The Blue Shard

I walked in the city
On a sidewalk
No one near.
Strangely lonely,
Empty city.

In the gutter,  

A glint of sunshine.
I stopped,
Looked. 

Vivid with color

A large shard of glass,
Cobalt blue, shot through
With streaks of scarlet,
Gold, and purple.

Just a sharp sliver…

Of... something.
Thick on one side,
Thin on another,
Sun bright on its curve.

Had this glass,
Been a plate?
Or a cup?
Graceful vase?

I stepped into the gutter,

Stooped down to touch the surface,
Half afraid,
Half admiring,
Of the arrowed, slivered remnant

Something once complete.

Covered with cracks,
Some ridged and defined,
Some fine as a web,
Every part.

How came it?
Who made it?
For what purpose?
This once-lovely thing,
Now a shard?

Slivered,
Cracked,
In the street.
Like me.

Carefully,
Minding fingers,
I picked up the glass and
Held it to the light.

A once lovely thing,
Made for…something,
Its network of cracks caught the light,

I thought it sad to leave it,
I should put it in a fishbowl,
On a window, 
Or a shelf...or...

As I sat on the curb to consider,
I placed it back
On the pavement, 
And the shard crumbled to slivers.

O Wind of God

Breathe on me,
O Wind of God...
Blow sin's distraction from my mind,

Breathe on me,
O Wind of God,
Whisper wisdom from Your heart.

Blow soft--or strong,
O Breath of Life,
Scatter the debris of selfish pain.

Breath of Heaven,
Dance with me,
Fresh and clean and full of rain.

In Your hands,
Ruach Divine,
May freedom come...
And songs of joy.

Disappointment, Hope's Brother

Disappointment, Hope’s brother,
lurks around the edges,
Waiting till you forget he is there
to slide in
quiet and, dark.

Disappointment doesn't like it
when Hope comes to visit,
With her shy smile,
tentative moves,
shining eyes.

Disappointment is
forgotten
in Hope’s presence
Almost.

But when Hope goes away,
her brother rejoices,
Making his moves   
while he can.

Sometimes he is strong
and prevents Hope's return,
But she waits, quietly
at the door.

Disappointment  grows stronger
Shadowing Hope till she dims.
He believes he has won,
and can stay till the end.

In truth, it does seem
he may
win for a while...
but at the end of the story,
When all things are know,
Hope abides
And Disappointment will die.

Seven Stanzas at Easter by John Updike

As a young writer, John Updike submitted “Seven Stanzas at Easter” to a religious arts festival at the Lutheran church he attended. He won the “Best in Show” award for the poem and returned his $100 prize to the congregation. I am, once again, posting it as we celebrate another Resurrection Sunday because to me he acknowledges the "if" that many may struggle with. As someone has noted,  all of the 35 lines in the poem deal with a question that can make Christians squeamish: How should we talk about the Resurrection? Updike didn't want to talk about it from some some nebulous metaphoric "middle" that turns it all into a nice story.

He is risen! He is risen indeed!

Make no mistake: if he rose at all
It was as His body;
If the cell’s dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit,
The amino acids rekindle,
The Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
Each soft spring recurrent;
It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the
Eleven apostles;
It was as His flesh; ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes
The same valved heart
That—pierced—died, withered, paused, and then regathered
Out of enduring Might
New strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
Credulity of earlier ages:
Let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
Not a stone in a story,
But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of
Time will eclipse for each of us
The wide light of day.

And if we have an angel at the tomb,
Make it a real angel,
Weighty with Max Planck’s quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in
The dawn light, robed in real linen
Spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed
By the miracle,
And crushed by remonstrance.

Who Do You Say That I Am?

Mark 8:27-9:1
Jesus went on with his disciples to the villages of Caesarea Philippi; and on the way he asked his disciples, ‘Who do people say that I am?’ And they answered him, ‘John the Baptist; and others, Elijah; and still others, one of the prophets.’ He asked them, ‘But who do you say that I am?’ Peter answered him, ‘You are the Messiah.’ And he sternly ordered them not to tell anyone about him.

