Ash from ash we are;
dust, and dust again.
But on us shines a star,
and music fills the plain.
Deserts meet the seas;
earth and rain make mud:
Christ wed himself to these,
God's life in flesh and blood.
Flowers fade at dusk;
rivers chase the sea—
Christ came as one of us.
O God, how can it be?
Heaven filling earth;
God-with-us drawn near
to join us by birth,
though we are nothing here.
Dust our dust has blest,
frailty treasured now:
Eternity enfleshed,
and every knee shall bow.
Jesus, Son of God,
mercy born as man,
who shaped us from the sod:
Oh, hold us in your hand!
The ages when I cannot sleep
but watch the light around the shades,
do you, O God, some vigil keep
and watch with me the light you made?
Then hear my whispered midnight cries—
let me not wake the ones who sleep!—
Come on the stirring of my sighs,
unlseeping God, and watch with me.
Be in the eyes that will not close,
the notes repeating in my brain,
the breathing that I try to slow,
the heartbeat revving once again.
All-present God, be even here
where reason's angels fear to tread:
the heart that quakes in nameless fear,
the mind that spins uncertain dread.
These tangled sheets will be your throne
where you are worshipped and adored:
O, do no leave me here alone,
but make this bed your temple, Lord!
And let me find, when morning dawns,
your praises as the sparrows sing,
your love as great as night is long,
this night the shadow of your wings.
Amen.
As Jesus continued his journey to Jerusalem, he traveled through Samaria and Galilee. As he was entering a village, ten lepers met him. They stood at a distance from him and raised their voices, saying, “Jesus, Master! Have pity on us!” And when he saw them, he said, “Go show yourselves to the priests.” As they were going they were cleansed. And one of them, realizing he had been healed, returned, glorifying God in a loud voice; and he fell at the feet of Jesus and thanked him. He was a Samaritan. Jesus said in reply, “Ten were cleansed, were they not? Where are the other nine? Has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?” Then he said to him, “Stand up and go; your faith has saved you.”
O God, refusing to be bound
in heaven's perfect sphere,
who took the pathway plunging down,
be with the fallen here.
The ninety-nine are in their fold;
climb down the deep crevasse
to seek the lost, and safely hold,
and bring them back at last.
You left the Father's painless realm
to draw your people near.
You walked the way of all our flesh:
Be with the lepers here.
The hale and whole no doctors need,
and so you came to heal.
Now show the wounded to the priests;
yourself in them reveal.
And swifter than the spirit moves,
now may your truth appear:
For us who cannot see your love,
be with the blinded here.
For we have said that we are well
and do not see our wounds.
We shut our eyes and tripped and fell:
Come bring us back to you.
Christus und die Aussätzigen, um 1920, Diözesanmuseum Freising, Inv. D94111 By Gebhard Fugel – Own work (fotografiert in der Ausstellung “Gebhard Fugel 1863-1939. Von Ravensburg nach Jerusalem”. Galerie Fähre, Altes Kloster, Bad Saulgau, 2014), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=32072389
“Who among you would say to your servant who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field, ‘Come here immediately and take your place at table’? Would he not rather say to him, ‘Prepare something for me to eat. Put on your apron and wait on me while I eat and drink. You may eat and drink when I am finished’? Is he grateful to that servant because he did what was commanded? So should it be with you. When you have done all you have been commanded, say, ‘We are unprofitable servants; we have done what we were obliged to do.'”
We plowed the fields and planted;
we waited for the rains.
We did as you commanded—
O God, what have we gained
but dirt beneath our fingers
and sunburns on our backs,
an even fiercer hunger
for all the world yet lacks?
We worked on, even knowing
the harvest still could fail.
We labored through the growing—
O God, to what avail
but tenderness for seedlings,
and hope for future years,
and mercy in our weeding,
despite the weight of fears?
The seasons stretch out farther
than all our days gone past,
to threshing after harvest—
O God, when shall we rest
but when the bread is broken
and laid before the least?
God, help us in the working
and call us to the feast.
Brooklyn Museum – The Sower (Le semeur) – James Tissot – overall – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2006, 00.159.119_PS1.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10195964
You scooped up from the garden
three measures of fine dust—
of heart and mind nad body—
You kneaded and made us.
Can bread become the baker,
the baker be the bread?
Creation hold its maker
within a manger bed?
