In all you lay before me,
with all that lies within,
I turn to you, imploring
such grace I cannot win:
that I may seek in all things
and find in them your love,
so I may serve you always,
whatever ways I move.
You love your whole creation,
and where love is, You are.
In every tribe and nation,
in every wan'dring star.
Then let me love you ever,
each step along my way,
for you are there, wherever
I wander, day by day.
For in ten thousand places
you play and work and love;
you shine in all the faces
that on the wide earth move.
Come with me, loving Savior;
come with me as I go,
and make each place a haven
where I your grace may know.
So much of what you say is hard:
Sometimes I turn away,
but still I crave what you impart
and treasure what you say.
So much I cannot understand,
so much I rail against,
but still I seek out your command
to straighten what is bent,
to eat the living bread you give,
to take your riven flesh
and find in it a way to live
in blood and water drenched,
and make up, in my flesh and bone,
what somehow lacks in yours,
as if you were but man alone
and not the living Lord.
So much so far beyond my ken,
so much I cannot know,
but if I turn from you, what then?
O Lord, where would I go?
Then give me still the living bread,
and give me still your word.
I am still here, O Christ my head,
and you are still my lord.
For the readings for Assumption this past Sunday, combining Revelations and the Magnificat:
Your soul once magnified the Lord;
your spirit sang for joy,
but can you show him in this world
when so much is destroyed?
You sang, and then you wailed aloud:
the dragon swept down stars,
and are you wailing even now
within this world of ours?
One infant leapt to share your joy,
but others now lie still.
Oh, hold them as you did your boy
upon that dreadful hill!
Your kinswoman, she sang with you—
now others join your wail
to weep for those cut down too soon,
struck by the dragon's tail.
How can your music still resound
beneath our blood-red skies?
The mighty have not been cast down;
the poor have yet to rise.
But sing again, O Mother kind,
and weep aloud with us,
until that day dawns for the blind
that God remembers us.
An illustration of the woman of the Apocalypse in Hortus deliciarum (redrawing of an illustration dated c. 1180), depicting various events from the narrative in Revelation 12 in a single image. By w:Herrad of Landsberg – [1], Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6602031
You have led me through the desert;
you have held me through the years.
Every step, you have been present;
when I sought you, ever near.
When I strayed, you still were faithful;
when I fell, you, too, sank down,
not in wrath and not in failure,
but to lift me from the ground.
Lead me ever in your mercy,
through the day and through the dark.
Through my hunger and my thirsting,
show me yet your guiding spark.
If I never see your glory,
never reach the promised land,
if all other go before me,
still you have me in your hand.
When you lead me to the Jordan,
when you roll the river back,
give me courage for the journey
as you've given all I lack.
Let me trust again your goodness
and the wonders you have shown
still to bring me to the fullness
of the mercy I have known.
You baptize me into your death
and pour your waters down,
but I must choose with every breath
to die as you had done:
the waters falling down again
upon this heart of stone.
And every drop that you let fall
is forming me, O Lord.
Your Spirit plays upon them all,
your mercies new each morn.
Each “yes” I answer to your call,
I am again newborn.
Then wear away my hardened heart:
Dull every sharpened edge;
break down the walls I built to guard
my weak and wounded flesh.
Each time I choose the better part,
give me a heart of flesh.
To the tune ST. ANNE (“O God, Our Help In Ages Past”):
Hear me, my Lord and God alone,
for I have heard your word
and seek to take it as my own,
to live what I have heard:
So bind your word upon my brow
and set it in my mind.
My thoughts will echo with its sound,
my searching steps to guide.
Then bind your word upon my lips,
upon my tripping tongue,
to flow with every breath and hiss
'til all your songs are sung.
And bind your word upon my heart,
a seal upon my arm,
to soften what I have made hard
and turn me from all harm.
Then bind your word upon my wrist
and let it fill my hands,
that I may give and not resist
the work that love demands.
That when I come into my home,
when your word brings me there,
I shall lift up your name in song
'til echoes fill the air!
Moses receiving the Law (top) and reading the Law to the Israelites (bottom) By Karolingischer Buchmaler um 840 – 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=153348
We ate the manna in the desert,
and for a time it gave us life,
but none who ate it lived forever:
The way of all flesh is to die.
The rock who flows with living water
to fill the wastes we wander through,
the bread of life, who sees the Father,
has fallen like the morning dew.
And now he offers: Come, you hungry,
to take the bread I freely give.
Oh, come to me—why spend your money?
Receive my life that you may live.
Now may the Father draw us to him,
who for the life of all the world,
fell down to earth that, rising through him,
the Father's face we may behold.
And may we take the bread of heaven,
not as the manna sent before,
but as the life the Son has given
that we may eat and die no more.
All glory be to God the Father
who teaches us of God the Son,
and God the Spirit, God eternal,
whose life in us shall make us one.
Chief of all needs for human life are water and fire, iron and salt, The heart of the wheat, milk and honey, the blood of the grape, and oil, and clothing.
One from the backlog, taken from all over Sirach 39:
You give the water and the fire,
the iron and the salt,
the mercy and the flaming ire,
the being and the naught.
O God, all that you give is good:
the heart of ripened wheat,
the oil and cloth, the grape's red blood,
the milk and honey sweet.
These are the staves that hold off death,
but other gifts you give:
the fire and hail and pestilence
breathed out on all who live.
The scorpion sting and spider bite,
the storm and falling stone
rejoice to exercise your might
and bow before your throne.
All that you made is very good
and to the good brings health:
The bread and wine, the flame and flood,
and the last gift is death.
Nothing is evil in its time;
nothing but what we do
smears your creation with our grime,
drags us away from you.
Pour down your mercy once again
in water, bread, and wine.
Lead us to know their goodness then,
and our own good to find.
You open up your hands
and pour your blessings down:
The strength to walk these desert lands
lies scattered on the ground.
We gather what you send—
Lord, help us turn from doubt
to trust tomorrow, once again,
your manna will abound.
The vale our road leads through
is full of fears and harms,
but Father, you are ever true
through all of our alarms.
Not Moses, but from you
the bread of heaven comes;
then by its fullness, draw us to
the welcome in your arms.
And though we may rebel
upon this lifelong road,
still we must all these wonders tell
in every place we go:
how rocks become our wells
and springs burst forth from stones,
and daily bread from heaven fell
to bring us to your throne!
O God, come guide my stumbling steps.
So little progress do I make
along the road to holiness,
yet help me one more inch to take.
Since you have no mown down these hills,
then you must give me strength to climb.
And if no strength my body fills,
do you still ask for heights sublime?
While others scale the grandest peaks
and then descend to holy lands,
the Shepherd gathers up the weak
and carries them within his hands.
He leads the straying, shambling ewes
not with despite, but tender care.
And though they may destruction choose,
he will not leave them to despair.
So I, so often choosing death,
still hope to climb some little ways,
not by my power, not by strength,
but by my Shepherd's loving grace.
And if I never scale the heights,
yet there is one who bears me up.
I may not see those awesome sights,
but I can sip this flowing cup.
4th-century depiction at the Museum of the Baths of Diocletian, Rome By No machine-readable author provided. Kleuske assumed (based on copyright claims). – No machine-readable source provided. Own work assumed (based on copyright claims)., CC BY 2.5, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=468437
Kate Bluett 