The fog is rolling in again to stifle light and muffle sound, unpierceable by thought or sense; in it the lost are never found, and I, a panther in this pen in its soft shackles helpless bound.
The fog is rolling in again, like midnights in the chill of fall. I found it terrifying then to drive into no world at all, cut off from every haunt of men, with none to answer when I call.
The fog is rolling in again— and light a candle, curse the dark, all curse and comfort fail me when the mist has swallowed every spark as if no light had ever been. The world is comfortless and stark.
The fog is rolling in again. The curse is dampened as I shout. There’s nothing left of vehemence, and soon the candle flickers out. I am alone in blank immense, dissolving into formless doubt.
The fog is rolling in again. I am cut off, below, above. Throw me a line, O God in heav’n— a thread of hope would be enough to tie me to the world I ken. Don’t let me go, Lord, in your love!
The rulers sneered at Jesus and said, “He saved others, let him save himself if he is the chosen one, the Christ of God.” Even the soldiers jeered at him. As they approached to offer him wine they called out, “If you are King of the Jews, save yourself.” Above him there was an inscription that read, “This is the King of the Jews.” Now one of the criminals hanging there reviled Jesus, saying, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us.” The other, however, rebuking him, said in reply, “Have you no fear of God, for you are subject to the same condemnation? And indeed, we have been condemned justly, for the sentence we received corresponds to our crimes, but this man has done nothing criminal.” Then he said, “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” He replied to him, “Amen, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” —Luke 23:35-43
O King of all the universe, of height and depth unfathomed, in limit swaddled at your birth, in linen for your passion:
You know the weakness of my sight that cannot bear your glory. For me you dimmed your blazing light; be king of mercy for me.
When you have trampled death by death and into heaven entered, remember me in my last breath: O master, be my shepherd!
To lead me through the shadow vale. my sovereign, go beside me and with the love that never fails protect me still and guide me!
Though long I’ve left the path of right, yet seek me, Lord, and bring me to pastures of your paradise. Oh, may I join your kingdom!
Then with the angels I will praise the Lord of might and justice, and tell all hearts for endless days: This king the king of love is!
The wheel of justice grinds forever on and we are grist beneath it as it spins, ground down for all the sins of those who’ve gone, as others will be broken for our sins. Their blood cried out to us; ours calls again; the wheel grinds on; the wind unceasing blows; the count of crimes to answer only grows.
I lied once, to the god and to myself, that I would love him for his promised gift, this sight that sunder shadows ever delves for precious truth. When such a gem I lift to catch the quickening sunlight, something shifts and darkens every eye but mine. I lied, and for my perjury my brothers died.
But still I see the cobwebs of deceit. Why waste your efforts cozening a slave? You laid the cloths at Agamemnon’s feet as shrouds to lay him in an unkind grave. You need not fear; I’ll not cry out. Who’d save a captive thrall? My brothers all are dead. They’ll pay no ransom: You can go ahead,
but do not, pray, deceive yourself in this. The wheel grinds on, and blood cries out for blood. You shall have satisfaction but no bliss, and will not stem the tide that turns to flood. You, too, shall writhe, shall churn the ground to mud beneath the justice coming for your deed. But no, the god won’t let you pay me heed.
So be it. Let me ramble as the mad: Yet one shall come, shall all our sorrows feel, who knows the long-lost daughter that you had and holds in hand all punishments to deal— but mercy stops the turning of the wheel. Your justice grinds us both to dust, but he will stop its rounds, and then we shall go free.
Then take me, Clytemnestra, as you deem. I do not fear the swiftness of the knife, and I shall live for you each time you dream wrapped in the bloody shrouds of ancient strife. ‘Til mercy conquers vengeance, this is life. But who would dare deny us vengeance here? The wheel shall turn ‘til such a one draw near.
There will be trumpets; there will be brass bands among the shofars when the walls come down, a blaring fanfare for the common man descending then with thorns upon his brow and holes like whole notes through his riven hands. We all shall rise and wait to hear his count to start the song the hosts of heaven have sung— and each of us shall sing in his own tongue.
And yet no Babel, this, but harmony composed of all the musics of the world, a grace redeeming our cacophony and filling up the gaps between our words, transforming every voice that sings off-key into a tone no earthly ear has heard. But we have known it, loved it even so, and even now its echoes in us grow:
Reverberating in the daily songs our mothers taught us, fathers bass-note boomed, our sisters played us—striking some keys wrong but far more right—our brothers cracked-voice crooned, and when we grew we learned to sing along and chased that music in and out of tune. When Jesus comes again, oh, he will sing the song that calls to us through everything.
There will be choirs and angel voices raised, and in among them voices that we know in myriad songs will make one hymn of praise, and Christ himself with a resounding Do will tune the motifs of our separate lays into one chorus. Singing, we shall go, with the saints go marching: We shall hear each voice, and we shall look upon him and rejoice.
The ceiling mosaic of the Baptistery in Florence (c. 1240-1300) depicts (in the innermost octagon of images) all nine of the orders of angelic beings: the Seraphim and Cherubim are shown with Christ at lower center, while the other ranks each occupy a separate field, above which are their Latin designations. By Ricardo André Frantz (User:Tetraktys) – taken by Ricardo André Frantz, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2267968
“When you hear of wars and insurrections, do not be terrified; for such things must happen first, but it will not immediately be the end.” Then he said to them, “Nation will rise against nation, and kingdom against kingdom. There will be powerful earthquakes, famines, and plagues from place to place; and awesome sights and mighty signs will come from the sky.” —Luke 21:5-19
Now our foundations tremble; no stone on stone shall stand, but if we’ve lost our temple, are we still in your hand?