Then he began to teach them that the Son of Man must undergo great suffering, and be rejected by the elders, the chief priests, and the scribes, and be killed, and after three days rise again. He said all this quite openly. And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him. But turning and looking at his disciples, he rebuked Peter and said, ‘Get behind me, Satan! For you are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.’

He called the crowd with his disciples, and said to them, ‘If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake, and for the sake of the gospel,* will save it. For what will it profit them to gain the whole world and forfeit their life? Indeed, what can they give in return for their life? Those who are ashamed of me and of my words* in this adulterous and sinful generation, of them the Son of Man will also be ashamed when he comes in the glory of his Father with the holy angels.’ And he said to them, ‘Truly I tell you, there are some standing here who will not taste death until they see that the kingdom of God has come with* power.’

Who do people say that I am?
A prophet, a priest, a king?
A good man, a teacher, a fraud?
A liar, a madman, a myth?

Who do people see that I am?
Blue-eyed and pink-cheeked and blond?
Golden with slanted, dark eyes?
Black skinned with crisp, curly hair?

Who do people think that I am?
A man on a cross in the church?
A cool dude with beard and long hair?
A nice bedtime story for children?

But who do you say that I am?
The question is still just the same.
Can you follow me through fire and water,
Through chaos and trouble and pain?

Can you lose your life so you may find it?
Can you die to your old dreams and plans?
Will you follow the Savior to Calvary
To lay down your life for the world?

Will you trust in God's mercy and kindness,
God's grace and God's way and God's plan?
Will you seek God so that you may find Him?

Who do you say that I am?

Dorcas George

Poetry Party

Christine over at Abbey of the Arts is offering another poetry party opportunity. She shares a picture and invites us to share poems or reflections. I'd like to quote a bit of what she says about this one.

I am writing a book right now on using the four elements of earth, fire, wind, and water as doorways into a greater intimacy with creation and God. These spring days the earth is flowering and flourishing in the northern hemisphere and we recently celebrated Earth Day. So I am inviting you to write poems in honor of the gift of earth and the ways God is revealed to you through stone or mountain, flower or fruit. Let this be your hymn of praise to creation.

When I was in Ireland two years ago I fell in love with the stones which marked the landscape as boundaries to mark property, as ancient tombs like Newgrange honoring the dead, and as stone circles which date from 7000-3500 BC. These filled me with awe and wonder as windows onto an ancient people and their recognition of the enduring power of stone. Stories fill these rocks and they sing of a God who offers us solidity and a glimpse of the eternal.

So here is my poem, though I'm not thrilled with it.

Did I conceive all this people? Did I give them birth, that you should say to me, 'Carry them in your bosom, as a nurse carries a nursing child...I am not able to carry all this people alone; the burden is too heavy for me!

Moses, to God

Someone asked me, once
"May I call God Mother?"
Peoples of the ancient times
Knew truth that we do not,
sometimes.
Who is "Mother Nature" if not God?

God is timeless
God "conceives" and "carries"
and holds to a breast.
God the Father
God the Mother
Creator of Life.

God's eternal power and character cannot be seen. But from the beginning of creation, God has shown what these are like by all he has made...Oh, the depth of the riches of the wisdom and knowledge of God!
The Apostle Paul, to the Romans

Such knowledge is too much for me,
a daughter of The Ancient and The New.

===

Readers of this blog who have been around for a while know that last year I lost my beloved sister, Darlaine, to Alzheimer's. Grady is Darlaine's son and among other things, she passed on her love of words to him. When I visited Abbey of the Arts I was surprised to find an entry from Grady! I just had to share his beautiful poem here as well. I love you, Grady.

