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.

St. Philip and the Ethiopian Eunuch

’TWAS silent all and dead
Beside the barren sea,
Where Philip’s steps were led,
Led by a voice from Thee—
He rose and went, nor ask’d Thee why,
Nor stay’d to heave one faithless sigh:

Upon his lonely way
The high-born traveller came,
Reading a mournful lay
Of “One who bore our shame,
Silent Himself, His name untold,
And yet His glories were of old.”

To muse what Heaven might mean
His wandering brow he rais’d,
And met an eye serene
That on him watchful gaz’d.
No hermit e’er so welcome cross’d
A child’s lone path in woodland lost.

Now wonder turns to love;
The scrolls of sacred lore
No darksome mazes prove;
The desert tires no more:
They bathe where holy waters flow,
Then on their way rejoicing go.

They part to meet in heaven;
But of the joy they share,
Absolving and forgiven,
The sweet remembrance bear.
Yes—mark him well, ye cold and proud,
Bewilder’d in a heartless crowd,

Starting and turning pale
At Rumour’s angry din—
No storm can now assail
The charm he wears within,
Rejoicing still, and doing good,
And with the thought of God imbu’d.

No glare of high estate,
No gloom of woe or want,
The radiance can abate
Where Heaven delights to haunt.
Sin only hides the genial ray,
And, round the Cross, makes night of day.

Then weep it from thy heart;
So may’st thou duly learn
The intercessor’s part,
Thy prayers and tears may earn
For fallen souls some healing breath,
Ere they have died th’ Apostate’s death.

--John Keble (1792-1866) Anglican priest, poet, and leader of the Oxford Movement 

Image: Baptism of the Eunuch by St. Philip, Alexandre Denis Abel de Pujol, 1848

Scripture reference: Acts 8:26-40, Easter 5B

Advent

The Advent moon shines bright and clear;
These Advent nights are very long;
Our lamps have burned year after year,
And still their flame is strong.

‘Watchman, what of the night?’ we cry,
Heartsick with hope deferred:
‘No speaking signs are in the sky’,
Is still the watchman’s word.

One to another hear them speak,
The patient virgins wise:
Surely He is not far to seek,
All night we watch and rise.

The days are evil looking back,
The coming days are dim,
Yet count we not His promise slack,
But watch and wait for Him.

Weeping we hold him fast tonight,
We will not let Him go
Till daybreak smite our wearied sight,
And summer smite the snow:

Then figs shall bud, and dove with dove
Shall coo the livelong day;
Then He shall say ‘Arise, my love,
My fair one, come away!’

The Advent moon shines cold and clear.
We watch and wait.

--Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English romantic poet , devout Anglican, and advocate of the Oxford movement

Ascension Day

Why stand ye gazing up into Heaven? this same Jesus, which

is taken up from you into Heaven, shall so come in like
manner as ye have seen Him go into Heaven. Acts i. 11

Soft cloud, that while the breeze of May
Chants her glad matins in the leafy arch,
Draw'st thy bright veil across the heavenly way
Meet pavement for an angel's glorious march:

My soul is envious of mine eye,
That it should soar and glide with thee so fast,
The while my grovelling thoughts half buried lie,
Or lawless roam around this earthly waste.

Chains of my heart, avaunt I say-
I will arise, and in the strength of love
Pursue the bright track ere it fade away,
My Saviour's pathway to His home above.

Sure, when I reach the point where earth
Melts into nothing from th' uncumbered sight,
Heaven will o'ercome th' attraction of my birth.
And I shall sink in yonder sea of light:

Till resting by th' incarnate LORD,
Once bleeding, now triumphant for my sake,
I mark Him, how by seraph hosts adored,
He to earth's lowest cares is still awake.

The sun and every vassal star,
All space, beyond the soar of angel wings,
Wait on His word: and yet He stays His car
For every sigh a contrite suppliant brings.

He listens to the silent tear
For all the anthems of the boundless sky-
And shall our dreams of music bar our ear
To His soul-piercing voice for ever nigh?

Nay, gracious Saviour-but as now
Our thoughts have traced Thee to Thy glory-throne
So help us evermore with thee to bow
Where human sorrow breathes her lowly moan.

We must not stand to gaze too long,
Though on unfolding Heaven our gaze we bend
Where lost behind the bright angelic throng
We see CHRIST'S entering triumph slow ascend.

No fear but we shall soon behold,
Faster than now it fades, that gleam revive,
When issuing from his cloud of fiery gold
Our wasted frames feel the true sun, and live.

Then shall we see Thee as Thou art,
For ever fixed in no unfruitful gaze,
But such as lifts the new-created heart,
Age after age, in worthier love and praise.

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

Christmas Eve

Christmas hath a darkness
     Brighter than the blazing noon,
Christmas hath a chillness
     Warmer than the heat of June,
Christmas hath a beauty
     Lovelier than the world can show:
For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
     Brought for us so low.

Earth, strike up your music,
     Birds that sing and bells that ring;
Heaven hath answering music
     For all Angels soon to sing:
Earth, put on your whitest
     Bridal robe of spotless snow:
For Christmas bringeth Jesus,
     Brought for us so low.

--Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English author, poet, and supporter of the Oxford Movement

After Communion

Why should I call Thee Lord, Who art my God?
    Why should I call Thee Friend, Who art my Love?
    Or King, who art my very spouse above?
Or call Thy Sceptre upon my heart Thy Rod?
    Lo now Thy banner over me is love,
All heaven flies open to me at Thy nod;
For Thou has lit Thy flame in me a clod,
    Made me a nest for dwelling of Thy Dove.
    What wilt Thou call me in our home above,
Who now has called me friend? how will it be
    When Thou for good wine settest forth the best?
Now Thou dost bid me come and sup with Thee,
    Now Thou dost make me lean upon Thy breast;
How ill it be with me in time of love?

--Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English poet and supporter of the Oxford Movement, from Women in Praise of the Sacred: 43 Centuries of Spiritual Poetry by Women, 1994

De Profundis

Oh why is heaven built so far,
Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
Beyond my range.

I never watch the scatter'd fire
Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
And catch at hope.

-- Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English poet

Who Has Seen the Wind?

Who has seen the wind?
Neither I nor you:
But when the leaves hang trembling,
The wind is passing through.

Who has seen the wind?
Neither you nor I:
But when the trees bow down their heads,
The wind is passing by.

-- Christina Rosetti (1830-1894), English poet and supporter of the Oxford Movement

A Better Resurrection

I have no wit, no words, no tears;
My heart within me like a stone
Is numb'd too much for hopes or fears;
Look right, look left, I dwell alone;
I lift mine eyes, but dimm'd 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 perish'd 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 and supporter of the Oxford Movement

Easter Eve

At length the worst is o’er, and Thou art laid
Deep in thy darksome bed;
All still and cold beneath you dreary stone
Thy sacred form is gone;
Around those lips where power and mercy hung,
The dews of death have clung;
The dull earth o’er Thee, and thy foes around,
Thou sleep’st a silent corse, in funeral fetters wound.

Sleep’st Thou indeed? or is thy spirit fled,
At large among the dead?
Whether in Eden bowers thy welcome voice
Wake Abraham to rejoice,
Or in some drearier scene thine eye controuls
The thronging band of souls;
That, as thy blood won earth, thine agony
Might set the shadowy realm from sin and sorrow free.

Where’er Thou roam’st, one happy soul, we know,
Seen at thy side in woe,
Waits on thy triumph—even as all the blest
With him and thee shall rest.
Each on his cross, by Thee we hang a while,
Watching thy patient smile,
Till we have learn’d to say, "Tis justly done,
"Only in glory, LORD, thy sinful servant own."

Soon wilt Thou take us to thy tranquil bower
To rest one little hour,
Till thine elect are number’d, and the grave
Call Thee to come and save:
Then on thy bosom borne shall we descend,
Again with earth to blend,
Earth all refin’d with bright supernal fires,
Tinctur’d with holy blood, and wing’d with pure desires.

Meanwhile with every son and saint of thine
Along the glorious line,
Sitting by turns beneath thy sacred feet
We’ll hold communion sweet,
Know them by look and voice, and thank them all
For helping us in thrall,
For words of hope, and bright examples given
To shew through moonless skies that there is light in Heaven.

O come that day, when in this restless heart
Earth shall resign her part,
When in the grave with Thee my limbs shall rest,
My soul with Thee be blest!
But stay, presumptuous—CHRIST with thee abides
In the rock’s dreary sides:
He from the stone will wring celestial dew
If but the prisoner’s heart be faithful found and true.

When tears are spent, and Thou art left alone
With ghosts of blessings gone,
Think thou art taken from the cross, and laid
In JESUS’ burial shade;
Take Moses’ rod, the rod of prayer, and call
Out of the rocky wall
The fount of holy blood; and lift on high
Thy grovelling soul that feels so desolate and dry.

Prisoner of Hope thou art—look up and sing
In hope of promis’d spring.
As in the pit his father’s darling lay
Beside the desert way,
And knew not how, but knew his GOD would save
Even from that living grave,
So, buried with our LORD, we’ll close our eyes
To the decaying world, till Angels bid us rise.

--John Keble (1792-1866), English priest, poet, and leader in the Oxford Movement


Image: Alabaster carving, Christ in the Tomb with Soldiers Sleeping, 14th century, found in Nottinghamshire
SaveSave

Send Me

Bishop Wayne Smith and myself at my ordination to the transitional diaconate, December 16, 2017

Use me, God, in Thy great harvest field,
Which stretcheth far and wide like a wide sea;
The gatherers are so few; I fear the precious yield
Will suffer loss. Oh, find a place for me!
A place where best the strength I have will tell:
It may be one the older toilers shun;
Be it a wide or narrow place, 'tis well
So that the work it holds be only done.

-- Christina Rosetti (1830-1894)
On the feast day of Christina Rosetti, 2017

Good Friday

Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?

Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;

Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon –
I, only I.

Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.

--Christina Rosetti (1830-1894)

The Pillar of the Cloud

Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom;
   Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home;
   Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet: I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.

O was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
   Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path, but now
   Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long thy power  hath blest me, sure it still
   Will lead me on,
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
   The night is gone;
And with the morn, those angel faces smile
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

--John Henry Newman, 1801-1890