Jesus was teaching in a synagogue on the sabbath.
And a woman was there who for eighteen years
had been crippled by a spirit;
she was bent over, completely incapable of standing erect.
When Jesus saw her, he called to her and said,
“Woman, you are set free of your infirmity.”
He laid his hands on her,
and she at once stood up straight and glorified God.
But the leader of the synagogue,
indignant that Jesus had cured on the sabbath,
said to the crowd in reply,
“There are six days when work should be done.
Come on those days to be cured, not on the sabbath day.”
The Lord said to him in reply, “Hypocrites!
Does not each one of you on the sabbath
untie his ox or his ass from the manger
and lead it out for watering?
This daughter of Abraham,
whom Satan has bound for eighteen years now,
ought she not to have been set free on the sabbath day
from this bondage?”
When he said this, all his adversaries were humiliated;
and the whole crowd rejoiced at all the splendid deeds done by him.
—Luke 13:10-17

How many years, my sister,
have you been burdened, bowed,
borne down, though you resist it,
your face pressed to the ground?
Yet there will come a sabbath
with crooked ways made straight;
you’ll step out of the shadows
and enter that bright gate.

How many years, my brother,
have you been bound and chained,
accused and left to suffer
where no one sees your pain?
Yet there will come a sabbath
when all the bound are loosed,
and you will lift your hands then
to praise the God of truth.

For this our Lord has spoken:
A day is coming soon
when chains will all be broken,
and oh, his word is true.
Yet now we wait for sabbath,
indentured to our deaths,
but he himself is ransom;
for us our God is spent.

The source of our tomorrows,
who made the seven days,
he knows our pain and sorrow,
for he has walked our ways;
and he will bring a sabbath
that shines eternally.
When death is bound and captive,
then Christ will set us free.

Healing the infirm woman, from a Coptic-Arab evangelary By Moine enlumineur et copiste – Evangéliaire copte http://ipac.icp.fr/uPortal/page/decouvrir/expo/evangeliaire_copte/presentation.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8548976

Jesus addressed this parable
to those who were convinced of their own righteousness
and despised everyone else.
“Two people went up to the temple area to pray;
one was a Pharisee and the other was a tax collector.
The Pharisee took up his position and spoke this prayer to himself,
‘O God, I thank you that I am not like the rest of humanity —
greedy, dishonest, adulterous — or even like this tax collector.
I fast twice a week, and I pay tithes on my whole income.’
But the tax collector stood off at a distance
and would not even raise his eyes to heaven
but beat his breast and prayed,
‘O God, be merciful to me a sinner.’
I tell you, the latter went home justified, not the former;
for whoever exalts himself will be humbled,
and the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”
–Luke 18:9-14

Not the fasting, not the tithing,
not the praying night and day,
not the shame that sets me writhing
nor my feet set in the way:
None of this calls down your thunder;
none of these can set me free.
Only you can work that wonder:
God, be merciful to me.

For in chains of my own making
and in chains I did not choose
I am bound to my forsaking
still, for all my breaking loose.
Trading one chain for another,
I’m relieved but not set free
‘til you rend these chains asunder—
God, be merciful to me.

Then beyond all doubt or question
you will break the chains I bear.
Let this be my one confession;
let this be my constant prayer:
I have sinned against my maker,
yet he comes to set me free.
Jesus Christ, the Son of David,
God, be merciful to me.

Parable – The Pharisee and the Publican John Everett Millais (1829–1896) artwork in AAAGM collection – Aberdeen City Council (Archives, Gallery and Museums Collection), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=115176851

Then he told them a parable.
“There was a rich man whose land produced a bountiful harvest.
He asked himself, ‘What shall I do,
for I do not have space to store my harvest?’
And he said, ‘This is what I shall do:
I shall tear down my barns and build larger ones.
There I shall store all my grain and other goods
and I shall say to myself, “Now as for you,
you have so many good things stored up for many years,
rest, eat, drink, be merry!”‘
But God said to him,
‘You fool, this night your life will be demanded of you;
and the things you have prepared, to whom will they belong?’
Thus will it be for the one who stores up treasure for himself
but is not rich in what matters to God.”
—Luke 12:13-21

Should the harvest fill my yearning,
should its feasting crown my years,
there would still be wildfire burning
in the hollow of my fears,
and it roars of hunger’s nearing,
how the feast to famine turns.
I am filled but I still am seared now,
and my heart its comfort spurns.

