For today’s feast of Corpus Christi, I started with an idea I liked, and thought that approximating the meter of the sequence, Lauda, Sion, would be appropriate. (“Approximating, because I dropped a syllable from most lines. I’ve been doing a lot with unstressed line endings lately, and those require a two-syllable rhyme, and I wanted a break from that.) That resulted in the following:

See the table Christ has spread:
Soul and body, come, be fed.
How our shepherd cares for us!
Jesus, risen from the dead,
hidden in the wine and bread,
feeds our spirits and our dust.

He who came to share our pain,
cut down as the stalks of grain,
torn as vintage from the vine,
comes our living to sustain,
comes to be with us again,
gives himself in bread and wine.

Still he tends us, grain and fruit,
growing sapling, climbing shoot,
soil and water, sun and air.
Creeping tendril, searching root,
speak of heaven, seeming mute:
Mercy for us everywhere.

Who gives life to fallen seeds,
who the world's great hunger feeds,
plate and chalice overflow:
He who is and e'er shall be
all creation shall redeem,
highest heaven bending low.

And that’s… okay? I think it’s competent, for a congregational hymn. A bit stuffy, but sometimes a doctrinal focus does that to poetry. I wasn’t satisfied with it: It’s correct, but it doesn’t do anything for me. So I tried again, with more of focus on wonder than doctrine:

Not only bread and wine, but green and growing;
not only in the vintage, but the vine,
is Christ the root of hope in seed and sowing.
He touches every shoot with life divine.

Not just the harvest, but the germination;
not humankind alone, but humus, too:
There Christ the seed, redeeming all creation,
is sprouting now and making all things new.

So grape and grain are good ere they are gathered
or we have turned them into wine and bread.
Now Christ the vine has shared them with his branches:
We taste and see his life beyond our death.

He breaks the bread that he has made his body;
he pours the cup he poured himself into.
Come, take the meal and mercy that he offers,
for Christ our life has come to dwell with you.

I thought I was done, until I read it again this morning before typing it out. I like it better than the previous attempt: There’s wonder, and the syllables seem to overflow in a way that matches the grace I’m trying to talk about. It’s not so stiff and formal–there’s the human feeling along with the doctrinal correctness, so see, it’s better! But when I read it again, it felt like it lacked a personal encounter with the subject. It really all comes down to description. Okay. So I grabbed my pen, turned to a fresh page, and started over:

When I have come to you in wild-eyed wonder
to make a holocaust of my own flesh
(I've tried to bear a yoke that I broke under,
and then I hoped to offer you my death),
I've turned away from joy, embracing hunger:
You come to me, O Christ, and give me bread.

And then I come before you weak and shoddy,
unfit, it seems, to kneel there and adore
the sacrificial Lamb, unstained, unspotted.
A spotted kid who can be nothing more,
I hate myself and I despise this body:
You come to me, O Christ, and offer yours.

And how can I receive what you would give me?
How can I ever make your goodness mine
unless you heal me, Lord, not just forgive me?
But only say the word, O Word divine,
and I can take the gift, can take the living:
your blood and body hid as bread and wine.

This is personal. Honestly, it’s probably too personal, and may not make any sense, unless you also have a history of scrupulosity and disordered eating (even a full-blown eating disorder). So for offering the world a hymn for the feast of Corpus Christi, this ain’t it. But in the end, it says more of what I really want to say. I’m finding this is happening more and more: It’s taking me more drafts–wildly divergent drafts, in some cases–to get at what I really mean. And what I really mean isn’t necessarily useful for congregational song, which is where this whole journey started. I don’t know what any of that means for what I’m doing, and what I hope to do, but it’s where I am right now.

The body and blood of Jesus Christ under the appearance of bread. By R. and K. Wood – The Catholic Picture Dictionary, 1948, Garden City Books, by Harold A. Pfeiffer, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=134736113

The longest day, when balance shifts,
the year worn halfway through;
someday this endless heat will lift
and bleached-bone skies be blue.

The springtime will be young once more—
a chance we never get—
when winter evens up the score
and cancels summer's debts.

This spendthrift season racks them up
until its days run out;
it drinks the dregs of every cup
and leaves us only drought,

then winter comes to fill the lakes
while spring sleeps underground.
But there are things the summer takes
that never will be found

until the summers do not burn
and winters do not freeze,
until the years no more shall turn
but counterpoise in peace.

Though now we weep for what is lost
to every old year's spin,
someday in perfect equinox
it shall be found again.

Summer Solstice Sunrise over Stonehenge 2005 Photograph Andrew Dunn, 21 June 2005. CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=195581

God bless all travelers now,
for soon they must be gone.
The road waits not a single hour
but even now runs on.

What they go out to find—
pursued, or to pursue—
give strength of heart and will and mind,
and body's might renew.

