Gethsemane

The word you wanted doesn't come:
the moment of abandonment.
“But, Father, let your will be done.”
You'll bend the way the world is bent.

The weight of our mortality,
the desperate comfort Judas takes,
fall on you in Gethsemane.
You'll bend beneath it 'til you break.

We cut ourselves away from God—
it was another garden, then—
and it was then we pierced your heart.
Oh, we will pierce it once again,

but first your kneel to wash our feet,
to give yourself as covenant,
and when the Passover's complete
we'll look upon the one we've rent.

Your eyes, O Jesus, will not see
that looked upon creation's birth.
The dark not dark to you will be,
and you'll be laid, alone, in earth.

All those who're born are doomed to die,
O Son of Man from mankind torn,
but you alone have cause to cry,
“My God, why leave me here forlorn?”

Brooklyn Museum – The Grotto of the Agony (La Grotte de l’agonie) – James Tissot – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2006, 00.159.231_PS1.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10957579

Counted

“For I tell you that this Scripture must be fulfilled in me,
namely, He was counted among the wicked;
and indeed what is written about me is coming to fulfillment.”
—Luke 22:14-23:56

We had Eden, but we lost it,
and our lives as leaves are flown.
Now a chasm—Lord, you crossed it—
lies between us and your throne.
You are counted with the fallen,
flesh of flesh and bone of bone.

Now into creation's burden
you have come to bear its griefs,
and at last to crush the serpent
died, a leaf among the leaves.
You were counted with the worthless,
as a thief among the thieves.

Knowing this would mean your slaughter,
still you filled the wounded world.
Even the rope that Judas knotted
had you woven in the cord.
You were counted with the godless,
and you took their death as yours.

Even the leaf by winter withered
clinging empty to the vine
you will draw into your kingdom
when you drink the brand-new wine.
You were counted with the sinners:
Count us, Lord, with the divine.

Ecce Homo, Nuno Gonçalves, 15th century By Unknown author – [1], Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6014228

Go and Sin No More

Mashing up today’s readings:

What was spoken in the darkness
shaped all things as they were then—
so the earth and seas were parted
'til God brings them back again,
'til his rivers fill the desert
or the ocean waters stand,
'til he brings us to his presence
and we find the promised land.

What was spoken in creation 
earth and ocean answered true.
Now is God all things remaking—
he is doing something new.
Crossing deserts, crossing waters,
all that once kept us apart,
he seeks out his sons and daughters
and he brings them to his heart.

What was spoken first in Eden
making all things, making us,
he is writing at our feet here,
drawing new life from the dust.
Not the words of condemnation
for the things that came before,
but the words of new creation:
Go, my own, and sin no more.

Christ and the Woman Taken in Adultery, 1565 by Pieter Bruegel, oil on panel, 24 cm × 34 cm (9.4 in × 13.4 in) – Web Gallery of Art: Image Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15452042

Thirst: The Woman at the Well

Reading over the optional Gospel for last Sunday, I was struck by how cynical the woman at the well sounded:

Give you some water, did you say?
Go fetch yourself a drink.
This is the well our father gave—
You'll give me living springs?

Fine.  I won't keep on coming here
to fill the jar with this
through every day of every year
as if it's all there is.

To know it wears away my life
and hunger for it still—
you don't know what this thirst is like,
but someday, oh, you will.

You'll know the hopelessness that burns
beneath an empty sky,
when all your love goes unreturned
and still the ground is dry,

and no one sees without a sneer.
You're left by God and men
with nothing but their mocks and jeers—
and what will you do then?

You'll cry aloud, as I have done
when nights are at their worst.
And who will hear you then, old son,
when you wail out, “I thirst”?

But if God hears—they say he does,
he's close to hearts in pain—
d'you think the Almighty weeps for us?
'S that why he sends the rain?

Then maybe skies will open up
and something new will pour.
And you and I can raise a cup—
not thirsty anymore.

Samaritan woman at the well 1651 by Gervais Drouet – RA 516 Photo By Didier Descouens – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65152015

Fig Tree

Originally for this Sunday, but being posted on the Annunciation:

The fig tree does not blossom;
no grape swells on the vine
that twines around the crossbeam—
yet we shall drink the wine.

And though your arms are empty,
and withered is your root
as barren as the fig tree,
you, too, shall bear good fruit.

For something sweet is growing
to burden barren wood,
its sap forever flowing,
its roots where Adam stood.

It blossomed in the desert
with Moses drawing near,
the Godhead fully present—
Take off your sandals here

and see the flame that dances
where nothing yet had bloomed:
It burns along your branches,
but you are not consumed.

A fount in you is flowing
and never will it cease,
for Christ himself is growing
all on our barren trees.

Traditional icon of Our Lady of the Burning Bush (Neopalimaya Kupina). By Anonymous – http://days.pravoslavie.ru/Images/ii2914&263.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3639213

Burning Yet

Jesus took Peter, John, and James
and went up the mountain to pray.
While he was praying his face changed in appearance
and his clothing became dazzling white.
And behold, two men were conversing with him, Moses and Elijah,
who appeared in glory and spoke of his exodus
that he was going to accomplish in Jerusalem.
Peter and his companions had been overcome by sleep,
but becoming fully awake,
they saw his glory and the two men standing with him.
—Luke 9:28b-36

I've walked the valley, and I've climbed the mountain
to chase the hints and glimpses of your face,
and still do I believe I'll see your bounty
here in this place.