Sunlight is shining
Liquid be flowing
Basalt be standing
Heaven is glowing

To all with beginninga purpose is given
To all of creation a mission of love
To all Sons of Adam
an incomplete frenzy
To Sons of the Father a glorious gift

Flying, the birds
Growing, the grass
Swimming, the fish
Giving, the star

Practicing Resurrection

It is the 33rd "Poetry Party" over at Abbey of the Arts where our hostess posts a picture and invites us to share thoughts or poems. If you would like to participate (for a chance at a prize), or just view the submissions, head on over.

Here is mine, as I remember my California beginnings:

Luminous days of summer sun

Salt Spray, Hot Sand, Cool Breeze

me on the shore

Anticipating.

The family reclining behind me

Pretty Sisters, Scratchy Blankets, Beach Boys

me on the shore

Pretending.

Mother anxious, Daddy hopeful

Bright Towels, Radio Static, Picnic Basket

me on the shore

Shivering.

Shaking with fear-tinged joy

New Swimsuit, Curving Waves, Cold Splash

me on the shore

Toes curled.

Running, gasping with exhilaration,

Sweet Laughter, Happy Shouts, Burning Eyes

me in the surf

Topsy-turvey.

Remembered like years are nothing,

Passing Childhood, Fractured Family, Lost Security

me in the surf

Feeling little.

Somewhere inside my thoughts are,

Determined Faith, Stubborn Hope, God's love

me in the world

Wondering.

When will the final day arrive

Last Ending, Spirit Crossing, Eternal Beginning,

me with Father God,

Resurrected?

Jesus smiling down at me with

Warm Recognition, Open Welcome, Outstretched Hand

me a child again

Beginning.

A Poem in "Everyday Journal"

I am pleased to say that one of my poems, "Father's Daughter" has been published in the Spring edition of The Everyday Journal, part of the website "Everyday Liturgy." The spring issue is titled "Women in Theology."

The journal will be available in print later, but you can check out this edition by clicking HERE. The link to my poem is down a ways in the table of contents, but if you are interested in the topic there is lots of thought-provoking reading.

If you are amused or surprised that a Pentecostal who knows little about liturgy has a poem there--well--I am amused as well. :-) In a good way.

Celtic Woman -- A New Journey -- The Prayer

Sometime ago I had the great pleasure of going with a friend to see Celtic Woman. The following video features Chloe singing a song that was part of that evening's performance. I find these words

Need to find a place
Guide us with your grace
Give us faith so we'll be safe

particularly poignant. Somewhere in each of us lives a child who longs for a safe place. This is particularly true for those of us who had no safe place in our world, particularly during the years when we formed out opinions about the world and our place in it. We humans look for patterns, for reason and logic and order; it is part of who we are and how we survive in the world.. I suspect that part of the reason for that is our need to feel in control, to feel safe. Yet every day horrible, unjust, painful, unfair, wrong things happen and sometimes they make no sense. The truth is, there is no safe place--except in God.

From Romans 8

For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God...he adopted you as his own children. Now we call him, “Abba, Father.” For his Spirit joins with our spirit to affirm that we are God’s children. And since we are his children, we are his heirs. In fact, together with Christ we are heirs of God’s glory. But if we are to share his glory, we must also share his suffering. Yet what we suffer now is nothing compared to the glory he will reveal to us later. For all creation is waiting eagerly for that future day when God will reveal who his children really are. Against its will, all creation was subjected to God’s curse. But with eager hope, the creation looks forward to the day when it will join God’s children in glorious freedom from death and decay. For we know that all creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. And we believers also groan, even though we have the Holy Spirit within us as a foretaste of future glory, for we long for our bodies to be released from sin and suffering. We, too, wait with eager hope for the day when God will give us our full rights as his adopted children, including the new bodies he has promised us...wemust wait patiently and confidently.

I believe the Bible teaches that God's creation was marred by sin. Since we are given freedom to choose God's way or to reject God's way, this world is not a safe place. That is difficult, isn't it? We can, and should, take steps to make places of peace and security, places of love and acceptance and forgivness. But our true and eternal safety is found in the hope that God will one day give us our complete inheiritance as children. God is our safe place!