However far they stray,
among what friends or foes,
God, bless all travelers on the way,
and hold them ever close,

and hear them when they call.
In mercy, grant their boon,
for daylight wanes and shadows fall
and night is coming soon.

A homeward highway make—
yet even after home
there is another path to take,
another, longer road.

Lord, bless all who depart
on roads we cannot see,
and shepherd each one to your heart,
forever there to be. Amen.

Backpacking In a Pickup Truck, Lukas Robertson 2017-01-16 sheetstothewind – https://unsplash.com/photos/9qJb_wCFCrMarchive copy at the Wayback Machine, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=61863370

The picture book my father bought
and brought home from a business trip,
I laid it in a carboard box,
your name upon the packing slip,

my name still written on the flap—
a book too precious not to share
for when your daughters fill your lap—
dead-lettered in its box somewhere.

As parcels under letters lie;
or under leaves old years' debris
remembering how they touched the sky,
communing with the new year's seeds;

and old selves lost to new ones made
responding to the seasons' turn;
so Beast lies dying in the glade
unless—until—his love returns.

Read out the story, then: She comes
to cradle his beloved mane,
and when she tells him of her love,
the handsome Prince is whole again.

The end.  Now read it out once more.
Today the postman brought your box.
Beast rises from the forest floor
where nothing's ever really lost.

Batten – Europa’s Fairy Tales By John D. Batten – Books, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31130471

Go HERE to see illustrations from the book this poem was written about, Beauty and the Beast, by Marianna Mayer, illustrated by Mercer Mayer.

I’m back in town and back to posting regularly. This was written on the first night of my trip:

O swifts and swallows, praise the Lord!
You swooping o'er the sunset field,
let all your evensong be poured:
Libations as you dive and wheel.

With compline calling, tree to tree,
the rafters of the woods resound
with antiphon and psalmody
beneath the gathering hush of clouds.

The solemn willows genuflect,
and pentecostal grapevine leaves
are shaking with the Spirit's breath:
They shudder in their ecstasy

while cottonwood clothes all the world
in fallen seeds, baptismal white:
The day's devotions, sweet and pure
to mark the fading of the light.

Go down, old sun; sink from our view.
Fear not to pass where none have been:
You will rise up tomorrow new.
No sparrow ever falls unseen.

Be like the swallows: Swoop and dive
and leap again, uncounted days.
You will not slip the maker's gyves
but wake again to shine his praise.

“Hirundo griseopyga” = Pseudhirundo griseopyga (Grey-rumped Swallow) By Richard Bowdler Sharpe – A monograph of the Hirundinidae : Scan from Oiseaux.net but higher resolution on [1], Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=80179239

Also while I was out of town, The Porter’s Gate released the first single from their upcoming album, Bread Songs. This one is called “Daily Bread,” written by Lowana Wallace, Kai Welch, and yours truly. This was one of the most exciting songwriting experiences I have ever had. Lowana and I had talked over this idea one night at the songwriting retreat for this project. The next day we managed to snag an hour to ourselves—but we were both so sick of sitting that we went for a walk. For thirty minutes we circled the block on a chilly day in DC, stopping at the corners for me to scribble down lines before I forgot. Lowana was singing a tune, and by the time we came inside we had two verses. Then we found Kai at a keyboard, and he and Lowana worked out the accompaniment while I wrote the third verse. That night Lowana and Kai performed it after dinner, and it went over really well. Two days and some lyrical tweaks later, and the song was recorded in studio. And now it’s out!

A well so deep I could not see the sky
from where I sat enveloped in the dark,
yet it was there, the sun still riding high,
and you were there, remembering the stars.

As if someone had opened up the roof
and lowered down a paralytic God
to wait with me—what else was there to do?—
'til I could rise, take up my mat, and walk.

Helpless as I, you made no darkness bright.
There was no comfort in you, no defense.
You worked no miracles there in the night,
and when I prayed, you echoed my Amens.

And so we sat there in the oubliette,
a broken woman and her broken God,
a speck of dust and old, stale crust of bread,
until the darkness passed and morning dawned.

And when I rose and saw again the skies,
you became whole that sunlit grace to see,
who sank to be with me that I might rise,
that where you are, I, too, shall someday be.

Schloss Schrattenthal By Christophwu – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0 at, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=28869453

Trying something more autobiographical. The incident described here is from fifteen years ago; it’s not a current issue.

A losing entry in a hymn text contest:

From nothing you made all that is,
and all that is will come to dust.
Through every change, we know still this:
You keep and care for each of us.

In you we live and move and are,
O God, creator of the world.
Your wisdom shines in every star,
your life in each new leaf unfurled.

Then give us minds to know your works
and give us hearts to seek your ways
between the daystar and the dirt
where we live out our given days.

So may we sing your praise as one:
Your works of love rejoice in you,
and when creation's days are done,
O God, create all things anew. Amen.

