St. Dismas

 

St. Dismas

I think of you as the prince carried home, lord, lion
With a thorn mane riding on the thumbs
Of hunters in the black air smiling,
So hungry. You’re bleeding. I need to believe in
So I believe in your blood, the long down-rivers of your waist.
Listen, is this how fathers love?
I hear your chest try to escape its ruined field,
I hear how your cheek lolls in the dark
Of your neck. Forgive parts the dry lips, lord,
Can we all live in that murmur, the slight press of tooth
To tongue. Do we speak to them, down there? Spit and split
The moonlight. Your mother’s hands float on our feet like water.
I want that you remember me when you get there,
Take me through the shock, roped by biceps,
Already part way up the sky.
Who dies first. Who dies in the lanternlight swinging.
I begin to love you deep
In the valve your father pinned
In my heart

-- Eve Jones, poet, photographer, and professor at Lindenwood University (MFA UMSL), from Dappled Things journal

39One of the criminals who were hanged there kept deriding him and saying, "Are you not the Messiah? Save yourself and us!" 40But the other rebuked him, saying, "Do you not fear God, since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? 41And we indeed have been condemned justly, for we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man has done nothing wrong." 42Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom." 43He replied, "Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in Paradise."-- Luke 23:39-43

Scripture Reference: Luke 22:14-23:56 (The Passion Narrative), Palm/Passion Sunday, Good Friday; Reign of Christ C Proper 29C

Image: Remember Me, Barbara de Reus Kamma, New Guinean/Dutch, chamois leather and scrap wood, story can be found here at artway.eu.

Taize: "Jesus, Remember Me..."

[Hosanna! Welcome to Our Hearts, Lord]

    

Hosanna! Welcome to our hearts! Lord, here
Thou hast a temple too; and full as dear
As that of Sion, and as full of sin:
Nothing but thieves and robbers dwell therein:
Enter, and chase them forth, and cleanse the floor:
Crucify them, that they may never more
Profane that holy place
Where Thou hast chose to set Thy face!

—Jeremy Taylor (1613–1667)

Image: Stanley Spencer (1891-1959), Christ Overturning the Money Changers' Table

Scripture reference: John 2:13-22; Daily Office Year 1, Tuesday after 1st Sunday in Lent

Sign of the Cleansing of the Temple

   

Since His twelfth year, He year by year went up
To the temple with His kinsfolk. But this year
The Lord of the temple to His temple came,
Messias before men to manifest!

And worthy of Messias, sure, a pile
More vast, magnificent, costly in detail
Of marble, gold, rare stone, and carvenwork
Than any building earth sustains to-day!

Little knew Herod he had raised a palace
Greater than that of Solomon;—for why?
Greater than Solomon should go in and out,
Should teach and heal within those holy precincts,
Should there first utter words, sounding to-day
To His kingdom’s utmost verge, words of our life!
The King had come to the house prepared for Him
Of His Father, through King Herod’s liberal care—
Unworthy he to know grace laid on him!

All that vast reach of cloisters, hemming in
The outer court of the temple, searched His eye;
Corinthian pillars, white, innumerous,
Of purest marble, delicately wrought,
Of height surpassing and majestic grace,
Reaching toward the heavens,—fitting were these
For His Father’s house, made ready for the Son.

But what of them who occupied their business
In these fair chambers? The Lord of the house hath come:
What meaneth then that lowing in His ears,
Lowing of cattle, innocent cry of lambs,
Cooing of turtle doves in sacred place,
And, worse offence, that clink of many coins
Changed at the dealers’ tables? He is come
That should come! Scourge of small cords He grasps,
And this slight weapon, plied with burning zeal,
Sufficeth all the horde to drive before Him:—
The lusty butcher used to handle beasts
Immense and furious, money-changers’ greed
Stronger than ten strong men,—of what avail
That any should resist the arm of God
Wielding His lightest weapon? Forth they go,
An ignominious crew, nor dare to seize
On coin or beast of all their greedy store:
One Man drave forth the money-getting crowd,
Their beasts and they quailing before the Judge!
And John, who saw all, held the sight in his heart,
And knew thenceforth, Wrath of the Lamb, how dread!