The words to the song are below the video.



I pray you'll be our eyes
And watch us where we go
And help us to be wise
In times when we don't know
Let this be our prayer
As we go our way
Lead us to a place
Guide us with your grace
To a place where we'll be safe

I pray we'll find your light
And hold it in our hearts
When stars go out each night
Remind us where you are
Let this be our prayer
When shadows fill our day
Lead us to a place
Guide us with your grace
Give us faith so we'll be safe

We ask that life be kind
And watch us from above
We hope each soul will find
Another soul to love
Let this be our prayer
Just like every child
Needs to find a place
Guide us with your grace
Give us faith so we'll be safe

Need to find a place
Guide us with your grace
Give us faith so we'll be safe

Lead Me to the Cross

Matthew 20:28
"...the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many."

Not to be served
but to serve.

The words sound
good
and holy and right.
We know, Lord,
we followers of yours,
that we are servants.

It sounds simple,
and if
we only could.
Why is it
so hard
this simple thing?

Lead me to the cross
and remind me
Oh Lord,
that my life
is lost
so I may be found.

Lead me to the cross,
and remind me.

D.G.

Hosanna!

John 12:12-13

The next day a great multitude that had come to the feast, when they heard that Jesus was coming to Jerusalem, took branches of palm trees and went out to meet Him, and cried out:
“ Hosanna!
‘ Blessed is He who comes in the name of the LORD!’
The King of Israel!”

The sound of Phil Driscoll's gravelly yet stirring voice and his amazing trumpet transports me back to a time when my children were small, I was younger, more naive, and in some ways more hopeful about the Church, the world, and my place in it. The society and the world we live in seem fragile--perhaps broken beyond repair.

Oh Lord, may heaven and earth be filled with your glory. As we sing our "hosannas" today, may we be reminded that our praise is but a shadow of what is to come!

The verses that follow are not the words to the song. Those are my words. Be blessed today.



Holy, holy, holy Lord
God of power and might
Will you not rend the heavens
and come down?

Once again we praise You
And we sing and shout
Hosanna
Once again we sing
of victory.

Can you see them
on the road
lifted palms--and hearts and hands?
How the people shouted
even as the darkness gathered

The joy turned soon
to sorrow
as you wept to see Jerusalem
Do you weep to see us now
The lost and lonely?

Hosannah,
hosanna, hosanna
I will praise you on the road
And I will wait.

Holy, holy, holy Lord
God of power and might
Will you not rend the heavens
and come down?

Spring Changes

It always comes at season’s change,
This sense of fleeting life and time
…and loss.
A scent of spring in air still cold,
The sound of doves and rushing water.

In bed at dawn the window shows,
The slowly changing clouds and sky
…and trees,
I watch for buds and signs of green
Feeling my body’s sense of time.

Once it seemed I had forever,
The days were sweetly slow
…and warm.
I listened to the voices loved,
Anticipating time unfolding.

So many voices passed and gone,
Those I thought would always be
…and here.
And death and loss were for some others,
People not at all like me.

I close my eyes and see the faces,
Smiling, frowning, happy, sad
…and mine.
And always time to make things right
Time to change and time to grow.

Spring pushes up beneath the ice, and
Snow as winter passes on
…and melts.
Yet, brings a sense of life that is
Not meant to last forever.

How did it happen that I now
Look back at seasons lived and spent
…and over?
Marriage, children, work and change,
Life abundant, full of grace.

My eyes look like my father’s eyes,
My hair looks like my mother’s.
I wake to birdsong bright
…and sweet.
And life seems short and swift
And must be cherished day by day.

Melancholy thoughts to greet
A beautiful spring morning,
I think of God’s eternal life
…and wonder.
What days will come and what,
Will spring’s change bring me?

