Lord, set me high upon the rock,
too high for me to reach,
where overhead the vultures flock,
and jackals underneath.
Yet in the shadows here I rest;
dust devils touch me not.
An infant at a mother's breast
am I upon your rock.
I called you, and you heard my cry,
when I was lost in fear.
You came to me in dead of night
and quickly drew me near
that I might rest beside my God
and hide beneath your wings.
Now I will stay upon your rock,
your name forever sing.
Then let fear come upon me now;
let enemies draw night:
I still will pay my every vow
to you, who hears my cry.
Let death itself creep underneath
the shadow of your wing,
it will but join me here in peace
and with my spirit sing.
The Spirit of the Lord has come
and filled the weary heart.
It whispers of what God has done,
and what has yet to start:
of captives given sweet release
and good news for the poor,
the bowed of all their burdens freed,
kingdom's open door.
The Spirit of the Lord has come,
the ancient hopes fulfilled,
to free the songs that fear struck dumb
and racing heartbeats stilled,
to take the blindfold from our eyes,
the fingers from our ears,
that we may see the morning rise,
the kingdom drawing near.
The Spirit of the Lord has come,
anointing those who hear,
who see the wonders God has done,
proclaiming God's own year.
Then let us rise up to proclaim
and rise to meet the task
of healing in the Savior's name:
The kingdom comes at last!
Have pity on me, O my God;
have pity, God, I pray,
for evils trample on my heart
and fill my mind each day.
Relentlessly they press me, Lord,
and put my hopes to rout,
that at their feet now I have poured
more tears than I can count.
Yet though my tears are numberless,
you count them as the stars
and gather them into the flask
where you keep all our scars.
My days and nights are filled with fear:
Fill them still more with trust,
and if I cannot feel you near,
yet meet me in the dust.
Oh, come, take hold of both my hands
and fill them with your strength,
so I may fight—or merely stand—
beneath the blows that rain.
But one by one shall they turn back:
They see you here and flee,
and when you come to fill my lack,
what can they do to me?
So you will rescue me from death
and stand with me in strife.
You fill my body with your breath
here in the land of life.
My feasting has gone sour,
for there is no more wine,
and though I know 'tis not your hour,
O Jesus, it is mine.
My jars have all run dry:
There's nothing left for you,
but if you tell me, I will try
what you would have me do.
The water of my well—
Can you accept it, Lord?
For this is all I have to fill
the jars that must be poured.
So then I bring to you
what cannot be enough:
Can even mercy now make do
with what I have, for love?
From water into wine
the distance is so great
unless it travels through the vine—
then take it, Christ, I pray!
And make what I have, yours.
(Your hands first held it fast.)
Make wine where only water pours
and bring the best out last.
When I stand here, among the good and righteous,
and harbor things that I refuse to see,
come shine your light into my willful blindness,
and silence all the demons within me.
When I would use your name to take advantage
and praise your power for my vanity,
rebuke me, Lord, to turn my heart from danger,
and silence all the demons within me.
When I despise your image in another
and make an idol of yourself in me,
reveal the glory of our loving Father,
and silence all the demons within me.
And when I know myself the worst of sinners,
so shackled that I cannot be set free,
drive out what I cannot—O Lord, come quickly!
And silence all the demons within me.
Eleventh century fresco of the Exorcism at the Synagogue in Capernaum. By Unknown author – Scan aus: Rudolf Lehr –- Landes-Chronik Oberösterreich, Wien: Verlag Christian Brandstätter 2004 S. 79 ISBN 3-85498-331-X, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6633986
Come after me, now calls the Christ—
for this is he who walks our shores—
and you will seek a different prize
than any you have sought before.
The conquest of the sea in storm,
the freedom of the waves and wind,
the nets that fill 'til they are torn:
Leave these behind and follow him.
Go after him, and leave your nets;
leave all you've known upon the shore
and follow now through life and death:
He charts for you a brand-new course.
The jostle of the marketplace,
the hustle after every whim,
the vying for a name and place:
Leave these behind and follow him.
And after all is said and done,
he meets you on another shore:
You land beneath a rising sun
with nets that filled and never tore.
The sorrows of a broken world,
the wounds from every sharp-edged sin,
the hunger for a heart made pure:
Through all of these you followed him.
Now see! The nets you left behind
are filled beyond the hoping for.
And all you loved, you yet shall find
in Christ's own feast on heaven's shore.
Here is the servant of the Lord,
God's chosen one who comes as king.
In victory he lifts no sword,
but everlasting peace he brings.
Instead of spears, he bears bruised reeds
and smold'ring wicks instead of flame.
Behold the army that he leads:
a vanguard of the blind and lame!
No weapon for his empty hands,
he leads the ones of little worth,
but nothing hinders their advance
until his justice fills the earth.
And as they go, they open doors:
Our dungeons empty in their wake,
and good news reaches all the poor,
as mercy's light upon them breaks.
This is the Lord's anointed one,
and shall we, too, lay down our arms
to follow God's beloved Son
into the kingdom that has come?
The covenant of God and world,
he calls us with a quiet voice
to leave our darkness and come forth
into a light where all rejoice.
In this is love: Oh, not that I have loved,
but love itself sent love itself for me.
A jailer followed everywhere I roved,
and when I let him bind me, I was free.
In this is love: That in a wounded world
a healer came to bleed where I was cut.
Both his and mine is now my every hurt,
and mine his healing flowing in my blood.
In this is love: That what I cannot see
arrays itself in everything I can,
and when this fails at captivating me,
strips off its plumes and comes as but a man.
In this is love: That I can strike his face
and pluck his beard and trample on his name
and turn again in that same second's space,
and find that yet in love I do remain.
For this is love: This all-encompassing,
where any love I have is love for him.
Though I am bound forever in this ring,
'tis as beloved in her lover's arms.
So long the clouds have covered us;
so long they hid the light,
but dawn is breaking over us.
Come, revel in the sight!
And see: The children lost to us
have set out on the way,
the sons and daughters taken once,
returning with the day.
The deaf'ning thunder of our wars,
our sorrow's blinding tears:
They vanish when the rising morn
has touched our eyes and ears.
And all the riches of the earth
that glitter in the dawn
cannot outshine him at his birth:
The Sun of Justice comes!
Both king and shepherd, see him rise:
All nations now behold—
oh, brighter than the morning skies!—
the comfort long foretold.
Lift up your eyes, Jerusalem,
and shine at what you see:
A shepherd comes from Bethlehem,
and, oh! He shall be peace!
The world we know is changing;
compassion's long defeat
is shifting, rearranging
the ground beneath our feet.
Now every step's a crossroads,
and endlessly we choose
to set aside our crossloads
or bear them through the gloom.
The sky is growing dimmer,
and hope slips fast away,
but there is yet a glimmer,
a light that shows the way.
This is the night we walk in
by faith, if not by sight,
and we are made the beacons
who never can be bright.
O Christ, the sun of justice,
come strengthen our poor eyes
to see you in each other
and see your morning rise.
Come, Son of God, renewing
the ground beneath our feet.
Help us each step we're choosing
that peace and justice meet.
Kate Bluett 