Threads

When this which is corruptible clothes itself with incorruptibility
and this which is mortal clothes itself with immortality,
then the word that is written shall come about:
            Death is swallowed up in victory.
                        Where, O death, is your victory?
                        Where, O death, is your sting?
—I Corinthians 15:54-58

I will wear out like a garment,
growing tattered, getting torn.
Though, my God, you spun and carded,
wove my threads ere I was born,
yet your work shall come unravelled,
picked apart by careless hands,
stained by everywhere I've travelled
as I seek the promised land.

Take and wash me, smudged and spotted,
in your everflowing stream.
When you draw me from the water,
then at last I will be clean.
But you will not patch these tatters
when this cloak is all worn through,
piecing fullness where I'm ragged—
You will weave my threads anew.

I am meager; I am mortal,
quickly worn out in the strife.
Clothe me then in what's immortal,
and I'll enter into life.
Death is swallowed up in vict'ry,
in the shroud of Christ the Son.
I am sewn into your myst'ry,
in the seamless life you've spun.

Weaver, Nürnberg, c. 1425 By Anonymous – Hausbuch der Mendelschen Zwölfbrüderstiftung, Band 1. Nürnberg 1426–1549. Stadtbibliothek Nürnberg, Amb. 317.2°, via http://www.nuernberger-hausbuecher.de/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=13129819

Generous

As from your hand all graces flow,
pour down the rain and sun 
to make a goodly harvest grow
when sorrow's planting's done.

Pour down the health and strength, O God,
that let us work the ground,
for thistles choke the shallow sod
and thorns have held us bound.

We sink our hands into the soil
but do not work alone:
O, bless our longing and our toil
and all that shall be grown.

Give us the blade and then the ear,
the ear and then the grain,
that we may know, in spite of fear,
we labor not in vain.

Give us the long-lived sumer days
when green may ripen gold,
and keep us ever in your ways,
for soon the nights turn cold.

And when the harvest time has come,
be generous, O Lord,
that when the winter winds benumb
we'll feast on our reward.

Wheat field in Vampula, Finland. By kallerna – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=123191323

Pass Away

The fog that shrouds a quiet street
and touches Monday's gloom
with ordinary mystery
will burn away by noon.

These dandelions lift their face
to watch returning flocks
'til other flowers take their place
and breezes blow the clocks.

Like anger surging in the blood
or this deep-set despair,
the sudden rushing of flash floods,
the storm that clears the air:

This henbit gazing at the sky,
lets loose its purple tongue
to sing of praise and then to die—
so all our songs are sung.

This is our sorrow and our joy:
All things shall pass away
except the dim and distant morn
that whispers lasting day,

and it will bud a rising sun 
and blossom into noon
and sing while endless ages run—
O, Lord, may it be soon!

Henbit Nashville, Tennessee By Kaldari – Own work, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8640496

Merciful

To the person who strikes you on one cheek,
offer the other one as well,
and from the person who takes your cloak,
do not withhold even your tunic.
Give to everyone who asks of you,
and from the one who takes what is yours do not demand it back.
Do to others as you would have them do to you….
But rather, love your enemies and do good to them,
and lend expecting nothing back;
then your reward will be great
and you will be children of the Most High,
for he himself is kind to the ungrateful and the wicked.
Be merciful, just as your Father is merciful.
—Luke 6:27-38

As you are merciful, O God,
and drop down heaven's dew
on even my ungrateful heart,
let me show mercy, too.

All anyone can ask of me
is something you have given—
but none of it can set me free
and none of it is heaven.

For only you, Omnipotent
o'er all that's ever been,
when time has folded up my tent
can give me life again.

Then if a beggar claims my coat,
my shirt I freely give,
for we are in the selfsame boat
and only want to live.

And if I face an enemy,
his face is yours, O Lord.
As I would have him to do me,
let me do all the more.

For both of us are like to drown
in earthly storm and strife.
So let your mercy still drop down
and bring us back to life!

The Storm on the Sea of Galilee by Rembrandt, 1632 – http://www.gardnermuseum.org : Home : Info : Pic, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6812612

The Birds

The green-gold glimmer of a crow-black wing;
the grackles in a great Hitchcockian flock;
the myriad starlings' single living thing
ascending as I turn onto the block;
the bright burnt orange an insouciant robin shows
against the tawny grass just greening there,
reclaiming what was lost to these last snows;
the killdeers' clatter as they take the air:
	have brought the dull and leaden year alive
	to quiver with each quickening, flashing wing,
	and earthbound I am lifted right along,
	borne up by the relentless throbbing drive,
	the turning, tumbling, rich upthrusting spring
	awakened by the day's full-throated song.

American Crow. Hockanum River Linear Trail. East Hartford, CT USA By Paul Danese – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=156236872

That Daily Hungers May Be Fed

The car breaks down, or news arrives,
fragments the plans we've laid.
We turn to juggle jags and gyves,
the crises of the day.

Yet measure out the flour and salt,
the water and the yeast,
for in the midst of life and all 
we're called unto the feast.

So let this be th'unbroken plan,
the rule that guides our days:
to do whatever need demands
and offer it as praise,

to sink our hands into the mess
of water, salt, and flour,
to knead the dust that it may bless
the table and the hour.

