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You know the nothing I have always been,
yet all I am I offer here to you,
an emptiness to lay your mercy in.
Purge it, O God, of all that is not true.

How hot the flame, how long to soften there—
I speak not of the searing off of dross
but that the burning is another prayer,
the melting and the loss of shape, the loss 

of all that I believed myself to be.
It never was, and I must let it pass
and learn to know the dust—learn to know me—
until the grains melt down and turn to glass.

Oh, breathe your spirit into dust aflame;
enlarge the space in me, as you have willed,
and set your presence there as in a frame,
that now my zero is a circle filled.

And let me still be nothing even now.
If any look on me, let them see you—
eternity or bread or both somehow—
then I at last, O God, will be all true.

Glass blower, from the manuscript De Universo or “De rerum naturis”, Monte Cassino MS Casin 132 By unknown artist, circa 1022-1032, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=162955592

Jesus said to the chief priests and elders of the people:
“What is your opinion?
A man had two sons.
He came to the first and said,
‘Son, go out and work in the vineyard today.’
He said in reply, ‘I will not,’
but afterwards changed his mind and went.
—Matthew 21:28-32

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I told you no, and still you wait
as if I’ll change my mind,
as if you’d let me come in late,
as if the world were kind.

But in my heart I long to go
though all things tell me, “Stay.”
Your vineyard waits for me, I know,
but it is far away.

What is the hour you shut the gate
and seal the guardian wall?
If I should come, it will be late—
if I should come at all.

And yet the vineyard calls, it calls
in words I can’t define
of peace as evening shadow falls
and feast in every vine.

Then if I come, if I should come
that harvest to begin—
not to do all but, maybe, some—
oh, will you let me in?

Lord, you have waited all this while—
will you be waiting still?
I come but slowly, mile by mile.
I come to do your will.

Vincent van Gogh – Vineyards at Auvers (1890) – Saint Louis Art Museum, online collection, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=80071688

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The wine recalls the summer of the grape:
the rains that fall, the angle of the light
upon the leaves, the trellis where they drape
themselves, catching the breeze just right
to make the shadows flutter over the fruit
and let the sunlight pierce the cooler gloom
beneath the vines, warming the earthbound root
that drinks the rain. We are what we consume.

The grape is rain, and it is summer sun;
then may I be croissants and strong black tea.
They make the jeweled wine when summer’s done;
I don’t know what on earth they’ll make of me,
for I am growing still. Though I have fed
on fiercer things, yet let me now be pleased
to live by breaking nothing but the bread.
When I am reaped, then, may I be a feast.

No more the howling wind, the sting of snow,
and in my mouth the burning of the ice.
I have fed long on it, but let it go,
the fearsome heart, the anger of its cries,
that I be breakfast in a coffee shop
at a table near the window, in the sun,
a fresh croissant, a comfortable cup,
peace in the tea leaves and in the day begun.

Though I have known the wonder of the wine,
I am not that. I only ask for peace.
There on the table I will lay what’s mine.
Let us break bread, and let the winter cease.

Mary Cassatt – La Tasse de thé – Livre Un regard transatlantique : la collection d’art américain de Daniel J. Terra, Paris : Éditions Adam Biro, 2002. ISBN 9782876603479, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8230903

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You say, I’ll bring you back to your own land,
the land I brought your parents to long since.
Then when before your awful throne I stand,
and shield my face from glory’s light, and wince
from that unclouded sky no rain shall rinse,
I’ll be in Texas, on the hard-baked clay
enduring, by your grace, that endless day.

If it shall be in heaven as on earth,
on earth as ‘tis in heaven, I shall burn
beneath this washed-out sky’s unstinting mirth,
eternal summer—this? for this we yearn?—
there where the winter’s cold shall not return.
And certainly love’s burning must be fierce,
my livid granite heart to warm and pierce.

Lord, living here has meant becoming tough,
but when new heavens and new earth shall be,
then make me new—I’m of the selfsame stuff.
Give me a heart of flesh and eyes to see.
Make living waters rise, O God, in me
so I’ll be green as spring in summer’s light
and cool as rain while I am burning bright.  Amen.

A hole in [the photographer’s] backyard caused by the soil contracting due to lack of water. This photo was taken on March 25, 2013 near Corpus Christi, TX. By XndrK – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25274921

He said to one of them in reply,
‘My friend, I am not cheating you. 
Did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? 
Take what is yours and go. 
What if I wish to give this last one the same as you? 
Or am I not free to do as I wish with my own money? 
Are you envious because I am generous?’
Thus, the last will be first, and the first will be last.”
—Matthew 20:1-16a

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The last shall go before the first,
the first behind the last;
the great shall bless the least and worst
when all our ranks are past.

The beads fall off the abacus;
the rosary unties:
Our reckonings will die with us,
but they will never rise.

The sun unmoving in the sky,
the dial will tell no hour.
The vines in shadeless noon will lie
when Christ comes in his power.

Then numbers shall be more and less:
The three shall be a one,
the one a three, and all confess
their oneness in the Son.

And all our ways of counting up,
of doling out our worth,
will drown in the communion cup
when Christ returns to earth.