Should I lock away my harvests
for a future yet unsure,
should I turn away the starving
who have gathered at my door,
still I would not sleep securely
for the burning in my heart.
No, my life is still uncertain—
Come, O Lord: You life impart.

For there’s but one wine that quenches,
but one bread that satisfies.
Though I make these furrows trenches,
fight to fill them, yet I’ll die.
Help me, Lord, to cease this striving;
help these frightened hands unclench,
for the fallen seed is rising
and the rains these furrows drench.

Let the storehouse doors swing open;
let this harvest go to need.
Though I fall, though I am broken,
I will rise with Christ the seed.
Though this flame has burned unceasing,
it may turn from fear to hope,
for beyond this earthly reaping
Christ will bring his harvest home.

More details

Hans Bol, Panoramic Landscape with Parable of The Rich Man and view of the city of Brussels, 1585 – http://www.artnet.de/k%C3%BCnstler/hans-bol/, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=115049922

Let every breeze that blows, blow south,
not as you shook me, storms at play;
but gently as a sigh breathe out
and speed the monarchs on their way.

Though long their wonders blossomed here,
I saw them only as they left.
Burnt orange against sky so clear,
they part the air, and I am cleft.

A weight no more than fallen leaves,
they need your craft and care, O wind:
Weave your dust devils to deceive
the hungry swallows diving in,

yet batter not the fragile wings
(as light as hope, as easy crushed).
Upon your soaring updraft bring
them safe to southern forests hushed.

O, waft them there, then turn and go:
Stir not the branches, monarch-dressed.
No summer hurricane shall blow
where these at last shall have their rest.

Return and tell me, whispering
that somewhere peace may still abound
unbroken but by stir of wings,
and all that fled may yet be found.

String of monarchs wintering at California’s Pismo State Beach Monarch Preserve (2015) By Steve Corey from San Luis Obispo, CA, USA – String of Monarchs, CC BY-SA 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=61410493

Jesus told his disciples a parable
about the necessity for them to pray always without becoming weary.
He said, “There was a judge in a certain town
who neither feared God nor respected any human being.
And a widow in that town used to come to him and say,
‘Render a just decision for me against my adversary.’
For a long time the judge was unwilling, but eventually he thought,
‘While it is true that I neither fear God nor respect any human being,
because this widow keeps bothering me
I shall deliver a just decision for her
lest she finally come and strike me.'”
The Lord said, “Pay attention to what the dishonest judge says.
Will not God then secure the rights of his chosen ones
who call out to him day and night?
Will he be slow to answer them?
I tell you, he will see to it that justice is done for them speedily.
But when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?”
—Luke 18:1-8

Day and night I call, O Father:
Do you hear me when I pray?
See, the adversary stalks me,
resting not by night or day.
Day by day his voice insistent
says I merit not your care.
Night by night he ever whispers,
yet I raise my heart in prayer.

If you listen, it’s in silence—
Does your stillness prove him true?
When my weeping fills the nighttime,
does it rise, O God, to you?
Still I pray again by daylight,
lifting weary voice to say,
Through my darkness I am waiting
for your everlasting day.

You, I know, will render judgment
for the hearts that so have warred:
Give the adversary justice,
making plowshares of his swords.
For you’ll yet redeem these sorrows,
bringing mercy from our wounds.
We will see your bright tomorrow,
rising whole out of our tombs.

The Unjust Judge and the Importunate Widow (The Parables of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ) By Brothers Dalziel / John Everett Millais – 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=60858308

A riff on Psalm 91:

I have walked through darkened valleys
where a thousand near me fell,
where ten thousand in the shadows
will no more their stories tell,
and the pestilence befell me,
as it took all those before.
Even so, you fell there with me;
you are with me still, O Lord.

You have seen my midnight terrors,
heard the desperate words I pray
as I’m pierced by noontide arrows,
yet you have not turned away.
Though this road goes even farther
to an end I cannot see,
you are not afraid of darkness—
yet the valley lies in me.

You are with me in my danger
when I’m bitten by the asp;
when I fall to beast and dragon,
still, O Lord, your hand I clasp.
Though I stumble in the shadow,
strike my foot against a stone,
you are ever my companion.
I have never been alone.

Fleuron from book: St. George and the dragon. By Unknown author Printed and sold by J. Davenport, 6, George’s Court, St. John’s Lane, West Smithfield London, Where may be had, a great variety of Ships, Collections, Patters, &c- From Fleuron: A Database of Eighteenth-Century Printers’ Ornaments. https://fleuron.lib.cam.ac.uk/static/ornament_images/129270530000010_0.pngRecord: https://fleuron.lib.cam.ac.uk/ornament/129270530000010_0, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60451137

Again, O God, see what I meant
and in your mercy make it true,
that not my deed but my intent
may somehow be made real in you.
Your image in me bruised and bent—
look on it, Lord, and make it new.

