Through him all things were fashioned,
through Christ, the light from light.
A boundless grace unrationed
and all unhindered might
poured into dust and ashes,
o'erflowing day and night;
the sinews of compassion
in every depth and height.
And, in the Father's image,
these works of flesh and blood,
formed out of bone and kinship,
called by the Father good.
Not all the tides of envy,
nor wrath in all its flood,
the face of Christ have riven
or turned him from their love.
And so he came, full-hearted,
into the world he shaped;
he came and died a martyr
for what his love creates:
the image of the Father
in Abel and in Cain,
and he will not discard us,
but safeguards what he made.
In “Creation of Adam,” Michelangelo provides a great example of the substantive view of the image of God through the mirroring of the human and the divine. By Michelangelo – See below., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15461165
One for the First Sunday of Lent, especially the temptation in the desert. to the tune TALLIS’ CANON:
O Word of God, be on my lips,
as near as every fading breath.
Upon my tongue let honey drip
to drown the bitterness of death.
O Word of God, sustain my life:
I cannot live on bread alone,
but strengthened in the daily strife
I journey onward to your throne.
O Word of God, within me dwell
and fill the chambers of my heart.
My thirst for fame and power quell;
your living spring to me impart.
O Word of God, suffuse my mind
with trust in you and in your plans.
No matter where my pathway winds,
you bear me ever in your hands.
O Word of God who came to earth
not as a mandate carved in stone
but wailing wordless at your birth,
all my temptations you have known.
O Word of God, O great high priest,
like me in all things but my sin,
O, be my comfort and my feast.
By your compassion draw me in.
The day will come: The bridegroom will be taken.
We lay aside our spotless bridal gown.
The sun has dimmed, and all the earth is shaken;
we lay him out, enfolded in his shroud.
So let us fast, e'en as our hearts are breaking;
so let us weep and mourn our sins aloud.
He will return and bring with him fulfillment;
until he does, the fast before us lies.
The promise lives, but cannot be fulfilled yet,
so day by day the tears escape our eyes.
Our bridegroom knew—he wept for us and still went—
and now we fast and lift our heartrent cries.
So we must rend our hearts instead of garments,
and smash the yoke that weighs our brothers down,
share out our bread, give shelter to the homeless,
untie the ropes that hold our sisters bound.
Then light shall break, and he shall go before us:
The bridegroom comes, and we shall wear his crown!
Dust we are, and dust again shall be,
ashes falling once the spark has gone.
Dust our eyes, and all our eyes can see:
Clouds of witness fill the reddened dawn.
Dust that gathers at the muddy hem,
clings to tassels hanging from the robe,
crowds the road into Jerusalem,
stings the eyes and cakes the weary throat.
Settled in the creases of his arms,
step by step borne through the city gate,
wiped away with tears and unbound hair,
gathered up with every step he takes.
Come and cling to him who bears all things,
weight of dust atop the weight of wood.
Caked in sweat, into the grave he sinks,
bears us down into the Jordan's flood.
Dust and water churning into mud,
delta silt where buried seeds take root:
Life springs up from fallen flesh and blood.
Dust the field, and Christ the firstling fruit.
Keeping your commandments,
following your word,
yet I still am lacking,
longing in my thirst.
Tell me then, good Teacher,
what I still must do.
In my heav'nward reaching,
how do I reach you?
Sell what still I covet?
Give away my wealth?
Easier to cast off,
oh, my very self.
What am I without it?
Nothing but a name,
all my faults unshrouded,
open to my shame.
Yet you call me forward
where I dare not go.
Shall I die a coward,
buried in my gold?
Call me still, O Savior;
call, and come to me.
Show me by your gazes
what I still could be.
One thing still is needed,
one thing I must do:
Lead me through the needle
I must still go through.
Not by my own power—
that will ne'er suffice.
Come, Lord, in my hour:
Take me through the eye.