For nation batters nation and peace gives way to war and all our faith is shaken— Is this the end, O Lord?
Not yet, though signs and portents have filled our minds with fear. You will not leave us orphans, and you are drawing near.
The skies begin to threaten; the world begins to burn; yet when you rend the heavens it means you will return.
As once you came to win us, O Christ, you come again to bring a new beginning, for this is not the end.
Now in the hour of crisis is hope for future days: The sun of justice rises with healing in his rays.
Observing a sunrise on the National Elk Refuge is truly a memorable experience. Photo: Kari Cieszkiewicz/USFWS Scenes from the National Elk Refuge By USFWS Mountain-Prairie – A Frosty Morning, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=110781726
The cool dry grains of rice and pearls of barley, the weight of lentils pooling in my hand, black beans and bleached white flour: A goodly harvest
is waiting, as the pantry silence stands, for onions, garlic, aromatic herbs, for boiling water, hot oil in the pan,
then simmered long and low, and stirred and stirred until the whole house smells of glorious spice. Sense calls to sense; no message goes unheard.
The garlic’s mellowed into depth, not bite; the onion softened, sweetened by the heat, and you will taste it on the air tonight
before you take your coat off, have a seat. It thumbprints every memory of home: aroma of the ever-waiting feast.
And some day, when you long have ceased to roam, you find that heaven smells like olive oil, adobo chicken falling off the bone,
or bay and garlic on a roasted loin— Mom says the house’ll smell like that for days. In that eternal day I’ll take my joy
around a table, sitting face to face and hand to hand with those who’d been far off. Come barley, lentils: Share with me that taste. Awaken me to heaven’s waiting grace.
I carry here a pebble, a fragment of the mountain. This day and all its efforts, to little they amount now. I lay this nothing at your feet; the edifice you must complete.
I carry one more pebble; I stack it with the other. The angels will descend here, and this shall be my altar, the offering of a little life. Accept, O God, the sacrifice.
Each day another pebble— as all have been, imperfect— to make a stair to heaven, though I cannot deserve it. It is the grace of God alone. O Father, send another stone.
Tomorrow, yes, a pebble, if I should see the morning, until the bright forever breaks over me its dawning. Yet consecrate each given day, O God, and send a stone my way.
The angel brought me back to the entrance of the temple, and I saw water flowing out from beneath the threshold of the temple toward the east, for the façade of the temple was toward the east; the water flowed down from the southern side of the temple, south of the altar. —Ezekiel 47:1-2
Destroy this temple. From the dust it rises ever to abide, the body of our God with us, with water flowing from his side.
A river running to the sea, each stone it touches purified. They are a temple yet to be, with water flowing from its side.
Their one foundation Jesus Christ, whose mercy stretches far and wide. His strength for all their need sufficed, with water flowing from his side.
And every stone upon him laid becomes as he, the Crucified, is blessed and broken, bound and raised, with water flowing from its side.
So miracles on miracles: The stones have hearts of flesh inside! The temple has a living pulse, with water flowing from its side.
Build up the temple, stone by stone, ‘til every stone becomes a bride, each one belovèd, named and known, with water flowing from its side.
Plaque with the Crucifixion between Longinus and Stephaton and Personifications of the Sun and Moon, German; Plaque; Enamels-Champlevé, circa 1200. 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=60921220
My Lord, the one you love is sick. Come quickly, if that our love for you means anything; if ever in our house you feasted richly in honor and respect less friend than king; and at your feet my sister listening and Lazarus my brother at your side. How can we feast again when he has died?
But come you as a brother to my brother and break upon the darkness over him. Beneath its weight I see his spirit smother and see him waste away in every limb. What light of hope I had is growing dim. Why did our mother bear us, give us breath, if we but sigh away until our death?
And yet, she did—a gift that we were given from God’s hand first, through hers, into our own. A mercy in itself that we are living. I would not trade the life that I have known, not if they both should die, and I alone go on. I know we flourish as the grass, but who can bear to watch the blossom pass?
I have before now nursed the sick and dying, but never my own flesh, my very blood. I’ve tended many in their shrouds now lying, returning dust to dust and mud to mud. God made these bodies and he called them good, and yet they break. They fall into the grave. But you have power—will you come to save?
Or is my hope a desperate illusion? All men must die. Our lives are but a breath— but still we breathe and breathe in such profusion, who can believe the end is merely death? I trust in you: Make that your shibboleth and know that we are yours. Come heal your own. My brother in the darkness walks alone.
For days now at his bedside I have hovered and brooded on the waters of his life: They drain away, O friend, and we who love him are balanced on the sharp edge of the knife. Despair or hope: Who conquers in our strife? The Lord has given; he will take away, but, oh!, not yet! Then come without delay!
For well I know that when you speak, God listens who promised not to leave us with the dead. But what are promises to face this sickness? Oh me, I thought I had more confidence. I trust in God, but find it no defense against the darkness pressing on my soul. And Mary weeps and will not be consoled.
If Lazarus should die—O God, prevent it!— my sister so will bathe him in her tears and wipe him with her hair. Her garments rending, she will anoint his body—See my fears! I weep in silence, doubting if God hears. I tell her nothing, writing this to you. Come quickly, Lord; I don’t know what to do.
If death should come, if we must live without him, then blessèd be the name—still—of the Lord. In linen and in spices we’ll enshroud him and face the day that we have so abhorred. Yes, we will drink the cup that sorrow’s poured. And if you cannot come to him by the end, then come and face the grave with us, my friend.
Kate Bluett 