Ashes to Ashes

Over at Abbey of the Arts, Christine once again welcomes us to a poetry party where she posts a picture and invites us to submit a poem. The theme this time is Ashes to Ashes. All are welcome to come and read (or post).

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust,

From dust we are, to dust return.

By caskets standing,

We hear the words

from priest

or preacher..

or from

God.

Melancholy though it is,

Our lives are frail

and short

and gone

as if

They never were.

When leaves are green and life is new

No thoughts of life's brief mystery!

Our bodies feel the green

of life

And live false immortality!

As life goes past and we begin

to feel the brevity of time,

We know the truth

of "dust we are..."

And wait for when

our time

Will come.

Sometimes through fear,

or grief or pain,

Sometimes through darkness

Leaves grow dry

Now life is dim and dust

and ash,

Sweet green becomes a memory.

And as the strength of nascent life

Turns brown and crisp

and fleeting, blown

by winds of time and loss and age

Our souls begin

to long

for Home.

As we release

The trees of earth,

Our fragile frame,

"this mortal coil"

From dust we are,

To dust we go,

O Death, your

breath

is cold!

But wait,

This earthly phase is not

Our final place of bursting green!

We feel the surge of life and growth

and fresh hope of Infinity.

Yes, dust we are,

Yet hidden here,

Divine spark of eternity!

To dust we are, to ashes go...

Eternal Tree of Life begins!

A Poem on Candlemas

Being a warm-weather lover and living in the northland is very difficult this time of year. I wait and watch as the days, bit by bit, grow longer. It is never my best time, but combined with several losses and some deep uncertainties, this year is worse than usual. Abbey of the Arts periodically posts an evocative image and invites readers to submit a poem. I wrote this poem on Candlemas, Feb. 2nd, the day that is halfway between the winter solstice and the spring equinox.

O God,
How long...
this winter of
my heart?
The sky is gry
and my feet walk
on ice.

Passing the shop
Sweet purple shoots...
Spring hope.

O God,
The ground is crisply
Cold…White…Frosted
and numbing ice

O God,
My dreams are gone
Cold…Lost…Broken
and slippery Ice

O God
My world is numbing
Cold…Torn…Dark
and muddy ice

O God,
My heart is weeping
Cold…Loss…Fear
and frigid ice

Are you sleeping… absent… dead?
O God of Cold and Ice…?

O God,
Somewhere inside,
Sweet…Spark…of Life
and Purple Hope.

O God
I search for you, ,
I pray… Seek… Long
For spring


In me.

Rev Gal Blog Pals is Three Years Old Today

Three years ago today, a group of women preachers began a webring, opened a cafepress store with t shirts and mouse pads and stuff (the mouse pad is shown above), and started a communal blog. In honor of this auspicious occasion I have taken the liberty of penning an ode, a sonnet, a poem okay I'll call it a limerick to celebrate Rev Gal Blog Pals. I've met preachers and their friends from many denominations and walks of life. I've shared joy and heartache (both mine and others) rethought some of my assumptions (some I discarded and some I kept), and found friends.

Three years ago today,
RevGals was on it's way,
The preachin' gals,
And preacher's pals,
Made history that day!

The blogs are fun to do,
The Preacher's Party too,
And Friday Five and all that jive,
Give us a place to play!

We gripe and pray and blog,
And sometimes go whole hog,
With cyber parties, real ones too,
There's always something new!

So Happy Birthday, Gals,
And Happy Birthday, Pals,
Three years today--Hip hip hurray!
It is a party day!

Climbing the Stairs

Not long ago I posted about the late Larry Norman. Last week I found myself singing an odd combination of songs. One was from Larry's first album, one that started a revolution in Christian music. The song was "Walking Backwards Down the Stairs." I had not thought of the song for a long time, but remembered that I had thought it was about growing complacent or lazy--"backsliding" as we said in my childhood church. Now, as the words drifted through my mind again after many years, I heard them in a very different way.

The other song, "Higher Ground" (also remembered from long ago) was written by Johnson Oatman, Jr. and composed by Charles H. Gabriel.