But it's a hard road, this land of the living,
and I a stone that rolls along its tracks—
compassionate as stone and as forgiving
until it cracks.

I break and seek you still through all my days here—
how rarely is my way lit by a spark!
Where is the light that guides me toward salvation
through all the dark?

But darkness is not dark to you—I glimpse it
in moments when I cannot trust my sense,
that as I wait for night to be transfigured
it's burning yet;

that every inch of road runs over Tabor;
that every step I take is in the light
that you have hidden in a human savior,
the heart of Christ.

And my own heart, world-weary and unfeeling,
will melt into your glory when it's shown.
The light is always here: Though I can't see it,
it brings me home.

ALG169046 The Transfiguration, 1594-95 (oil on canvas) by Carracci, Lodovico (1555-1619) oil on canvas 438×268 Pinacoteca Nazionale, Bologna, Italy Alinari Italian, out of copyright

Lodovico Carracci, 1594- http://www.valtorta.org/the_transfiguration_defaultpage.asp, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8768456

First Station: Repost

I. Jesus Is Condemned

We adore you, O Christ, and we bless you,
because by your holy cross, you have redeemed the world.

“Behold the man!” So Pilate cries;
we turn and lift our jaded eyes
to look upon our king
now crowned with thorn, condemned to die.
We hail him, shouting, “Crucify
the maker of all things!

“No king but Caesar will we have,
no heaven but an open grave.
Barabbas shall go free!”
The ancient yoke we have cast off:
Christ bows his head to show his love.
The Pasch he shall complete.

He goes as prophets had foretold,
the road before him from of old.
He goes, the Great Amen.
And we, the lambs his arm enfolds,
the people that his might upholds,
will wash our hands again.

Holy God, Holy Mighty One, Holy Immortal One,
have mercy on us.

This is a poem I wrote and published here last year, the first of a whole series on the traditional Catholic Stations of the Cross. You can buy a download of the whole series, including files for easy printing or reading on your e-reader, for $5 here: https://bluemay.gumroad.com/l/WtWSotC

Ephphatha!

You speak, Lord, and I listen,
words written on my heart;
my soul, though, does not quicken,
and still my heart is hard.
I hear, but I am deaf yet;
am blinded, but I see.
I am closed off from heaven:
Ephphatha! say to me.

How can my eyes be opened
to see what you reveal?
My stone heart mst be broken
so that I may be healed.
How can I hear the whisper
as heaven's door swings free?
As you were pierced for sinners,
Ephphatha! say to me.

For you yourself were opened,
and you wept floods of tears—
so each of us is broken,
and I myself am pierced.
As you have suffered with me,
my sufferings redeem.
Let heaven open in me:
Ephphatha! say to me.

Christ healing the deaf mute of Decapolis, by Bartholomeus Breenbergh, 1635 – http://www.insecula.com/oeuvre/O0017918.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=5746158

Led Into the Desert

Filled with the Holy Spirit, Jesus returned from the Jordan
and was led by the Spirit into the desert for forty days,
to be tempted by the devil.
—Luke 4:1-13

You were led into the desert—
it's been waiting since your birth—
to be tempted and be tested
as are all who walk the earth,
to take up the weight we bear here
and to suffer—for you can—
all the shocks that flesh is heir to,
Son of David, Son of Man.

You were led into temptation;
you were purified by fire.
Still the rocks are as you made them
though you hunger and desire.
Teach us how to hunger with you
for a feast beyond our thought:
Bread that you alone can give us,
Son of Heaven, Son of God.

You were led atop the Temple,
shown the world beneath your feet,
but you would not serve the tempter
and you chose your own defeat.
You will die like one forsaken;
you will sink into the dust.
Wept and shrouded, you'll be laid out,
son of Mary, one of us.

You were led into the desert;
you were led to Calvary,
so you lead us onward, Shepherd,
to the pastures of your peace.
Let us follow through the wasteland,
through temptation let us cling
'til you bring us to your graced land,
sons and daughters of the king.

COL; (c) City of London Corporation; Supplied by The Public Catalogue Foundation

More details

Briton Rivière – The Temptation in the Wilderness – Art UK: entry the-temptation-in-the-wilderness-51153, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=39630461

Flood

You spoke, O God, and all was made;
the evening came, and then the day,
and someday all will be made new—
a day that no one knows but you.

You drew the vapor off the land
and oceans gathered in your hand.
You shut within its doors the sea,
and with a word you set it free.

The stormcouds thundered back again:
You looked upon the works of men
and sent the raging of the flood
to wash the stones we'd stained with blood.

But in your day all floods recede
and sunlight touches soil and seed.
The shattered earth will yield once once;
the vintage of your love will pour.

'Til then, your altars deep are drowned,
and deep the sacrifice must sound.
So shall the deluge wash away
the sin that stains our hands today.

Let this flood reach our inmost parts
with tears to baptize wayward hearts.
Like the earth, let us be whole again;
like the earth, to yield your harvest then.

More details

Noah’s Ark (1846), by the American folk painter Edward Hicks 1780 – 1849 (1780 – 1849) – Artist/Maker (American)Born in Langhorne, Pennsylvania, United States. Died in Newtown, Pennsylvania, United States.Details on Google Art Project – aQFz9qNv8QS26Q at Google Cultural Institute maximum zoom level, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21886421