O God, who from high heaven gazes down,
all things to your observant gaze are shown:
The mountain peaks, the trenches most profound,
and all of humankind by you are known.
I cannot see myself, perceiving Lord;
I cannot see the beam that fills my eye,
but you who healed the blind with but a word,
you see, and you alone can give me sight.
Let me not reach to guide another's way—
no, take my hand and lead me in your own.
The shadows I have seen lead me astray:
Send out your light and show me where to go.
Then when my eyes are healed, my vision clear,
oh, then shall I see others as you see
and with your light reach out to draw them near,
as you in endless mercy have drawn me.
You told us put the sword away,
and healed the wound our anger made.
How shall we follow what you say?
Shall there be peace when midnight fades?
Unarmed you stood for Judas' kiss
as soldiers fell before your word,
but we have turned from you in this
to live and die but by the sword.
We fled, and you were led away
to face th'accuser's lies alone.
Oh, let us turn before the day
and claim you ere the rooster crows!
For no one knows the day or hour
when you your kingdom will restore—
not of this world or this world's power;
not by this world or this world's war.
Give us palm leaves in place of swords
and songs of praise instead of drums,
with cloaks to lay across the road
to greet you when your kingdom comes!
Two times the cock has crowed tonight—
the minutes pass; soon comes the third.
What shall we see by morning's light?
How shall we weep when we have heard?
You covered Jesus with your cloak
and took the exile's midnight road.
You fled the tyrant's deadly stroke,
the child within your mantle stowed.
How much would you have given, though,
to wrap him safely at your breast
when you instead saw him brought low
and of his seamless cloak undressed?
You wrapped him once in swaddling bands,
and in the end, a linen shroud.
We took him from your gentle hands
to fill a tomb we'd hollowed out.
But, O my mother, wrap your cloak
today around the burning world.
Protect us from the flames and smoke,
from bullets fired and missiles hurled.
As you held Jesus to your breast,
so hold us close this mournful day.
Wrapped in your mantle may we rest,
then rise to take the exile's way.
O Mary, fill your mother's arms
with all the ones Christ left behind.
Within your cloak hide us from harm,
for him who healed the deaf and blind.
When your final words were spoken
mercy's bloody crown to win,
you threw heaven's door wide open:
“Father, still forgive their sin.”
For this was the road you'd chosen
mercy's kingdom to begin,
but I fear the door is closing
and I will not make it in.
Oh, how can can it yet stand open
after all that I have been?
Proud and angry, bent and broken,
what acceptance can I win?
But the living word was spoken
louder than the howls of sin,
and it tells me you have chosen
to bring broken sinners in.
Let the words again be spoken:
Jesus, still forgive my sin!
Let your promise not be broken,
and your reign at last begin.
Claim the kingship you have chosen,
healing all the world has been:
Leave the door of mercy open.
O my Savior, draw me in!
By Francisco de Zurbarán – The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH. ISBN: 3936122202., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=160353
And do you see my weary tears in torrent?
My light is drowned beneath the seas I weep.
I cannot raise my eyes to see your morning;
they are held down by all the weight of grief.
But still I cry, my heart and soul imploring:
Lord, I believe! Oh, help my unbelief!
For you alone can heal the wounds I bury,
the sins I hide, the pain that no one sees;
and you alone can lift the cross I carry
and lift me, too, from here upon my knees—
but give me strength to hold you through my terror:
Lord, I believe! Oh, help my unbelief!
When days of drought have left me dry and thirsty,
the manna's gone and there is naught to eat,
send down the rain to cool my desert's burning;
send signs of hope to grant me some relief.
But more than all, my Savior, send me mercy!
Lord, I believe! Oh, help my unbelief!
Follower of Filippo Brunelleschi and Masaccio, Christ Healing the Possessed Boy, c. 1450-1460, NGA 43901 – This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons as part of a project by the National Gallery of Art. Please see the Gallery’s Open Access Policy., CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=80588858
Kate Bluett 