“Make not my Father’s house a house of sales!”
Cried He whose house it was. And all at once
The disciples bethought them of that word of prophet,
“The zeal of Thine house shall eat me up!” and knew,
With sudden rapture, sign of the Messiah!
Scared in their pride, the Jews, the priests, stand by;
They see a sign, they know it for a sign,
But have not grace of truth sign to receive.
As cobwebs swept He specious pleas aside:
‘’Tis well that beasts for sacrifice be close
At hand, lest the people’s zeal to offer cool;’
‘They come from far, here let them change the coins
They bring, for pieces meet for temple dues:’
‘Why hinder we the ignorant, hither come
To do God service?’ None of this they plead;
Christ’s word about a place of merchandise
Had found them out; they, too, were traffickers,
And knew the rebuke for them; not for nought
Had they afforded all these stalls to merchants!
Swift to the mark goes every word of His,
And, cowed, they ask for sign that they might know
By what authority He did these things.

“A sign?” saith He: “Destroy ye this fair temple,
In three days I will raise it up again!”
They, hearing, understood not; how could they
Receive that doctrine of the holy place
God made in each man for His habitation?
“Full six and forty years,” they said, “this temple
Was building! Wilt thou raise it in three days?”
But of the temple of His body spake He:
When on third day He raised Him from the dead,
The Eleven remembered how He said this thing,
And all the more believed and knew the truth.

Men say, “Now, love we but our fellow-men,
And all the secret know we of Christ’s grace;
A passion moved Him, all-consuming love
For the weak and helpless, pity for the lost:
Let us but burn with love for suffering men,
And so are we disciples of the Christ,
Name we His Name or not, as pleaseth us!”

But, as through same grey skies breaks sudden light
And glorifies a space the common earth,
So through the dull complexion of the days
He walked with men as Man, sudden brake forth
A glory—the master-passion of our Master!—
“My Father’s business” and “My Father’s house,”
“My Father worketh hitherto,” and, “I
And My Father are one,”—as when cloak blown
Aside by wind reveals rich garb beneath,
Such glimpse get we, through words He spake by times,
Of passion serene, enthusiasm meek,
Ideal, burning zeal, in heart of Christ:
“My Father,”—lo, fresh spring of all His days!
Sole Origin and End of all His ways;
And for His Father’s love of men He died!
“But He, too, loves us?” Yea, verily, for He
And the Father, One! How should He save us else?

St. John ii. 13–22

-- Charlotte Mason (1842, 1923) British educator, education reformer, philosopher of education, writer and poet

Image: Alexander Smirnov, The Cleansing of the Temple

Ash Wednesday

    

"Yes--deep within and deeper yet
The rankling shaft of conscience hide,
Quick let the swelling eye forget
The tears that in the heart abide.
Calm be the voice, the aspect bold,
No shuddering pass o'er lip or brow,
For why should Innocence be told
The pangs that guilty spirits bow?

"The loving eye that watches thine
Close as the air that wraps thee round -
Why in thy sorrow should it pine,
Since never of thy sin it found?
And wherefore should the heathen see
What chains of darkness thee enslave,
And mocking say, 'Lo, this is he
Who owned a God that could not save'?"

Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart
Tempts him to hide his grief and die,
Too feeble for Confession's smart,
Too proud to bear a pitying eye;
How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall
On bosoms waiting to receive
Our sighs, and gently whisper all!
They love us--will not God forgive?

Else let us keep our fast within,
Till Heaven and we are quite alone,
Then let the grief, the shame, the sin,
Before the mercy-seat be thrown.
Between the porch and altar weep,
Unworthy of the holiest place,
Yet hoping near the shrine to keep
One lowly cell in sight of grace.

Nor fear lest sympathy should fail -
Hast thou not seen, in night hours drear,
When racking thoughts the heart assail,
The glimmering stars by turns appear,
And from the eternal house above
With silent news of mercy steal?
So Angels pause on tasks of love,
To look where sorrowing sinners kneel.

Or if no Angel pass that way,
He who in secret sees, perchance
May bid His own heart-warming ray
Toward thee stream with kindlier glance,
As when upon His drooping head
His Father's light was poured from Heaven,
What time, unsheltered and unfed,
Far in the wild His steps were driven.

