Necessary

There is no necessary thing
in all that you have made—
the fletching of the finch's wing,
the dappled summer shade,
the ripples spreading in a ring
from where the herons wade—
You have no need of anything,
yet see how they're arrayed.

And if the little bird should fall,
the world, one sparrow less,
would notice none of it at all,
would suffer no distress.
But you who hear the sparrow's call
and paint its stippled dress,
who see in death its awkward sprawl,
hold it in tenderness.

I am no sparrow in your hand,
no ray of light that fell.
There is no height I can demand,
and I shall fall as well.
The only rock where I can stand
is you, my God, yourself,
who need me not—yet you command,
and in that grace I dwell.

Photo: Don Green By Channel City Camera Club from Santa Barbara, US – Stepping off, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=106054518

Bitter Bread

The harvest of our sorrows—
the bitter dust we tilled,
the anguish of the harrows—
this grain we took and milled.
We leavened it with ashes
and kneaded it with tears
to lay it on your altar.
O Christ, come meet us here.

We long to bring you glories,
the bread of finest wheat
and wine to send us soaring,
and lay them at your feet,
to make our best our offering
for you to make divine—
Here is the bread of suffering
and tears distilled as wine.

O higher than the angels,
above all earthly crowns,
you did not spurn the manger—
You do not spurn us now.
When all that we can give you
is brokenness as bread,
you take what you are given
and fill it with yourself.

A Kremikovtsi Monastery fresco (15th century) depicting the Last Supper celebrated by Jesus and his disciples. The early Christians too would have celebrated this meal to commemorate Jesus’ death and subsequent resurrection. Photo By Edal Anton Lefterov – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15129262

Galaxies

A universe expanding,
and every day a flood
leaves one more ark on Ararat
somewhere that you call good.
Yet earthquakes and collapses,
both lava flow and flame,
creation and calamity
are calling out your name.

And all that is or will be
is but a grain of sand;
the great star-filled infinity
a pebble in your hand.
The stars burn down to ashes
and galaxies collide,
but not an atom perishes
unnoticed by your eye.

Myself am not a minute
in geologic terms,
still less in your infinitude—
but you have seen and heard.
My growth and my expansion,
my crumbling and collapse:
Though I fall to catastrophe,
I fall into your grasp.

M82, a starburst galaxy that has ten times the star formation of a “normal” galaxy By NASA, ESA, and The Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA) – http://www.spacetelescope.org/images/heic0604a/ ([cdn.spacetelescope.org/archives/images/screen/heic0604a.jpg direct link])http://hubblesite.org/gallery/album/entire_collection/pr2006014a/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=797295

To Whom Would We Go?

As a result of this,
many of his disciples returned to their former way of life
and no longer accompanied him.
Jesus then said to the Twelve, “Do you also want to leave?”
Simon Peter answered him, “Master, to whom shall we go?
You have the words of eternal life.
We have come to believe
and are convinced that you are the Holy One of God.”
—John 6:60-69

Could a child forget his mother,
though he takes a lonesome road,
or one hand forget the other
and the work they both have known?
You who joined us as our brother
knit yourself into our souls.
If we leave you for another,
Lord, to whom then would we go?

When you called us, we were children
seeking wisdom as a prize.
We had labored; we had striven,
but had nothing for our strife.
On the sea by storm winds driven,
you were peace amid our cries,
and the words that you have given—
They are spirit; they are life.

We will stay, Lord; we will follow,
though we may not understand.
Our desires were all but hollow
when you met us on the sands:
You have filled us, joy and sorrow;
all good things come from your hands.
And the bread you take and hallow,
we will eat at your command.

George Smith – Still Life of Bread, Butter and Cheese – Google Art Project By George Smith (1714 – 1776) – Artist (British)Born in Chichester. Died in Chichester.Details on Google Art Project – NQGAD2XKLA7c8g at Google Cultural Institute maximum zoom level, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=21974529

Bloom

Shouting, they shall mount the heights of Zion,
they shall come streaming to the LORD’s blessings:
The grain, the wine, and the oil,
flocks of sheep and cattle;
They themselves shall be like watered gardens,
never again neglected.
—Jeremiah 31:12

We have had the nights of weeping
and the prophecies of doom,
had the days of wide-eyed sleeping,
walking through a drifting gloom.
Yet the endless springs are seeping
into furrows, into tombs:
We shall blossom in his keeping
like a garden in full bloom.

Some have plowed and others planted—
he has worked our waiting earth;
sunk his hands into the land here,
seed, himself, in death and birth;
and the mercy he has granted 
feeds us like a secret source.
He has tilled and we shall answer
with abundance springing forth.

Oh, but now the fields are barren,
bleaching gray beneath the sun,
as we dread to hear the sirens—
waiting ended, war begun.
Still the gardener is preparing
for the harvest yet to come:
Even now the seeds are stirring;
even now his mercies run.