One is about going down, the other is about going up. I found Larry's song, and then I found a bluegrass version of "Higher Ground" -- and I liked it, though I'd never heard it that way before.

The poem is my attempt to sort out conflicting feelings Singing both those songs for a week, I realized they expressed different parts of my heart longings. The italicized verses are the stanzas and chorus of "Higher Ground."

Micah 4:2 "Come, let us go up to the mountain of the LORD.. .

Phil. 3:14 I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

Daunting stairways are
just a way to rise up higher!
Love and I run up the stairs!
Together we just cannot fall!

First alone and then with one
and two and three then four and more,
we link arms, and we go up.
We long for God, and higher ground!

I’m pressing on the upward way,
New heights I’m gaining every day;
Still praying as I’m onward bound,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.”

As we together climb the stairs.
And others come and help us,
Breath catches in my chest and heart,
Not easy, running up these stairs!

Here come some “friends” with gifts and smiles,
And strong arms, and new vigor,
Come, let us climb the stairs with you
We’ll take you so much higher.

Lord, lift me up and let me stand,
By faith, on Heaven’s table land,
A higher plane than I have found;
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

Why is it now that those who climb
the stairs are growing fewer?
Why don’t we see we cannot rise
by pushing others downward?

My comrades on the stairs are less,
though others joined us on the Way.
And some don’t see, as they retreat,
they’re walking backwards down the stairs!

I want to live above the world,
Though Satan’s darts at me are hurled;
For faith has caught the joyful sound,
The song of saints on higher ground.

Shadow Man, astride the stair,
contempt and pride are in your eyes.
What do you have to do with me?
You shall not stop me on my way!

Move aside and let me pass!
You know just who I am.
Child of the King and loved by God,
and who are you to block our climb?

My heart has no desire to stay
Where doubts arise and fears dismay;
Though some may dwell where those abound,
My prayer, my aim, is higher ground

The Shadow moves as we press on
And link our arms and hearts once more.
Yet feet are slow and stumbling now,
What became of hope and joy?

Salty tears flow down my face,
and once, then twice, I slip and fall.
Blood mingles with the tears and sweat.
We’re sick and weary---some have died.

I cannot see the top above.
The stairs grow longer as we go
Where is the Spirit in this pain,
this walking backwards down the stairs?

Lord, lift me up and let me stand,
By faith, on Heaven’s table land,
A higher plane than I have found;
Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

The Shadow Man is back again,
delighting in our fear of death.
He thinks he’s winning as he laughs,
at pilgrims walking down the stairs.

Oh Water of Life, we pray to you!
Please come to us, the thirsty.
We’ll share the water giv'n to us,
and then, refreshed, keep climbing.

I want to scale the utmost height
And catch a gleam of glory bright;
But still I’ll pray till Heav’n I’ve found,
“Lord, plant my feet on higher ground

There is no fear of death—no sting,
The Saviour won the battle!
And we will yet be bold and strong,
And climb again these stairs to God!

Jesus, my God and King and Lord,
awaiting our arrival,
feels sorrows for our loss, our grief,
but smiles to know we shall press on.

Lord, lift me up and let me stand,

By faith, on Heaven’s table land,

A higher plane than I have found;

Lord, plant my feet on higher ground.

Into the Water

Into the Water

Down he fell, trusting, falling backward
into the tank, immersed by the waves
down into the cleansing waters
of the baptismal pool
telling the people
this was his
way, his
choice
being
saved
He rose
out into the
congregation
joining family
newfound church
His place of belonging
Where he can drink the word
heed the call to service to action
to change in his life, be born anew
Reclaimed by the sustainer, redeemer
the living God, creator of all, savior of all

by Raymond A. Foss

Why Did You Make Me Black?