High thoughts were with Him in that hour,
Untold, unspeakable on earth -
And who can stay the soaring power
Of spirits weaned from worldly mirth,
While far beyond the sound of praise
With upward eye they float serene,
And learn to bear their Saviour's blaze
When Judgment shall undraw the screen?


-- John Keble (1792-1866), Anglican priest, poet, and one of the leaders of the Oxford movement.

The Poem Rising by Its Own Weight

     

The poet is at the disposal of his own night—Jean Cocteau

The singing robes fly onto your body and cling there silkily,
You step out on the rope and move unfalteringly across it,
And seize the fiery knives unscathed and
Keep them spinning above you, a fountain
Of rhythmic rising, falling, rising
Flames,
And proudly let the chains
Be wound about you, ready
To shed them, link by steel link,
padlock by padlock–

but when your graceful
confident shrug and twist drives the metal
into your flesh and the python grip of it tightens
and you see rust on the chains and blood in your pores
and you roll
over and down a steepness into a dark hole
and there is not even the sound of mockery in the distant air
somewhere above you where the sky was,
no sound but your own breath panting:

then it is that the miracle
walks in, on his swift feet,
down the precipice straight into the cave,
opens the locks,
knots of chain fall open,
twists of chain unwind themselves,
links fall asunder,
in seconds there is a heap of scrap-
metal at your ankles, you step free and at once
he turns to go —

but as you catch at him with a cry,
clasping his knees, sobbing your gratitude,
with what radiant joy he turns to you,
and raises you to your feet,
and strokes your disheveled hair,
and holds you,
holds you,
holds you
close and tenderly before he vanishes.

-- Denise Levertov (1923-1997), Anglo-American poet, daughter of an Anglican priest, and convert to Catholicism.

Marked by Ashes

 

     

Ruler of the Night, Guarantor of the day . . .

This day — a gift from you.
This day — like none other you have ever given, or we have ever received.
This Wednesday dazzles us with gift and newness and possibility.
This Wednesday burdens us with the tasks of the day, for we are already halfway home
      halfway back to committees and memos,
      halfway back to calls and appointments,
      halfway on to next Sunday,
      halfway back, half frazzled, half expectant,
      half turned toward you, half rather not.

This Wednesday is a long way from Ash Wednesday,
   but all our Wednesdays are marked by ashes —
      we begin this day with that taste of ash in our mouth:
         of failed hope and broken promises,
         of forgotten children and frightened women,
      we ourselves are ashes to ashes, dust to dust;
   we can taste our mortality as we roll the ash around on our tongues.

We are able to ponder our ashness with
   some confidence, only because our every Wednesday of ashes

   anticipates your Easter victory over that dry, flaky taste of death.

On this Wednesday, we submit our ashen way to you —
   you Easter parade of newness.
   Before the sun sets, take our Wednesday and Easter us,
      Easter us to joy and energy and courage and freedom;
      Easter us that we may be fearless for your truth.
Come here and Easter our Wednesday with
   mercy and justice and peace and generosity.

We pray as we wait for the Risen One who comes soon.


-- Walter Brueggemann (1933- ), American theologian, pastor, author, poet, and former professor at Eden Theological Seminary in Webster Groves.

Rend Your Heart

     

To receive this blessing,

all you have to do
is let your heart break.
Let it crack open.
Let it fall apart
so that you can see
its secret chambers,
the hidden spaces
where you have hesitated
to go.

Your entire life
is here, inscribed whole
upon your heart’s walls:
every path taken
or left behind,
every face you turned toward
or turned away,
every word spoken in love
or in rage,
every line of your life
you would prefer to leave
in shadow,
every story that shimmers
with treasures known
and those you have yet
to find.

It could take you days
to wander these rooms.
Forty, at least.

And so let this be
a season for wandering
for trusting the breaking
for tracing the tear
that will return you

to the One who waits
who watches
who works within
the rending
to make your heart
whole.

- Jan Richardson, Methodist writer, author, artist, and poet

The Agony & The Garden

 

i.
Now all he dreams are ropes,
sees them in the trees at the beginning of
the world: grim slide of vines
through first light
throat-tails dangled, mother-arms,
an instinct of the hand to twist, like a heart,
around what it holds.

ii.
Half his heart is a campfire.
Father, he begins, father,—
He stands there and the black gears of night lurch
through sand. On the other side of the hill olive trees
descend into questions, into women, into merchants,
into emperor flesh, into pottery, into bread, into a child’s
mouth, into a waltz, into the printing press, into thermometers,
into sighing gardens, into motion pictures, into
glass, into bedposts, into soup, into car exhaust, into rain,
into glaciers, into unread letters, into ATMs.