But so it was, Messiah:
You came, past all belief,
to see your stars from this side,
your heavens from beneath.
And, kneaded from the same earth,
our God from God's own hands,
you joined us by the same birth:
a mother's labor pains.
Her body broken open
to bear and nourish yours;
your body blessed and broken
to feed a starving world.
The dust of earth in heaven,
and heaven filling earth:
This is the feast you set us,
O savior of the dirt.
I don't have flocks to offer you,
just these two turtledoves;
if they could be enough for you,
you have them with my love.
I lay no treasures at your feet,
no more than two small coins.
All that you first have given me,
I give to you again.
Little enough, the gift I bring;
I pray, let it suffice.
Though but a meagre offering,
it is my sacrifice.
If I had cities in my hold
or talents in my grasp,
or harvests ripening to gold,
you would have but to ask,
but if I have no more to give,
do not be angry, Lord.
Still let it stand for all I'd have
if you had given more.
And let me be content with this,
with giving you my mite.
If you have made me only this,
it's good, then, in your sight.
My life shall praise the Lord—
I sing, and I will live—
who wrought me with a spoken Word.
Each breath I take, he gives.
And God shall be my hope,
my saving help his name,
who made the heavens in their scope,
the depths of earth he made.
If I have bread at all,
it came but from God's hand,
and from my hand it must go on
to feed a hungry land.
If I stand up unbowed,
it's God secures my right,
and I must work for justice now,
that others stand upright.
If I do anything,
make any good on earth,
it is the Lord who works in me—
in God alone, my worth.
I sing: It is his breath,
and when it ends, I die.
And God, who lays me in the earth,
will raise me to the skies.
Mashing up Psalm 126, James 5, and therapy. Set to music by the inimitable Paul Zach:
We sowed the fields in sorrow
and watered them with tears,
but we will reap tomorrow
the harvest of our years.
The hopes all came to nothing,
the seedlings choked with thorns,
but something else is growing
among the seeds we've sown.
At dawn, we went out weeping,
seeds falling from our hands,
but we will come home singing
when dusk has touched the land.
Then let the rains come early,
and let the rains come late.
The seasons still are turning,
if only we will wait.
So watch the fields with patience
and love the fallen seeds;
the God who hears us praying
will give us all we need.
It won't be what we planted
or what we understood.
It won't be what we wanted,
but, oh!, it will be good.
You drew me from the muddy pit,
from thorn and thicket set me free.
You set a rock beneath my steps
and asked no sacrifice of me.
I'd waited—long I'd waited, Lord—
until you heard and stooped to me
with all the hope I'd waited for,
and made no sacrifice of me.
No Isaac burning on the fire,
no ram as fragrant offering—
no gift of mine did you desire,
but gave me then a song to sing.
As you have written in your scroll,
your word, O God, is my delight,
for you have written in my soul
the words that make my darkness bright.
Then let me be a living flame;
a word that flares but does not singe;
a candle flikering your name,
no matter if it's bright or dim.
And let me be a living scroll,
proclaiming, singing to the world
the music that sustains my soul
when in the pit again I'm hurled.
Hear this, you who trample upon the needy and destroy the poor of the land! “When will the new moon be over,” you ask, “that we may sell our grain, and the sabbath, that we may display the wheat? We will diminish the ephah, add to the shekel, and fix our scales for cheating! We will buy the lowly for silver, and the poor for a pair of sandals; even the refuse of the wheat we will sell!” The LORD has sworn by the pride of Jacob: Never will I forget a thing they have done!
How long, O Lord, your patience?
How long will this go on?
Swear by the pride of Jacob:
Remember what we've done!
We buy and sell the needy
to throw their lives away.
Look down, O God, and see them:
How long will you delay?
But still you offer mercy,
and still our hearts and turn.
Take our dishonest earnings
and comfort the forlorn!
For if we are the stewards
who tally your accounts,
let justice make us true ones
who pay back every ounce.
But if we are the beggars
in need around your door,
let mercy make us gen'rous,
for we ourselves are poor.
All that we hold and cherish
we never could afford:
As children, we inherit—
so may we share it, Lord.
Woodcut of the Parable of the Unjust Steward: the rich man and his housekeeper seated at a desk on which a calculating table has been drawn. Printed in Basel by Adam Petri. By Hans Schäufelein – Digitised image, British Museum, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=92275892
Kate Bluett 