The laborers shall have their pay,
have every one the same:
The glorious and unending day
when Christ calls out each name!

The parable of the labourers in the vineyard; illustration first used in Wilhelm of Auvergne, ‘Postilla… super Epistolas et Evangelia’, Basel: Adam Petri, 1509. 1509 Partially hand-coloured woodcut Print made by: Urs Graf – https://www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/P_1895-0420-122, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=89883649

Follow the buzzard’s turn of his bare head
and see the broken body lying dead
upon the asphalt table.  As you drive,
the gracious host waits for his guests to arrive,
bids welcome to the vulture and the crow
with promises the raven’s children know.
Though they who fly will neither toil nor spin,
the feast is ready now, and they come in.
They must be ready, too, and since the dawn
have preened the wedding garments they put on
to take the sky.  Impassable they glide
and only know their maker will provide;
or else they flap ungainly tree to tree
to power line to streetlight, perched to see
what their great host is giving them today
with patient trust, the way wild creatures pray;
and when the feast appears, the streak of red
across the road, receive their daily bread.
They, too, will lie here someday, torn and creased
by speeding wheels.  They will become the feast
baked by the sun and seasoned but with dew,
become the mercy making all things new.
Out of their death the maker makes a gift
as you drive past, watching the buzzards lift.

Black Vulture on statue of Jesus, Casco Viejo (Old City) – Panama City – Panama, By Adam Jones from Kelowna, BC, Canada – Jesus with Buzzard – Casco Viejo (Old City) – Panama City – Panama, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=64134312

No sight but by the living light,
no hearing but the holy sound
that spoke before the sun was bright
and echoes as the stars resound:

Oh, let me have no light but this,
from your own fire a burning spark
that shows the world for what it is
and conquers evermore the dark.

And let me have no music, none,
but what you sang ere worlds were made.
You teach it to us through the Son,
who spun the spheres and carols played.

Now all creation rings it out,
the Word our words cannot express,
each stone a note, each tree, each cloud;
each tone you give us but to bless.

You kindle every woman, man,
their flesh made bright by living fire,
to sing a note throughout their span
and harmonize the angelic choir.

Oh, let no singer be denied
to voice the tone your grace imparts:
Who see the vision open-eyed
cry out the music of their hearts.

Illumine us, Almighty God:
Give eyes to see and ears to hear
and voices, too, to sing your word;
and may we find your ever near. Amen.

The Choirs of Angels, Scivias.

Clay-heavy soil is dry and seamed with cracks, 
contracting as the drought extends its reach.
The heart can only think of what it lacks,
what’s fallen in each dark and barren breach.

But what is buried here can never grow
until the burning heavens open wide.
From east to west, there’s not a cloud to show,
and heaven looks upon us empty-eyed.

What if a storm from some far quadrant came
with hailstones like the judgments of the Lord?
What if the wind should howl a long-lost name
and strip the trees as terror’s torrents poured?

Our flimsy houses only need a spark
to blaze as earthly images of hell.
Let us be happy in the raging dark—
Who would not now bless any drop that fell?

So let the sky go dark, midafternoon,
and shadow all this barren bright terrain,
to stir the hope that always wakes too soon,
believing even darkness brings the rain.

Image copied from local news station WFAA’s Facebook page.

Peter approached Jesus and asked him,
“Lord, if my brother sins against me,
how often must I forgive?
As many as seven times?” 
Jesus answered, “I say to you, not seven times but seventy-seven times. 
That is why the kingdom of heaven may be likened to a king
who decided to settle accounts with his servants. 
—Matthew 18:21-25

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Remember I am dust.
O God, do not forget.
You promised, when my life is crushed,
that you will raise me yet.
Then when I raise my fist
in anger to the sky,
have mercy, and remember this:
All flesh is born to die.

We blossom like the flow’r
and wither as the grass.
O God, be gentle in your pow’r
And hold us as we pass.
Look not on all my crimes,
but turn your eyes from them,
oh, seven times and seven times
and seven times again.

And still the seasons turn;
the clouds pass over us.
Oh, from your mercy let me learn
this kindness to our dust,
that as they strike my cheek
and th’old church clock tow’r chimes,
to be the mercy that I seek,
oh, seventy-seven times.

Parable of the Unforgiving Servant. This depiction by Domenico Fetti (c. 1620) shows the unforgiving servant choking the other debtor. – The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=150920

Step back, beloved, or I lose my sight.
My eyes can’t focus when you stand so near
but glaze and blur ‘til I see nothing clear
and grope as blindly for you as at night.

Do I not know the contours of your face?
Then how do they surprise me even now,
and what new lines are written on your brow?
I know my own is changing, too, apace.

And so I grope for you; I reach and bleed.
What’s love but being close enough to cut
my hand on the rough edge of heart and gut,
or look at you and only see my need?

I gaze, but only in a darkened mirror.
Then may the one who made the blind man see
work from this spit and dust his grace in me
that someday, oh, my vision may be clear.

Human eye with limbal ring, anterior view. The eye is the sensory organ of the visual system. The iris, pupil, and sclera are visible. Photo by Rapidreflex – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=135379096