My prison-chaplain husband found a poem on his desk the other day. It was unsigned, and we presume it was written by an inmate. Inmate poetry is plentiful, as you might imagine. He brought it home for me to read, thinking it exceptional and knowing I love poetry. I, too, found the poem's imagery remarkable and beautiful. I decided to share it. If I ever learn who the poet is, I will give credit where it is due.

I ASKED

Lord, Lord,

Why did you make me Black?

Why make someone,

The world wants to hold back?

Black is the color of dirty clothes,

The color of grimy hands and feet,

Black is the color of darkness,

The color of tire-beaten streets.

Why did you give me thick lips?

A broad nose and kinky hair?

Why did you make me someone,
Who receives the hated stare?

Black is the color of the bruised eye,

When someone you love gets hurt.

Black is the color of darkness,

Black is the color of dirt.

How come my bones are think,

And my hips and cheeks are high?

How come my eyes are brown.

Not the color of the daylight sky?

Why do people think I'm useless?

How come I feel so used?

Why do some who see my skin,

Think I should be abused?

Lord, I just don't understand,

What is it about my skin?

Why do some folks want to hate me,

And not know the person within?

Black is what people are "listed,"

When other want to keep them away,

Black is the color of shadows cast,

Black is the end of the day.

Lord, you know my own mistreat me,

And I know this isn't right.

They don't like my hair or the way I look,

They say I'm too dark or too light.

Lord, don't you think it's time,

For you to make a change?

Why not redo creation,

And make us all the same?

GOD ANSWERED

Why did I make you Black?

Why did I make you Black?

Get off your knees and look around,

Tell Me, what do you see?

You aren't made in the image of darkness,

I made you in the likeness of me!

I made you the color of coal,

From which the diamond is formed,

I mad you the color of oil,

The black gold that keeps people warm.

I made you from the rich, dark earth,

That can grow the food you need,

Your color's the same as the Panther's,

Known for her beauty and speed.

Your color is like the Black Stallion,

A majestic animal, he,

You aren't made in the image of darkness,

I made you in likeness of me!

All the colors of a heavenly rainbow,

Can be found in every nation,

And when all of these colors were blended well,

You became my greatest creation!

Your hair is the texture of lamb's wool,

Such a humble creature is he,

I am the Shepherd who watches them,
I'm the One who will watch over thee.

You are the color of midnight sky,

I put the star's gleam in your eyes,

A smile hides behind your pain,

That's why your cheeks are high.

You are the color of dark clouds formed,

When I send my strongest weather,

Your lips are full so when you kiss,

The one that you love will remember.

Your stature is strong, your bones are thick,

To withstand the burden of time,

The reflection you see in the mirror?

The image looking back is Mine.

Inspired by Genesis 1:26 and 27

"And God said, 'Let us make man in Our image, after Our likeness...So God created man in

His own image...male and female created he them.

Ode to St. Augustine

The good Dr. Platypus made me do it. Sorta. So without further delay, for your reading...um...enjoyment and your spiritual edification, I present this little verse in honor of the life of Church Father, St. Augustine of Hippo.

(SingingOwl looks around nervously, clears throat loudly and taps mike.)


In Honor of St Augustine

St. Augustine of Hippo,
Was quite a fan of Cicero.
He loved his Latin, not his Greek,
But sure did love the ladies.
Oh!

Monica was his mother,
She followed Jesus, no other.
Her son was smart but had no heart,
And pagan ways did beckon,
Oh!

He sought to learn philosophy,
And find a way to be quite free,
The Manicheans sounded right,
The told him “Sin! Why fight?”
Oh!

Augustine went off to Rome,
He taught and wrote and felt at home.
But soon his mistress had a son,
And life turned hard and sad.
Oh!

This man who was quite smart,
Sustained a broken heart.
His mistress gone, but life went on,
Good Bishop Ambrose came.
Oh!

This Ambrose was a reasoned man,
So Augustine did listen.
Could Christians be both smart and good?
Such questions then did come.
Oh!