Father, the wind. The ordinary life.

iii.
He does not understand women,
was given no glimpse or direction. He only
knows the world unfolds from their robes the way
wine spills from a cup.

He knows they sometimes take the form of angels,
and they will take the bruised form of saints,
and celestial bodies,
they are like long roads, the hushed underneck
of a swan, and they reach, wanting
to know you, palms uncoiling
past
you in ecstasy.

iv.
It’s the nightmare again in which his feet
are splinters, and his mother is gasping,
and his face peels off onto linen,
and his father watches him from a night tree,
and there is some great secret he must shove
up the hill, to the sky,
where he is loved, loved
only by thieves.

v.
The world lights a broken man.
And the apparition he sweats beside,
realized into angel, into lamp, how it
bears him as the soldiers push
their way through blackness, through
the olives, thistle, and his dark-eyed heart,
a dinghy tossed in another life’s dream.
Far rain on the ocean, where a father is nowhere
to be found. If grace is the fixed star
we long for, the good disciples must sleep their parts,
hands folded on their hearts like oak
doors. Somewhere at the hillfoot the crossmaker
is roping beams in his shop’s
half-light. So they come and they come
in their armor, mirroring moonlight.
Now the moon opens on his heel.
The moon is the scent of a shy girl’s letter.
When they stand, and they stand, her feather tips
brush the wall.


-- Eve Jones, poet, photographer, former instructor at Lindenwood University, from Dappled Things journal.

Scripture reference: Matthew 26:31-41; Mark 14:27-37; (The Passion Liturgy, years A and B)

Image: Christ on the Mount of Olives, Paul Gauguin, 1889

Oratorio: Christ on the Mount of Olives, Op. 85, Ludwig van Beethoven, UC Davis Symphony Orchestra and Chorus

 

Don't Call Me a Stranger: The Cry of a Migrant

Don’t call me a stranger:
the language I speak sounds different
but the feelings it expresses are the same.

Don’t call me a stranger:
I need to communicate,
especially when language is not understood.

Don’t call me a stranger:
I need to be together,
especially when loneliness cools my heart.

Don’t call me a stranger:
I need to feel at home,
especially when mine is very far away from yours.

Don’t call me a stranger:
I need a family because mine I’ve
left to work for yours.

Don’t call me a stranger:
the soil we step on is the same
but mine is not ‘the promised land’.

Don’t call me a stranger:
the colour of my passport is different
but the colour of our blood is the same.

Don’t call me a stranger:
I toil and struggle in your land
and the sweat of our brows is the same.

Don’t call me a stranger:
borders, we created them
and the separation that results is the same.

Don’t call me a stranger:
I am just your friend
but you do not know it yet.

Don’t call me a stranger:
we cry for justice and peace in different ways
but our God is the same.

Don’t call me a stranger:
Yes! I am a migrant
but our God is the same.

--National Council of the Churches of India, found at Welcoming the Stranger: praying in solidarity with refugees from around the world, part 2: Lent and Easter, by the Jesuit Refugee Service, https://www.jrsuk.net/wp-content/uploads/2016/02/Lent-Prayers-Pack-JRS-UK-2016.pdf

Sunday Morning, King's Cambridge

File into yellow candle light, fair choristers of King’s

Lost in the shadowy silence of canopied Renaissance stalls
In blazing glass above the dark glow skies and thrones and wings
Blue, ruby, gold and green between the whiteness of the walls
And with what rich precision the stonework soars and springs
To fountain out a spreading vault – a shower that never falls.

The white of windy Cambridge courts, the cobbles brown and dry,
The gold of plaster Gothic with ivy overgrown,
The apple-red, the silver fronts, the wide green flats and high,
The yellowing elm-trees circled out on islands of their own –
Oh, here behold all colours change that catch the flying sky
To waves of pearly light that heave along the shafted stone.

