Easter

Lent gathers up her cloak of sombre shading

   In her reluctant hands.

Her beauty heightens, fairest in its fading,
   As pensively she stands
Awaiting Easter’s benediction falling,
   Like silver stars at night,
Before she can obey the summons calling
   Her to her upward flight,
Awaiting Easter’s wings that she must borrow
   Ere she can hope to fly—
Those glorious wings that we shall see to-morrow
   Against the far, blue sky.
Has not the purple of her vesture’s lining
   Brought calm and rest to all?
Has her dark robe had naught of golden shining
   Been naught but pleasure’s pall?
Who knows? Perhaps when to the world returning
   In youth’s light joyousness,
We’ll wear some rarer jewels we found burning
   In Lent’s black-bordered dress.
So hand in hand with fitful March she lingers
   To beg the crowning grace
Of lifting with her pure and holy fingers
   The veil from April’s face.
Sweet, rosy April—laughing, sighing, waiting
   Until the gateway swings,
And she and Lent can kiss between the grating
   Of Easter’s tissue wings.
Too brief the bliss—the parting comes with sorrow.
   Good-bye dear Lent, good-bye!
We’ll watch your fading wings outlined to-morrow
   Against the far blue sky.

---Tekahionwake (Emily Pauline Johnson) (1961-1913), Canadian-Mohawk poet, Chautauqua speaker, journalist, storyteller, and Indigenous advocate.

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.

What you hold, may you always hold

What you hold, may you always hold.
What you do, may you do and never abandon.
But with swift pace, light step,
     unswerving feet,
     so that even your steps stir no dust,
go forward
    securely, joyfully, and swiftly,
on the path of prudent happiness,
    believing nothing
    agreeing with nothing
    which would dissuade you from this resolution
    or which would place a stumbling block for you on the way,
so that you may offer your vows to the Most High
in the pursuit of that perfection
to which the Spirit of the Lord has called you.

-- St. Clare of Assisi (1194-1253) Italian monastic, abbess, follower of St. Francis, and founder of the Order of San Domino (later the Order of Saint Clare)

Fasting

There’s hidden sweetness in the stomach’s emptiness.
We are lutes, no more, no less. If the soundbox
is stuffed full of anything, no music.
If the brain and belly are burning clean
with fasting, every moment a new song comes out of the fire.
The fog clears, and new energy makes you
run up the steps in front of you.
Be emptier and cry like reed instruments cry.
Emptier, write secrets with the reed pen.
When you’re full of food and drink, Satan sits
where your spirit should, an ugly metal statue
in place of the Kaaba. When you fast,
good habits gather like friends who want to help.
Fasting is Solomon’s ring. Don’t give it
to some illusion and lose your power,
but even if you have, if you’ve lost all will and control,
they come back when you fast, like soldiers appearing
out of the ground, pennants flying above them.
A table descends to your tents,
Jesus’ table.
Expect to see it, when you fast, this table
spread with other food, better than the broth of cabbages.

-- Rumi (Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī) (1207-1273), Persian Sufi mystic and poet

Scripture Reference: Isaiah 58:1-12, 5th Sunday After Epiphany A

The Epiphany

O strangest thing that God doth now begin,
               In being which, he hath no godheads grace:
              O strangest Roome, this subject takes his place,
In want of room, for none was in his Inne.

O strangest color to be viewed in,
              For humane darknesse vailed hath his face.
              O strangest middle of respective space,
Where as a starre more than the sunne could win.

O strangest star that must reveale this sight
that by disorder from the rest gives light.

O strangest eyes that saw him by this starre,
Who when bystanders saw not, saw so farre.

And since such wonders were in seeing him
No wonder if my wondring thought grow dim.

--William Alabaster (1567-1640), English poet, playwright, convert to Catholicism and then back to Anglicanism, and priest

Chorus VIII from The Rock

VIII 

O Father we welcome your words,
And we will take heart for the future,
Remembering the past.

The heathen are come into thine inheritance,
And thy temple have they defiled.

Who is this that cometh from Edom?

He has trodden the wine-press alone.

There came one who spoke of the shame of Jerusalem
And the holy places defiled;
Peter the Hermit, scourging with words.
And among his hearers were a few good men,
Many who were evil,
And most who were neither.
Like all men in all places,

Some went from love of glory,
Some went who were restless and curious,
Some were rapacious and lustful.
Many left their bodies to the kites of Syria
Or sea-strewn along the routes;
Many left their souls in Syria,
Living on, sunken in moral corruption;
Many came back well broken,
Diseased and beggared, finding
A stranger at the door in possession:
Came home cracked by the sun of the East
And the seven deadly sins in Syria.
But our King did well at Acre.
And in spite of all the dishonour,
The broken standards, the broken lives,
The broken faith in one place or another,
There was something left that was more than the tales
Of old men on winter evenings.
Only the faith could have done what was good of it;
Whole faith of a few,
Part faith of many.
Not avarice, lechery, treachery,
Envy, sloth, gluttony, jealousy, pride:
It was not these that made the Crusades,
But these that unmade them.

Remember the faith that took men from home
At the call of a wandering preacher.
Our age is an age of moderate virtue
And of moderate vice
When men will not lay down the Cross
Because they will never assume it.
Yet nothing is impossible, nothing,
To men of faith and conviction.
Let us therefore make perfect our will.
O GOD , help us.

-- T. S. Eliot (1888-1965), Anglo-American Modernist poet and Nobel Prize winner in literature, from his play The Rock.


