“How long, O Lord? How, how? How long?”
A white-winged dove awakes the dawn—
I missed the alarm, but this I hear.
A nesting pair comes every year
and builds again what time tore down.
All spring and summer will resound
in the golden light of dusk and dawn,
“How long, O Lord? How, how? How long?”

They build where grass has long since grown
above the feathers of their own
when from the door I watched the hawk
devour the fallen of the flock.
Yet still they build to lose it all
when spring and summer turn to fall,
who cry out now at dusk and dawn,
“How long, O Lord? How, how? How long?”

For winter passes, as do hawks,
through solstice to the equinox;
and spring returns, as do the doves
to build again their nests and loves,
until our winters all are past;
until an answer comes at last
for all who ask at dusk and dawn,
“How long, O Lord? How, how? How long?”

In Texas, By Dan Pancamo – Flickr: White-winged Dove, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=16276493

Jesus took Peter, James, and John his brother,
and led them up a high mountain by themselves.
And he was transfigured before them;
his face shone like the sun
and his clothes became white as light.
—Matthew 17:1-9

There are lights that cast a shadow,
brightnesses that make us dark,
overwhelmed by all that’s hallowed
as we catch the merest spark.

In our littleness we look on,
but we cannot comprehend
what this shining now betokens
in the one we call our friend.

When I glimpse you, Lord, I tremble
though I see the smallest part,
for you see how I dissemble
in the shadows of my heart;

and I fall before your glory
in my terror and my shame;
and you show your mercy toward me
when you dim again your flame.

Then you stoop to where I’ve fallen—
always in the dust we meet.
Here you offer me your comfort
as you raise me to my feet.

Yet the spark I caught is burning,
and it makes my darkness bright.
O, refine me in your furnace
‘til my eyes can bear your light!

This generation is an evil generation;
it seeks a sign, but no sign will be given it,
except the sign of Jonah. 
–Luke 11:29

Let me see the sign of Jonah
when I’ve fallen in the depths:
In the crushing, in the cold there,
swallow me into yourself.

From the chaos of the tempest,
from the darkness of the tomb,
gather me into your refuge;
carry me as in your womb.

You have walked the waves that drowned me;
you have sunk in death’s abyss.
There you sought me and you found me,
as you came here just for this.

So you have me in your keeping
in the deepnesses of death.
Oh, she is not dead but sleeping—
You will give me back my breath.

Austrian – Leaf from Missal – Walters W339R – Obverse Detail By AustrianGottschalk – Walters Art Museum: Home page  Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18845832

God bless the missionary at my door
in his polyester suit of powder blue
over a crisp white tee. What vintage store
yielded this treasure? “Hi, there, ma’am.  Do you
know how to get to heaven? Just believe.”
He stands there awkwardly, so tall and lean,
to speak a faith that’s never had to grieve—
he couldn’t be a day over nineteen.
The Gospel in his pocket duct-tape-bound,
he flips through it to read me passages—
so well-rehearsed—to show the hope he’s found.
The braces on his teeth shine out through this.
Yes, I believe, I tell him, but I know
the myriad failures of my little faith,
how far I’ve come, and yet how far to go,
the trepidation when I think of death.
He is so sure, but when I reach that door
and try convincing Peter, all I’ll have
is tattered hopes, stained robes, and nothing more—
that’s all this eager, earnest young man has.
God, bless all pilgrims, old or so, so young,
and make a way from here to heaven’s gate;
put good words in each heart and on each tongue;
and take us in, even if the hour is late.

At that time Jesus was led by the Spirit into the desert
to be tempted by the devil.
He fasted for forty days and forty nights,
and afterwards he was hungry.
The tempter approached and said to him,
“If you are the Son of God,
command that these stones become loaves of bread.”
He said in reply,
“It is written:
One does not live on bread alone,
but on every word that comes forth
from the mouth of God.”
—Matthew 4:1-11

You fasted, but the devil does not eat—
you learned a hunger he had never known.
I know it, though, who sit here at your feet
and beg, for I have had my fill of stone.

How often have I turned the rocks to bread,
have ground them down by effort and by will,
then kneaded dust and said that I was fed?
And so you fast, but, oh, I hunger still.

Yet I had starved myself in days before:
I thought it was the fasting that you wish
and turned away from your creation, Lord—
but still you offered me its loaves and fish.

And so I beg you, offer me again
the sustenance I need to cross the sands.
You learned the hunger of created men;
teach me to love the gifts within your hands,

to feast on you, O Word, as on good bread.
I know I cannot live on bread alone,
but if I taste of you I will be fed,
and you, O Christ, will change my heart of stone!

The gash that tears the sparrow’s wing
rent by the talons of the hawk:
This is the wound in everything,
the canker in each golden stalk,

so all the wheat is wounded wheat
and all the bread is broken bread,
and there is nothing else to eat
but feasts laid out to feed the dead.

But death itself’s insatiable,
and we are droplets to its thirst,
a gullet never brimming full—
but fill it once and it would burst.

Oh, who can fill the wild abyss
that sucks us down into the pit?
What life could ever conquer this
and not become a prey to it?

