Daily

The day arrives like that before
to call me from my bed,
for there are needs I can't ignore
and people to be fed.

This repetition, Lord, and rhyme
mark out my works and days;
I wade through ordinary time
just numbering my days.

Yet sometimes in the haze of tasks,
some music trills and sings
beyond all blessings I could ask,
O love that moves all things.

A mundane moment you fill up,
and I at once am fed
by you, my portion and my cup;
by you, my daily bread.

And then my soul before you stands;
my senses wake to know
your grace is here beneath my hands
that knead and shape the dough.

The moment past, it echoes yet—
the day is left to fill.
I fill it, Lord, and I forget,
but you are with me still.

Woman baking bread (c. 2200 BC); Louvre, Photo By Rama, CC BY-SA 3.0 fr, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=69938567

Endless Praise

Jesus said:
“My sheep hear my voice;
I know them, and they follow me.
I give them eternal life, and they shall never perish.
No one can take them out of my hand.
My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all,
and no one can take them out of the Father’s hand.
The Father and I are one.”
—John 10:27-30

We long to stand where endless praise is sung,
where we are named and counted as the stars,
where each one sings to you in his own tongue—
O Shepherd, speak to each of us in ours!

For we are weary of our Babel here,
the endless bleak confusion of our days.
But if you speak, our senses may yet clear
and let us seek together for your ways.

Bring us where all distress is in the past:
The Lamb is in the center of the throne,
his court a refuge that will ever last.
We'll never be displaced, for we are home.

Oh, see: Our thirst and hunger are no more,
and you will wipe the tears from every eye.
Then speak to us, Good Shepherd!  Speak, O Lord!
That we may find the springs that ne'er run dry!

Speak, then, and let it be as you will say:
Make us your own, as you made sea and land,
that we may stand there in your endless day
where nothing takes us from the Father's hand.

Jesus, der gute Hirte im Tympanon der evangelischen Friedenskirche in Hanau-Kesselstadt, Photo By amras.wi – Own workOriginal text: eigenes Photo, Copyrighted free use, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=69223980

Eden

We have never looked on Eden—
it was gone before we woke,
but we'd swear that we have seen it
in the words our fathers spoke,
in the kindness of our mothers,
in the bread we daily break
or receive from one another:
Eden, every bite we take.

There are days when we remember
that our lives are built on sand,
walking always in the desert,
looking for the promised land.
In the daily thirst of dying
we recall those living springs;
hunger speaks of satisfying:
Eden touches everything.

Though we can't go back to Eden,
still it flavors all we do;
with the savor of your kingdom
where we find our life in you,
for the seeds in Eden planted
blossom out into a feast.
From the harvest you have granted
we will finally sit and eat.

Les très riches heures du duc de Berry, Folio 25v, By Limbourg brothers – IRHT-CNRS/Gilles Kagan – Bibliothèque du château, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=108858

Back To the Beginning

So the disciple whom Jesus loved said to Peter, “It is the Lord.”
When Simon Peter heard that it was the Lord,
he tucked in his garment, for he was lightly clad,
and jumped into the sea.
—John 21:1-19

I went back to the beginning,
now that we had reached the end
and the sun kept right on spinning
over us bewildered men.
For we found the tomb was empty
that we'd laid his body in—
I went back to where he met me;
maybe there I could begin.

Without hope and without mooring
we caught nothing through the night,
but a voice came with the morning,
“Cast your nets upon the right.”
So, dawn-dazzled, we worked blindly
just to bring the nets on board.
John alone of us saw rightly:
“Peter, look: It is the Lord!”

Once, I thought it wouldn't faze me
just to walk upon the depths.
In the end, I begged him, “Save me!”
I was sinking to my death.
Now I see the friend who fed me,
and I plunge into the wave
sinking down without a tremor
like a body in a grave.

I am not afraid of dying,
now my death is bound with his.
In his mercy, I am rising
from the dark of my abyss.
Now his dawning fills my vision:
There is welcome in his eyes.
I have fallen; I am risen
in the morning light of Christ.

Christ Appears On the Shore of Lake Tiberias, By James Tissot, circa 1886/94 – Online Collection of Brooklyn Museum; Photo: Brooklyn Museum, 2008, 00.159.343_PS2.jpg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=10904799

Empty Nets

Simon Peter said to them, “I am going fishing.”
They said to him, “We also will come with you.”
So they went out and got into the boat,
but that night they caught nothing.
When it was already dawn, Jesus was standing on the shore;
but the disciples did not realize that it was Jesus.
Jesus said to them, “Children, have you caught anything to eat?”
They answered him, “No.”
So he said to them, “Cast the net over the right side of the boat
and you will find something.”
So they cast it, and were not able to pull it in
because of the number of fish.
—John 21:1-19

When all we knew was lost and gone,
our world unsettled as the wave,
still, wonder met us with the dawn:
We looked into your empty grave.

We sail now as we've always sailed,
but all our nets come empty back—
yet we recall the baskets filled,
abundance you brought from our lack.

Our hunger you turned to a feast,
and even death you turned to life.
But we must go on restless seas:
Can you bring peace out of our strife?

A voice cries, “Cast your nets once more.”
We do, though we have fished all night—
and you are standing on the shore
and all the world is new and bright.

Now all that had been emptied out
is filled with more than it can hold.
The long night of our dread and doubt
pours forth the morning turning gold.

