bach / Ich habe genug, BWV 8 (Herreweghe): https://youtu.be/XopQG0Gjgmo
Number days, yet know your days
are kept in Him.
If He held stars, then He can hold
your dross, your deadened weight.
At dead-ends, wait. He makes
all things well.
Hope can break, yet covenant
anchors days and ends.
Morning mends. The dross, the deadened weight
of broken hope lifts.
When days are numbered, unencumbered
steadfast love holds tight.
[BWV 12] 06. Choral. Was Gott tut, das ist wohlgetan: https://youtu.be/3Il1YH2x280
Waves drag, anchor fails –
my God my God why
In this torpor, what lifts?
The heart, bird-like, hovers –
an albatross, a vulture?
Yet a dove dives deep and holds;
it coos what cannot be cried.
My God my God why
– too heavy for words, yet hands can be raised,
barely, above the waves.
This is enough. Moan, wail, cry.
Words are not needed where the Spirit has flight.
Trust, and open your drowning arms.
Lay me down –
slow me down and lay me down
upon the Cross, in Jesus’ hands.
Slow my heart and silence all
the numb self-serving of my pleas;
stifle pride, unlock the clench
of fists deep in this fickle dust.
Lay me down, my soul;
my soul in Jesus’ hands. Their scars
have room enough for me.
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.
In praises, bow.
The dust heap is not your final home, yet He is king
and though a king He also bowed
and, humble, became dust.
So wait in dust, and bow.
Such humble, unaffected fun befits the heirs
of one who danced the stars alight –
again! again! – in child’s constant joy.
Breathing into soil, He cherished soil;
rejoice; do not forget.
Do not forget His downward climb,
or His eyes turned in heavenward tears –
praise for truth revealed to babes;
anguish at the cup outstretched;
and always, Not my will but yours.
Bow at His feet and sing.
Bach Cantata, BWV 47 – 1.Chorus – Wer sich selbst erhöhet