A la Nasir al-Mulk Mosque o Mesquita Rosa, By Joan Simon from Barcelona, España – A la Nasir al-Mulk Mosque o Mesquita Rosa, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=48223889

Whatever

We hear the trumpet stirring, Lord,
the long crescendo of the drums.
If there is peace or there is war,
still, bless us in whatever comes.

So long we have been hot and cold
that now we've just gone mostly numb.
Our hands feel not, and nothing hold,
but bless us in whatever comes.

The tongues that clamored all ran dry;
they've spent their noise and fallen dumb,
so who is left to lift the cry,
“Oh, bless us in whatever comes”?

For it will take us by the hair
and play our nerves like catgut strummed
whether we do or do not dare.
Lord, bless us in whatever comes.

And let it, when it's had its day
to foul the feast and leave us crumbs,
pass over and be on its way.
Oh, bless us in whatever comes.

Though time will ride us o'er rough-shod,
it goes back where it first came from.
You gather it and us, O God,
and bless us in whatever comes.

Screenshot of the film The Man Who Knew Too Much (1956) in which Doris Day performs the song Que Sera, Sera. By Paramount Pictures – Trailer of The Man Who Knew Too Much., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=65534401

Blunder

Jesus said to the crowds:
“I am the living bread that came down from heaven;
whoever eats this bread will live forever;
and the bread that I will give
is my flesh for the life of the world.”
–John 6:51-58

How could the Maker blunder,
who shaped us from the earth?
We should have been a wonder—
his fingers twitched and jerked,
or something broke asunder
and left us bent, besmirched,
for we have always hungered
and evermore shall thirst.

But nothing we have eaten
has left us satisfied,
for, oh, how we have feasted!
And, oh, how we have died.
We lost the fruits of Eden,
and now how shall we find
the end of endless needing
that eats us from inside?

In you alone, O Savior,
who did not spurn our need,
but came, like us, to break here,
and came, like us, to bleed.
You know the bread we're craving;
we beg true food, true drink.
And you, who have its savor,
you bid us take and eat.

German or South Netherlandish; Relief; Sculpture-Stone By This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons as part of a project by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. See the Image and Data Resources Open Access Policy, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60870093

Journeys

The souls of the dead are in your hand—
but take the living, too,
who wander over sea and land,
and see us safely through.

For though our eyes are wide and bright,
we cannot see the way.
The light of noon is dark as night
and hides the coming days.

The wings of dawn will bear us far—
what dangers wait us there?
Be with us ever, guide and guard,
in all that we shall bear!

For we must go beyond the seas,
leave all we know behind.
We journey 'til all journeys cease—
Be with us, and be kind!

You see what cannot e'er be seen;
you knew me ere my birth.
You knit me in my inmost being
and drew me from the earth—

Then you will not let go of me,
the labor of your hands.
Though I go where I cannot see,
beside me there you'll stand.

L’aurore, Mer du Nord by Guillaume Vogels, c. 1877 – Robert Moyens: Guillaume Vogels 150 Jaar, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4671281

Magnificat

For the Feast of the Assumption:

Let all that hides within my heart,
that dwells within my soul,
show forth the burning light of God
and magnify the Lord.

For he was not too great to look
upon my littleness,
but from it his own smallness took—
and all will call me blessed.

My God did not refuse to see,
so I am not ashamed.
No, he has done great things for me
and holy is his name.

His mercy flows from age to age
as mountain streams pour down.
The poor he shelters in his strength
and scatters all the proud.

The mighty fall beneath his gaze;
the low are lifted up;
and see! he send the rich away
and fills the beggar's cup!

For he has not forgotten us
through all our wand'ring days,
but shapes his mercy from our dust.
Oh, let my soul sing praise!

Drawing; Drawings By Pierre-Paul Prud’hon – This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons as part of a project by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. See the Image and Data Resources Open Access Policy, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60840413

Eat

Before the breaking of the bread
or walking on the sea,
before your rest in manger-bed
or Mary's “let it be,”
before you spoke and bid us hear
or our own tongues unfurled,
before our hunger called you near
you fed us in the world.

You did not wait 'til Bethlehem
to join us in the dust,
nor for the new Jerusalem
to break your bread with us,
but you who kneaded Eden's soil
to sculpt us as your face
you labored with us in our toil,
in our meals took your place.

There's not a crumb upon the board
that did not come from you,
and whether we could see you, Lord,
or not, you lay there, too.
You made the stomach of our need
and made it to be filled.
You made yourself the bread we eat,
and you will feed us still.

Slab stele from mastaba tomb of Itjer at Giza. 4th Dynasty, 2543–2435 BC. Itjer is seated at a table with slices of bread, shown vertical by convention. Egyptian Museum, Turin. Photo By Ian Alexander – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=54612130