And there you stand, the Son of God,
inviting us to break our fast,
in restless seas our solid rock,
our certainty and home at last.

Painting by Henry Ossawa Tanner, circa 1913 – Google Arts & Culture — LAHsSESclImgWA, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=71770460

Paper Wasp

I watched the paper wasps with trepidation
build up a nest in a corner of the porch,
and yet there's something in their dedication:
The urge to build cathedrals still endures.

It's after Easter.  Spring has finally flourished,
though April's rains are bleeding into May.
Yet through those storms so much we bear has burgeoned.
The Lord giveth; the Lord taketh away.

Today a blue jay found the nest.  I thought of
my teenage son, the fridge's open door.
He ripped the paper back to steal the larvae.
Oh. blessèd be the great name of the Lord.

And just like that, there is no nest, no blue jay:
an empty corner shielded from the sun.
A single wasp, already chewing paper,
patrols the ceiling where its hope was hung.

Grow up, my jay, my larva, and grow outward
to tear the paper back that holds you in.
You will be torn.  The rain will still fall downward,
and you will build these paper nests again.

A young paper wasp queen (Polistes gallicus) is founding a new colony. The nest was made with wood fibers and saliva, and the eggs were laid and fertilized with sperm kept from last year. Now the wasp is feeding and taking care of her heirs. In some weeks, new females will emerge and the colony will expand. The timespan between the older and more recent photos is about one month 1 – The nest with only a few cells. * 2 – New cells being made with mashed fibers and saliva. * 3 – A caterpillar was caught and is being chewed to feed the larvae. * 4 – Feeding the larvae. * 5 – Using the wings as a fan to cool down the larvae. * 6 – The wasp guarding her heirs. By Alvesgaspar – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3872148

Wounds

I will not ask for what I want;
I wouldn't dare presume.
I shut my hope away to haunt
a locked and bolted room.

What am I is I ask to see,
when blessèd are the blind?
Could I allow mysef to be
so faithless and unkind?

Besides, he said—his word is sure—
the clean of heart see God,
and well he knows my heart heart impure,
so I shall see him not.

But blest are they that have not seen!
If I could but believe.
For sure, those meadows fresh and green
would give me some reprieve

from longing that will only grow,
though it pass not my lips,
to see what no one else could show
and none can counterfeit.

Yet something that will not be mocked
cries, “Lord, I want to see!”
until you come where doors are locked
and show your wounds to me.

Doubting Thomas – Google Art Project By Unknown – illuminator – hgFUz6bXaLmUQQ at Google Cultural Institute maximum zoom level, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=22185693

Neighbor

There's movement in your empty house;
they're cleaning it to sell,
your life stripped off and blown about
like shingles in a gale.

Your daughter says it's eighteen months
since all your storms have ceased.
They'll fix the house like it was once,
and maybe you'll have peace.

You held your anger like a light,
and like a light it burned
a comfort in the lonely night,
all other comfort spurned.

She says you broke at last and called—
you'd cut us off by then,
ensconced in silence like a wall.
Was that our punishment?

You built that wall up stone by stone,
all stacked and mortared tight.
God bless all those who die alone,
and you alone were right.

No hurricane could bring it down
'til Gabriel should blow
a trumpet seven times around
the walls of Jericho.

But God who saw inside those rooms
where you lived on alone
can make even the rubble bloom
when all our winds have blown.

Waurika Oklahoma Tornado Front-Lit Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=850422

Mercy

You rose, O Christ, creation's brightest morn,
but still you show the marks where you were torn.
On us who wound you still as we did then,
breathe peace again.

On Thomas, smarting raw with newfound grief,
who could not bear the burden of belief,
when he cries out at last, “My Lord and God!”
show him your heart.

And Mary, who your messenger became,
was blind to you until you called her name.
She clutched at you: Her frightened grasp release
and give her peace.

Then Peter, too, who knew himself afraid
but when the cockerel crowed three times, “Betrayed!”
whose courage died, as it lived, by the sword:
Have mercy, Lord.

And even—in your mercy's farthest scope—
on him who dangled from a desperate rope,
poor Judas, come to greet you with a kiss:
Forgive him this.

For none of us can love you as we should;
for all of us, your grief turns to our good.
On us who take our comfort in your wounds, 
have mercy, too.

The Incredulity of Saint Thomas by Caravaggio, c. 1602 – Downloaded from Google Arts & Culture using dezoomify-rshttps://artsandculture.google.com/asset/der-ungl%C3%A4ubige-thomas-michelangelo-merisi-named-caravaggio/OAEjjQkNdRL9sg, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=120649550

As the Sands

Unnumbered as the sands,
untraceable as rain,
our tears have fallen in your hands,
each one a separate pain.

And yet you know them all,
O Wisdom deep and deep,
for out of nothingness you called
the very eyes that weep.

You gather every one,
each drop of doubt and dread,
and number them as you have done
the hairs upon our heads.

As you have known the stars
and call them all by name,
you know our sorrows and our scars,
and make them yours the same.

So every sparrow's fall
you've taken as your own.
Lord, into every grave you've crawled;
our dying you have known

that we may know your rise.
The wounds and tears you got
you carry where the sparrow flies:
the altar of our God.

Sand from Pismo Beach, California. Components are primarily quartz, chert, igneous rock, and shell fragments. Photo By Wilson44691: Mark A. Wilson, Department of Geology, The College of Wooster – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4436177