In far East Anglian churches, the clasped hands lying long
Recumbent on sepulchral slabs or effigied in brass
Buttress with prayer this vaulted roof so white and light and strong
And countless congregations as the generations pass
Join choir and great crowned organ case, in centuries of song
To praise Eternity contained in Time and coloured glass.

--John Betjeman (1906-1984), British poet and writer, UK Poet Laureate from 1972-1984

Image from Wikipedia

A Better Resurrection

I have no wit, no words, no tears;

My heart within me like a stone 

Is numbed too much for hopes or fears; 

Look right, look left, I dwell alone; 

I lift mine eyes, but dimmed with grief 

No everlasting hills I see; 

My life is in the falling leaf: 

O Jesus, quicken me. 

 My life is like a faded leaf, 

My harvest dwindled to a husk: 

Truly my life is void and brief 

And tedious in the barren dusk; 

My life is like a frozen thing, 

No bud nor greenness can I see: 

Yet rise it shall—the sap of Spring; 

O Jesus, rise in me. 

 My life is like a broken bowl, 

 A broken bowl that cannot hold 

One drop of water for my soul 

Or cordial in the searching cold; 

Cast in the fire the perished thing; 

Melt and remould it, till it be 

A royal cup for Him, my King: 

O Jesus, drink of me.

-- Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English poet, sister of Dante Gabriel Rosetti, devout Anglican and supporter of the Oxford movement, from her book The Goblin Market and Other Poems. She is in the calendar of saints of the Anglican Church, with a feast day of April 27.

The Green Shiver

The forest floor bleak, choked
with old leaves, winter wet. Against
the evidence, buds on the wild dogwoods
glisten, listen for a signal, lining up
for bloom-time—when to burst and who'll
be first? Every year, it's all according
to weather, the wait for the heat-throb,
wind fresh through the naked
birch trunks longing to get green.
The pressure's on, like listening for a
starter pistol, finger on the trigger.

Spring is wound tight enough to let go
any minute. Overarching the ravine,
the cedars start their annual scatter of yellow
sexual dust for the next generation.
The clematis resists her tedium of cold and brown,
cancels her winter sleep with a vertical thrust
up the trellis, like a slow shooting star.

How can we help but hope, sprouts
urged to fulfill a kind of promise—
a covenant with the world that in unfolding,
leaf tips flaring up and out, woody hearts pregnant
with bloom and blessing, we will drink rain, light,
heat for our emerald living. We face the sun
full on—its lavish encouragement for cold to lift,
shift, and move away. Holding on, ready for
that shiver, a sliver of thrill like a jade thread
through a labyrinth, when within us
something fresh and green explodes.

-- Luci Shaw (1928- ), acclaimed Anglo-American poet, retreat leader, and Episcopalian

Refreshment

 John4: 5-42

Lenten violet and white papel picado flutter overhead, 
the bougainvillea blooms sprawl
over the crisp white tablecloths, 
altars beneath the warming Oaxacan sun.

Come, be refreshed. Offer up your cup 
from stall to stall, a feast amidst fast
for stranger or friend, all receive refreshment:
Agua frescas, jamaica, tamarindo, chilacoyata, horchatas, 
tejate brimming from clay bowls
on the Dia de la Samaritana.
The Pacific air is redolent and vibrant
with chocolate, sugar, 
sunlight and music.

Remembering the heat of another noonday sun,
in Samaria, scorned for its mongrel faith,
sprawled between the boundaries 
of Jerusalem’s industrialized religion
and Galilee with its olives and figs, 
crocus and anemone,
cyclamen nodding from rocky crevices.
His face was turned toward home.

He did not seek more contention
or midnight visitors brimming 
with questions. He sought 
a shortcut. The route 
should have been along seashore or river bank, 
but God so loved the world, 
and the world begins
within the hostilities in Samaria,
beyond boundaries of belief,
or the scorn of gender
or judgment and prejudice.

Photina sought to retrieve her water
when the gossiping tongues remained at home,
the heat of the sun less bitter,
her footsteps slowing as she took in
the shimmering shape of the dusty traveler
seated despite the noonday heat. 
Only her need overcame her wariness. But
despite all differences,
he did not judge her but loved her,
stripping away all the rumors that clung to her,
and seeing a disciple instead.