A garden walk, God’s own sweet voice,
The scriptures showed he had a choice.
“Pick up and read” the voice did say,
He cried as he read Romans.
Oh!

He struggled with his thoughts and lusts,
He found it hard it hard to rest and trust.
A man of many gifts, he was
A man who loved his Lord.
Oh!

Augustine was made a priest,
The Word of God became a feast.
He preached and wrote of grace, and,
A bishop then became.
Oh!

He wrote and wrote and wrote some more,
His volumes are a goodly store.
Though his “Confessions” are quite lofty,
We read them still today.
Oh!

His life proceeded,
God he heeded,
He wrote and preached,
Till dead.
Oh!

To read a brief biography of St. Augustine in a more serious vein, see this post at Aardvark Alley.

The Cross X

The Cross at Jubilee Assembly of God

From John 19

Jesus, knowing that all things were now accomplished, said, “I thirst!” They filled a sponge with sour wine, put it on hyssop, and put it to His mouth. So when Jesus had received the sour wine, He said, “It is finished!” And bowing His head, He gave up His spirit.

Therefore, because it was the Preparation Day, that the bodies should not remain on the cross on the Sabbath (for that Sabbath was a high day), the Jews asked Pilate that their legs might be broken, and that they might be taken away. Then the soldiers came and broke the legs of the first and of the other who was crucified with Him. But when they came to Jesus and saw that He was already dead, they did not break His legs. But one of the soldiers pierced His side with a spear, and immediately blood and water came out.

And he who has seen has testified, and his testimony is true; and he knows that he is telling the truth, so that you may believe. For these things were done that the Scripture should be fulfilled, “Not one of His bones shall be broken.” And again another Scripture says, “They shall look on Him whom they pierced.”

After this, Joseph of Arimathea, being a disciple of Jesus, but secretly, for fear of the Jews, asked Pilate that he might take away the body of Jesus; and Pilate gave him permission. So he came and took the body of Jesus. And Nicodemus, who at first came to Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, about a hundred pounds. Then they took the body of Jesus, and bound it in strips of linen with the spices, as the custom of the Jews is to bury. Now in the place where He was crucified there was a garden, and in the garden a new tomb in which no one had yet been laid. So there they laid Jesus, because of the Jews’ Preparation Day, for the tomb was nearby.

Thank you Reverend Mommy, for this beautiful poem.

It is Friday

It is Friday

And I stand at the foot of the cross.

Nothing can be said,

nothing can be done.

Action is futile – hebel.

I can hold the other's hands and weep,

but I cannot be comforted.

It is Friday

And I stand at the foot of the cross.

The air is heavy still with waiting and longing.

Waiting for the inevitable, longing for the impossible.

Can this cup pass from me?

I look around me –

all the colors are muted.

Dusty browns and grays –

Cold and metallic.

Rolling black clouds

cover the brilliant blue of the sky

As my soul is occluded by pain.

All that remains is the red of the blood

Running down the weathered wood of the cross.

It is Friday

And I stand at the foot of the cross.

I reach out and touch the raised grain of the wood.

It is rough against my fingertips.

The pong of unwashed wool and bodies crowds my nose.

I smell fear, pain, death.

I taste it at the back of my throat.

I hear the labored breathing from the cross.

Death is near.

It is Friday

And I stand at the foot of the cross.

Remember Him!

Remember Him

as the silver cord is severed,

as the golden bowl is broken.

Remember Him

as the pitcher is shattered at the spring

and the wheel broken at the well.

Remember Him

as the dust returns to the ground it came from and

His spirit returns to the God who gave it.

It is Friday

And I stand at the foot of the cross.

Last night we shared candlelight communion together at our little church. Tonight, along with eleven other women I will be part of a drama at Saints Peter and Paul Catholic Church, three miles away. I pray each of you has a "Good Friday" that is indeed good--good with an awareness of what Jesus has done because of love. As we enter into a time of waiting, may our identification with him in the hour of suffering and death make our coming celebrations all the more beautiful and joyous.