Image: Workers at La Sagrada Familia, Barcelona, 2015

Good Friday

I deserve this death, Betrayed, broken, and despised, You did nothing wrong. If truly you still want me, Blessed be this day in my sight.

INRI

The two fools died first. Would Barabbas hung by me— Paradise enough. Let me once down from this cross I’d fling the nails in your eyes.

--Charles Munger, Jr. from Journey with Jesus 

The Donkey

When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born;

With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.

Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.

-- G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936), English writer, philosopher, Catholic convert, and theologian.

Sanctuary

Before the sun rose
Or an altar was hewn
Before the crocus bloomed
Or a winter passed

Before the birds sang
Or the seas parted
Before a word was spoken
Or an apple bitten

Before the wine was blessed
Or a cross lifted
Before the path was chosen
Or a prayer offered

There was sanctuary.


--The Rev. Becca Stevens

Columba's Affirmation

Alone with none but Thee, My God,
I journey on my way;
What need I fear when Thou art near,
O King of night and day?
More safe I am within Thy hand,
Than if a host did round me stand.

My destined time is fixed by Thee,
and death doth know his hour.
Did warriors strong around me throng,
they could not stay his power;
no walls of stone can man defend
when Thou Thy messenger dost send.

My life I yield to Thy decree,
and bow to Thy control
in peaceful calm, for from Thine arm
no power can wrest my soul.
Could earthly omen e'er appal
A man that heeds the heavenly call!

The child of God can fear no ill,
His chosen dread no foe;
we leave our fate with Thee and wait
Thy bidding when we go.
Tis not from chance our comfort springs,
Thou art our trust, O King of kings.

--St. Columba, from A Celtic Psaltery, compiled by David Adam, 2001

St. Columba at Iona

Delightful it would be
From a rock pinnacle to trace
Continually
The Ocean's face:
That I might watch the heaving waves
Of noble force
To God the Father chant their staves
Of the earth's course.
That I might mark the level strand,
To me no less distress,
That I might mark the sea-bird's wondrous band-
Sweet source of happiness.
That I might hear the clamorous billows thunder
On the rude beach.
That by my blessed church side I might ponder
Their mighty speech.
Or watch surf-flying gulls the dark shoal follow
With joyous scream,
Or mighty ocean monsters spout and wallow,
Wonder supreme!
That I might well observe the ebb and flood
All cycles therein;
And that my mystic name might be for good
But 'Cul-ri. Erin.'
That gazing toward her on my heart might fall
A full contrition,
That I might bewail my evils all,
Though hard the addition;
That I might bless the Lord who all things orders
For their good.
The countless hierarchies through heaven's bright borders-
Land, strand, and flood/
That I might search all books and from their chart
Find my soul's calm.
Now kneel before the Heaven of my heart,
Now chant a psalm;
Now meditate upon the King of heaven,
Chief of the Holy Three;
Now ply my work by no compulsion driven
What greater joy could be?
Now plucking dulse from rocky shore,
Now fishing eager on,
Now furnishing food unto famished poor;
In hermitage anon:
The guidance of the King of kings
Has been vouchsafed to me;
If I keep watch beneath his wings
No evil shall undo me.

--Alfred P. Graves (1846-1931), Irish poet, from A Celtic Psaltery, 1917

All Labourers' Helper

All labourers' helper,
Blessed men's ruler,
Chief ramparts' warder,
Deep faith's defender,
Each small man's lifter,
Fashion-plates' humbler,
Great navigator,
Heretic crusher,
Just judges' judger,
Keen sinners' punisher,
Light of good-livers,
Man's sanctifier,
O endless giver,
Perfect in vigour,
Quicken my prayer:
Receive it, Master,
So, though I am no braver
Than the weakest rower
Under loud thunder's
Violent clamour,
Welcome me to the Father's
X- Christ the Kepper's
Yearned-for-Cros,, Saviour,
Zealously may you conquer.
     Per dominum nostrum
     Forever and ever.

-- attributed to St. Columba, translated from Latin, from Iona: An Anthology

Untitled

They took away what should have been my eyes,
(But I remembered Milton's Paradise).
They took away what should have been my ears,
(Beethoven came and wiped away my tears).
They took away what should have been my tongue,
(But I had talked with God when I was young).
He would not let them take away my soul —
Possessing that, I still possess the whole.

-- Helen Keller (1880–1968), American author, teacher, and public speaker

Arran of the many stags,

the sea strikes against its shoulder,

isle in which companies are fed,

ridge on which blue spears are reddened.

skittish deer are on her peaks,

delicious berries on her manes,

cool water in her rivers,

mast upon her dun oaks.

Greyhounds are in it and beagles,

blackberries and sloes of the dark blackthorn,

her dwellings close against the woods,

deer scattered about her oak-woods,

gleaning of purple upon her rocks,

faultless grass upon her slopes

over her fair shapely crags

noise of dappled fawns a-skipping.

Smooth is her level land,

fat are her swine,

bright are her fields,

her nuts upon the tops of her hazel-wood,

long galleys sailing past her.

Delightful it is when the fair season comes,

trout under the brinks of her rivers,

seagulls answer each other round her white cliff,

delightful at all times is Arran!

—ancient Gaelic, anonymous, from Celtic Nature Prayers Volume 1: Prayers from an Ancient Well, ed. by Kenneth McIntosh



Image: The Milky Way over Arran and the Holy Isle, from the Daily Record