Through her refreshed perception
she was emboldened to witness;
by calling her to tend his humanity--
his weariness, his thirst, his hunger,
and seeing hers--
the disillusionment, the contempt she bore
even among her kindred, the 
burden of abandonment and scorn
but also the strength of mind and heart to dare.
His words provoke and promise, 
testimony received and boldly proclaimed
to her and to us.

Nicodemus saw he was from God,
but Photina saw he was Savior.

Come, be refreshed.
Let down your bucket within your heart
to receive the living water of joy,
faith and hope--
a wellspring of witness.

Come be refreshed and restored,
stranger or friend, 
by the love that was always within you
from the Maker’s handiwork 
and seal upon your soul.

It is only those who have need of Jesus
who hear the hope of the invitation,
who receive the offered cup of fresh water
of God’s kingdom.


Note: the Oaxacan festival of the Dia de la Samaritana will be March 17 this year.

--Leslie Barnes Scoopmire. This was first published at Episcopal Journal and Cafe's Speaking to the Soul on March 9, 2023.

Scripture Reference: John 4:5-42, Lent 3A

Undo the door, my spouse dear

"Undo thy door, my spouse dear, 

Alas! why stand I locked out here? 

   For I am thy mate. 

Look, my locks and also my head 

And all my body with blood bedewed, 

    For thy sake.” 

 “Alas! alas! evil have I sped, 

For sin Jesus is from me fled, 

    My true companion. 

Without my gate he standeth alone, 

Sorrowfully he maketh his moan 

 In his manner.” 

 Lord, for sin I sigh sore, 

Forgive, and I’ll do so no more, 

With all my might I forsake my sin, 

And open my heart to take thee in. 

For thy heart is cleft our love to catch, 

Thy love has chosen us all to fetch; 

My heart it pierced if I were kind, 

Thy sweet love to have in mind. 

Pierce my heart with thy loving, 

That in thee I may have my dwelling. 

Amen.

(MODERN ENGLISH TRANSLATION)


Vndo þi dore, my spuse dere, 

Allas! wy stond i loken out here? 

   fre am i þi make. 

Loke mi lokkes & ek myn heued 

& al my bodi with blod be-weued 

   For þi sake. 

 Allas! allas! heuel haue i sped, 

For senne iesu is fro me fled, 

   Mi trewe fere. 

With-outen my gate he stant alone, 

Sorfuliche he maket his mone 

   On his manere. 

 Lord, for senne i sike sore, 

Forʒef & i ne wil no more, 

With al my mith senne i forsake, 

& opne myn herte þe inne to take. 

For þin herte is clouen oure loue to kecchen, 

Þi loue is chosen vs alle to fecchen; 

Mine herte it þerlede ʒef i wer kende, 

Þi suete loue to hauen in mende. 

Perce myn herte with þi louengge, 

Þat in þe i haue my duellingge. 

Amen.

(ORIGINAL MIDDLE ENGLISH)

--Found in the 1372 "commonplace book" of the Franciscan friar John of Brimstone of Norfolk, England.

From the Art & Theology blog, I learn that I am using this blog and my notebooks as "commonplace books" for my preaching and writing. Glad to have a word for it!

Image: William Holman Hunt, 19th century pre-Raphaelite painter, "Light of the World (Manchester edition)

"Commonplace books were notebooks used to gather quotations and literary excerpts, with entries typically organized under subject headings. Preachers often kept them for homiletic purposes, gathering potential material for sermons. Grimestone’s is remarkable because it includes, in addition to much Latin material, 239 poems in Middle English. (English friars at the time regularly used vernacular religious verse in their sermons.) It is unknown whether Grimestone composed these verses himself or merely compiled them; likely, it is some combination. The first two stanzas of this particular poem are found, transposed, in another manuscript from almost a century earlier. Grimestone revised them slightly and added the third stanza. 

Belonging to the Christ-as-lover tradition, “Undo thy door” is based primarily on Song of Solomon 5:2, cited in Grimestone’s manuscript: “I sleep, but my heart waketh: it is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: for my head is filled with dew, and my locks with the drops of the night.” In a clever interpretation of the Old Testament source, the poet imagines the dewdrops on the Beloved’s brow as blood, thus identifying him with the thorn-crowned Christ. His bride is the human soul. Revelation 3:20 is provided as a further gloss by Grimestone: Jesus says, “Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.”