Only the life that cannot die,
a river pouring endlessly
from fountains never running dry,
could fill the maw and set us free.

Pour down, O Love, your endless self
of oceans, rivers, rain, and dew.
When you have drowned the jaws of death,
the sparrow’s wing will be made new.

Bruno Liljefors – House sparrows among the thorns (1886) – Bukowskis, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=138306035

The final realm is mine to rule
while Jove still holds his sway,
and justly rule—I am not cruel,
no matter what they say.

I see the wicked pay their dues:
At last by curb and rein
they take the path they would not choose
of virtue taught by pain.

But nothing harms the innocent;
they paid their fees above
who always in right pathways went.
They nothing lose but love,

for love is fed on memories
that time and flesh beget,
but here they drink the flowing springs
of Lethe and forget.

Though there was one, while yet she lacked
the waters of the shades,
whose lover came to take her back.
Like Phoebus’ self he played,

and I who have no mortal heart
(the gods are seldom moved)
was weeping sorely at his art—
but folly it was proved.

I gave him back the one he loved
but warned him not to look
until they reached the world above.
He vowed what he forsook.

For love is fed on looking back
to bear what lies ahead;
he could not brook the forward track
who’d seen her lying dead.

If love could live beyond the grave,
beyond its mortal need
to feed upon the love it craves,
the dead would all be freed.

But human hunger’s no such thing,
and death destroys love’s flame.
Returned, she drank of Lethe’s spring;
he went back whence he came.

As yet, my wings have never furled—
but something stops my breath.
Though I may rule the underworld,
what do I know of death?

The Rape of Proserpina by Gian Lorenzo Bernini at the Galleria Borghese in Rome, Photo By Sailko – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=76297391

“When you pray,
do not be like the hypocrites,
who love to stand and pray in the synagogues and on street corners
so that others may see them.
Amen, I say to you,
they have received their reward.
But when you pray, go to your inner room,
close the door, and pray to your Father in secret.
And your Father who sees in secret will repay you.”
—Matthew 6:5-6

It would be easier, O Lord,
to stand there on the corner,
to shout my prayer, take my reward,
let deeper things lie dormant.

But you’re not waiting on the street
to see my prayers are frequent.
It’s in an inner room we meet,
in silence and in secret.

How long since I have been there, though?
The air is stale, neglected.
I am ashamed to let you know—
how dreary, how dejected.

I have not made a place for you,
yet you are here, regardless,
inviting me, enkindling too
a light within my darkness.

And by that light you look on me;
you call me out of hiding.
Though I’m ashamed to let you see,
I’m drawn to your abiding.

Then I will sit here with you, Lord,
and cast off fear and fetter.
Your presence shall be my reward—
I ask for nothing better.

More details

Nicodemus Visiting Christ, 1899 painting. Nicodemus (left) talking to Jesus, by Henry Ossawa Tanner – Pennsylvania Academy of the Fine Arts – Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10980764

The wind still rustles last year’s withered grasses,
and new rain falls in this old pond to dredge
the sediment, as one more winter passes.
These eggs will hatch as hawks hunt last year’s fledge.

The days are warming, rising updrafts swelling
to lift the vultures high on lazy wings:
They will descend again, their flesh compelling,
yet as they feast a mockingbird still sings.

Some seeds have sprouted; others decomposing
are making rich the springtime’s luscious bed.
New leaves are opening on winter’s closing;
new lives come bursting out among the dead.

The hungry hawk cannot be always flying;
he, too, will topple lifeless to the earth.
The mightiest must face the day of dying;
the smallest are yet ground for spring’s new birth.

A darkness briefly covers springing clover,
a shadow intermingled with bright day
where swift the hungry kestrel passes over
before it, like the grass, shall pass away.

Jesus said to his disciples:
“Do not think that I have come to abolish the law or the prophets.
I have come not to abolish but to fulfill.
Amen, I say to you, until heaven and earth pass away,
not the smallest letter or the smallest part of a letter
will pass from the law,
until all things have taken place.
Therefore, whoever breaks one of the least of these commandments
and teaches others to do so
will be called least in the kingdom of heaven.
But whoever obeys and teaches these commandments
will be called greatest in the kingdom of heaven.
I tell you, unless your righteousness surpasses
that of the scribes and Pharisees,
you will not enter the kingdom of heaven.”
—Matthew 5:17-37

Wisdom from before the ages,
precepts written still to bless,
secrets hidden from the sages:
How shall we know righteousness?
These you lay before us, Father,
jot and tittle all complete.
Every son and every daughter
chooses death or death’s defeat.

Nothing, then, could be more urgent
than a thirst for righteousness.
If we are, as you are, perfect,
you, O Lord, will see and bless.
Yet we are not perfect, Father—
all our efforts incomplete.
Feeble son and faulty daughter:
Shall our death be our defeat?

You have taught us of the kingdom;
teach us more of righteousness.
Let that knowledge in us deepen,
“yes” become a greater “yes.”
Shall we enter in, O Father?
May your mercy be complete.
Spare your sons and spare your daughters:
Let your life our deaths defeat.