Look down, O Christ, upon this bread,
these little things we lift
that daily hungers may be fed,
and make of it a gift.

Then join us at the table here
to bless the food we take
for ease and comfort—O, draw near
and share the bread we break!

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

Full of Light

The sun has long since set, O Lord,
and hidden is the light.
We long for you to come once more
and make these shadows bright.

Come kindle flame in all the hearts
that weep and watch and pray,
as numberless as heaven's stars
that wait to see your day.

And give us eyes to see their glow
across all heaven's arch,
to find that we are not alone
though they are aching far,

and see the space between the stars,
the emptiness and cold,
may be the streching of your arms
to gather in your fold.

Reach out more far, from east to west,
and farther, farther still,
each lonely star to touch and bless.
These empty spaces fill,

'til we find darkness full of lights—
the sun's unnumbered parts—
and find your glory fills the night
in countless burning hearts.

**NOTE:** This image is a panorama consisting of multiple frames that were merged or stitched in software. As a result, this image necessarily underwent some form of digital manipulation. These manipulations may include blending, blurring, cloning, and colour and perspective adjustments. As a result of these adjustments, the image content may be slightly different from reality at the points where multiple images were combined. This manipulation is often required due to lens, perspective, and parallax distortions. Constellations, By Thomas Bresson – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31321172

Forest

Blessed are you who are poor,
                        for the kingdom of God is yours.
            Blessed are you who are now hungry,
                        for you will be satisfied.
            Blessed are you who are now weeping,
                        for you will laugh.
            Blessed are you when people hate you,
                        and when they exclude and insult you,
                        and denounce your name as evil
                        on account of the Son of Man.
Rejoice and leap for joy on that day!
Behold, your reward will be great in heaven.
For their ancestors treated the prophets in the same way.
            But woe to you who are rich,
                        for you have received your consolation.
            Woe to you who are filled now,
                        for you will be hungry.
            Woe to you who laugh now,
                        for you will grieve and weep.
            Woe to you when all speak well of you,
                        for their ancestors treated the false prophets in this way.
—Luke 6:20-26

How blessèd are the branches standing barren;
in silent wastelands still they call for rain.
A kingdom comes that they will yet inherit,
a fertile plain.

But cursèd are the orchard boughs now burgeoned,
who even in the drought their verdure keep,
who drink from hidden springs and buried currents,
their roots sunk deep,

for there will come a day when they must wither,
a day when all the barren ones will bloom—
a summer day for some, and others winter,
and it comes soon.

The seasons turn and turn again unending,
and they who laugh for now will someday mourn,
the proud and strong to shame and sorrow bending
and princes scorned.

But there will come a day when all will blossom:
The seasons turn 'til turning time is done,
then all shall stand before the God who wrought them,
th'unsetting sun.

As every branch is lifted to his glory,
the barren and verdant, one and all,
rejoice together, God's belovèd forest,
where no leaves fall.

Garibaldi Provincial Park, British Columbia, Photo By TheSimkin (talk · contribs) – Own work by the original uploaderTransferred from en.wikipedia to Commons by Siebrand., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3957472

Psalm 87: In Zion

Riffing on Psalm 87:

All our wells rise up in Zion,
flowing outward east and west
from the dwelling of the High One
to the seas that never rest.
Though we wander hill and valley,
to the end we come as one
when our days are filled and tallied,
when the river's course is run.

All our sources rise in Zion,
flowing outward north and south
from the throne of God almighty,
circling all the earth about.
Though we're borne on ceaseless currents
toward a sea we've never known,
yet our hearts have this convergence,
each one searching for a home.

As we rose at first in Zion,
there at last we'll find our rest—
heaven's glory unifying
north and south and east and west.
Let no name go unremembered
in her register of souls:
Every one of us was born there;
there at last we will be whole.

Zion (1903), Ephraim Moses Lilien (1874-1925) – Lieder des Ghetto (Book – 1903) of Morris Rosenfeld; translation from yiddish to german by Berthold Feiwel;, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=18991414

Milling

You who set the seasons turning
made the earth and sky your wheels;
winter's bite and summer's burning
crush the gathered seeds to meal.

Take, O God, the grain you harvest,
blest or blighted at your will,
wearing down what's sharp and hard-edged:
Cast the grist into your mill.

Take my body, stripped and winnowed;
peel it back to show the soul.
Take me grown and then diminished—
yet the breaking makes me whole.

Grind me down to germ and essence
here between the earth and sun.
Raw, then, may I feel your presence
'twixt the wheels that you have spun.

Yet to all things comes an ending:
From the stones I am released
to the kneading trough—God, gently!—
seed to flour and flour to feast.

Let me be the bread you're taking
if it means that you will bless,
for it's certain I am breaking:
Make me into something else.

Celtic-type hand mill By This illustration was made by (User:Royonx) and released under the license(s) stated above. You are free to use it for any purpose as long as you credit me and follow the terms of the license.Example : © Michel Royon / Wikimedia CommonsIf you use this image outside of the Wikimedia projects, I would be happy to hear from you par courriel ( royonx gmail.com). Thanks !Ce message en français – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=3109582