So in the poem, the speaker is shacking up with sin and has locked out her true lover, Christ. Christ stands at the gate of her heart and implores her with great ardor to let him in and to send sin packing. Wet with the wounds of sacrifice, tokens of his love, he is persistent in his longing for her.

Christ’s entreaties provide the impetus for the speaker’s repentance, expressed in the final stanza, which changes awkwardly in form and meter. His love has pierced her to the core, undoing her resistance. She resolves to break the sin-lock—to turn away from wrongful deeds—and answer Christ’s call so that they can enjoy sweet union together, dwelling in one another’s love. It was his heart that opened first—it was cleft by the centurion’s spear as he hung on the cross—and she is compelled to respond with similar openness, receiving what he has given, requiting his desire."

Indifference

When Jesus came to Golgotha, they hanged Him on a tree, 

They drove great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary;
They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep,
For those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap.

When Jesus came to Birmingham, they simply passed Him by.
They would not hurt a hair of Him, they only let Him die;
For men had grown more tender, and they would not give Him pain,
They only just passed down the street, and left Him in the rain.

Still Jesus cried, ‘Forgive them, for they know not what they do,’
And still it rained the winter rain that drenched Him through and through;
The crowds went home and left the streets without a soul to see,
And Jesus crouched against a wall, and cried for Calvary.

--The Rev. G. A. Studdert Kennedy (1883-1929), Anglo-Irish Anglican priest and chaplain on the Western Front in World War I, known as "Woodbine Willie," from Rough Rhymes of a Padre (1918)

I Am Bending My Knee

I am bending my knee
In the eye of the Father who created me,
In the eye of the Son who purchased me,
In the eye of the Spirit who cleansed me,
In friendship and affection.
Through Thine own Anointed One, O God,
Bestow upon us fullness in our need,
Love towards God,
The affection of God,
The smile of God,
The wisdom of God,
The grace of God,
The fear of God,
And the will of God
To do on the world of the Three,
As angels and saints
Do in heaven;
Each shade and light,
Each day and night,
Each time in kindness,
Give Thou us Thy Spirit.


--Anonymous, from the Carmina Gadelica I, 3, collected by folklorist Alexander Carmichael from the Outer Hebrides

Prayer for Overcoming Indifference

For the sin of silence,

For the sin of indifference,
For the secret complicity of the neutral,
For the closing of borders,
For the washing of hands,
For the crime of indifference,
For the sin of silence,
For the closing of borders.
For all that was done,
For all that was not done,
Let there be no forgetfulness before the Throne of Glory;
Let there be remembrance within the human heart;
And let there at last be forgiveness
When your children, O God,
Are free and at peace.

--Chaim Stern, editor, Gates of Repentance (Central Conference of American Rabbis, 1978).

Lenten Prayer, Week 1

The lenten spring shines forth,

the flower of repentance!
Let us cleanse ourselves from all evil,
crying out to the Giver of Light:
"Glory to You, O Lover of man!"

--The Rev. Thomas Hopko (1939-2015), Orthodox priest and seminary professor, theologian, and dean, from The Lenten Spring

Lenten Communion Invitation from Iona

Like a tent in the wilderness 

the table of God stands open and ready 

as a place of sanctuary and safety, 

of hospitality and healing. 

So come, 

all you who are tired and travel-stained, 

footsore and famished; 

come with your fellow travellers 

and find companionship and comfort; 

for here, Jesus – 

who knows what it is to wander, watch and wrestle 

in desert places – 

waits to meet us and welcome us in, 

offering us rest and restoration, 

solace and strength, 

for the journey still to come.

-- Pat Bennet, from Walking the Wilderness: A Communion Liturgy for the Season of Lent (pdf purchased from Wild Goose Publications)

Sonnet 19: When I Consider How My Light is Spent

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.

--John Milton (1608-1674), English poet, Protestant, politician, intellectual. 

Scriptural Reference: Matthew 25: 14-30 (The Parable of the Talents), Proper 28A

Image: Willem de Poorter, "The Parable of the Talents, or Minas," 17th century, oil on panel.

This poem was written after Milton went blind, and therefore worries that he has lost his chance to truly serve God in these circumstances. However, as a Protestant, Milton then states that God doesn't need human help, and that other ways to serve God will present themselves to him.