I entered this text in a hymn contest on the theme “God the Creator,” seeking hymns for a proposed new ecumenical feast (though not in the Catholic Church, as far as I know): “The primary focus of the feast is on God’s creative action which then calls forth the human response of thankful praise for God’s creating and sustaining action; a commitment to responsible stewardship; lament and repentance for destruction caused by human greed and apathy; and hope for a restored and renewed creation.”

I’ve done plenty before in the “lament and repentance” line, as well as the “responsible stewardship” line. What appealed to me here was the option of “thankful praise” and “hope.” So I focused on that, while also hewing to the contest’s guidelines: “The text should be written in an accessible poetic style that lends itself to singing. It should be contemporary and inclusive and avoid the use of binary language, especially with respect to gender. The text should be appropriate for ecumenical settings, with the possibility of at least one stanza that would be appropriate for an interfaith context. The total length of the text should not exceed four stanzas.”

Four stanzas can give you a lot of leeway on total length, but a simple, four-line tune seemed appropriate for what I had in mind. (I eventually chose the tune OLD 100TH, perhaps best known as “Praise God From Whom All Blessings Flow.”) That means sixteen lines total, instead of my usual twenty-four. I decided I liked the challenge of trying to say something true, but also heartfelt and (I hope) beautiful in a tighter format than usual. I liked the result, but there were over a hundred entries in the contest, and today I received an email listing someone else as the winner. C’est la vie. I can still post it here.

Creation on the exterior shutters of Hieronymus Bosch‘s triptych The Garden of Earthly Delights (c. 1490–1510) By Hieronymus Bosch – Originally uploaded to the English Wikipedia by w:User:Blankfaze., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=148810

The day of wrath, the day of doom
their graves will open wide,
and I will gather them for you
the myriads who have died,

as once I gathered every one
in ever grasping hands
who wheeled beneath the moon and sun
and took them from the dance.

That none should have still more to mourn,
I bid their music cease;
the old, the young, the yet-unborn
I gather into peace.

And even you: I stilled your tongue
and laid you down to rest,
but ever since, my Lord, you've sung
the music I love best.

That day I'll lay my sickle down
that cut their brittle stalks
and take my fiddle up to sound
a new and endless waltz.

Then all the sleepers will awake
to dance in triple time;
you will take each hand you made
and reel in perfect rhyme

where cherubim like mirror-balls
revolve above your throne.
Rhythm stronger than any pulse
will rattle in their bones.

And I will cast aside my cloak
as you cast off the night
to tread the steps your wisdom spoke
there in your endless light.

The Dance of Death (1493) by Michael Wolgemut, from the Nuremberg Chronicle of Hartmann Schedel – https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/390220, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=490534

Because the birthday and the wedding anniversary fall in the same week.

I've known you longer than I haven't, love,
and wed almost as long as I was not.
Most of my life dovetails into this groove,
the strongest joint, and perfect in its slot.

Oh, but the wood has weathered, even so.
Sometimes it sticks, but jiggle it just right
the doors move free.  Even these fixed things grow
and sink and settle, creaking in the night.

A comfortable sound, not heard afar,
I'm used to now, as you are used to me,
with each of us forever who we are
and neither of us who we used to be.

The nails will rust, boards splinter, shingles part:
Time will not touch the dovetail of our hearts.

File:Barn, northwest corner, detail – dovetail notches and stabilization support – Trump-Lilly Farm, Hinton, Summers County, WV HABS WVA,45-HINT.V,1-41.tif O’Connell, Kristen, transmitter; Nicely, John, photographer; Nicely, John, delineator; McDonald, Tracy, delineator; Condie, Joe, delineator By https://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/wv0531.photos.381877p, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=34526236

Sunday’s readings combined the description of the heavenly city in Revelation with the promise of Christ and the Father making their dwelling with us:

Come and make of me your dwelling.
Take my ways; inhabit them.
Let my earth become your heaven:
Make me your Jerusalem.

I would be your holy city,
heart of stone made crystal bright:
all my frantic rush-hours stilling,
windows spilling over light.

You the silence at the center:
Here the temple, Lord, is you.
Fill my shadows with your splendor,
brighter far than sun or moon.

But this heart you gave: I've filled it,
left no corner for your berth.
Come, O carpenter, and build it;
make your heaven of my earth.

Not my handiwork—I know it—
ever could construct your throne,
nor the walls in their twelve courses.
You must build, who are the stone.

Come, and make in me your kingdom;
let my old things pass away.
Streets and alleys, change and bring them
all transformed into your day.

Folio 55r of the Bamberg Apocalypse depicts the angel showing John the New Jerusalem, with the Lamb of God at its center. By Auftraggeber: Otto III. oder Heinrich II. – Bamberger Apokalypse Folio 55 recto, Bamberg, Staatsbibliothek, MS A. II. 42, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=618995