For all my good intentions, still
I chose this end, my good stillborn.
Nothing this time constrained my will:
My morning vow by noon forsworn,
and there is daylight left to fill
before night comes again, forlorn.

Yet fill one minute, Lord, with this:
Come to my spirit, to my heart.
Even a passing shadow’s kiss
would be enough.  You will depart
again, but grant an instant’s bliss
all undeserved, with strength to start.

But ere I do your presence comes—
a moment snatched from where and when,
held between fingertips and thumbs,
once broken for five thousand men
that I may gather up the crumbs
and find your mercy new again.

And for that moment I’m restored,
your image made once more pristine.
How long will I so keep it, Lord,
before you make me wholly clean
to taste the new wine where it’s poured?
This, in my all, is what I mean.

Tribute to the Eucharist Michael Damaskinos, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=119817969

As he was entering a village, ten lepers met him.
They stood at a distance from him and raised their voices, saying,
“Jesus, Master! Have pity on us!”
And when he saw them, he said,
“Go show yourselves to the priests.”
As they were going they were cleansed.
–Luke 17:11-19

What would I do to be made whole?
What mountains would I move,
exhausting body, mind, and soul
my worthiness to prove?

I’ve done them, and in pieces still
I stumble through my days;
laced by fissures I can't fill,
I’m lost within their maze.

But then I see you walking by
at the far horizon's edge,
and from the chasm’s depths I cry—
You hear and turn your head.

Then, “Show yourself,” you say to me
where I am hidden deep,
and I stand still and let you see
the secrets that I keep.

You see the hollows in my soul
and step into the maze;
in your beholding I am whole,
and you are all my faith.

A tiny grain, a mustard seed—
and yet it is enough
to make me reach for you in need.
O, heal me by your love.

Healing of the Ten Lepers. Meester van Antwerpen. Rijksmuseum – http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.35487, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=84340459

Language warning.

My father told me, Stay awake; don’t sleep.
The world’s a lie that’s sneaking up on you:
Half-close your eyes to watch the way it creeps.
Don’t close ‘em all the way—you’re in a zoo
at feeding time, and all that you can do
is make sure you don’t ever smell like blood,
all the while it’s pumping through you like a flood.

I listened to the man.  I stay awake.
The world’s a dirty place, but I keep clean.
The poor stay poor; the rich take what they take,
and buddy, there is no one in between;
like life and death, it’s done.  Know what I mean?
Unless someone could cross over that gap,
the rich stay rich, the poor stay in a trap.

But there is still no sin upon these hands.
I wish that I could say the same of all,
but these are Cain’s own children—see their brands?
I’ve heard you crying for ‘em since the Fall,
but they don’t care, and when they hear you call
they flip the bird.  You know they won’t repent.
Just children spelling FUCK in wet cement.

And you sit there and take it, just like me.
We’re clean, O God—You give the sinners time
and let the whole menagerie run free,
but I don’t worry ‘bout ‘em.  See, Lord, I’m
a righteous man in this whole zoo of crime.
I mind my business, wash my hands, and hope,
no matter if they like the smell of soap.

But even so, you give me boils and sores
like I’m the Pharaoh, like I’m brother Job—
I know your tricks.  You want to catch my snores,
but I’m awake and clinging to your robe.
You send the dogs to try me, Lord, to probe
my pockets and the backrooms of my soul.
I keep ‘em clean, but you will make ‘em whole.

But these rich men, their souls are shattered glass;
their hands are bloody, playing with the shards.
Lord, you and I can see it.  Bold as brass
they cut their brothers, tear ‘em up like cards
and throw ‘em out.  They shit in their own yards
because they never have to clean it up.
Come on, Lord: Clean the inside of the cup.

You’ll have to scour ‘em out with Brillo pads.
Open the sores and let the sickness drain.
I know I’m mad, but not even my madness
comes with all the vileness they contain.
But there’s no room for nonsense in your reign.
You’ve got to clean ‘em out or throw ‘em away.
There’s not much time before the end of day.

I know the hour’s at hand—mine’s coming soon,
and I can’t wait to sleep.  I’m hungry, Lord.
I’m ready for the wine that you’ve been brewing.
Fill my cup.  I want to see it poured
and spilled across the table to the floor.
Let even the dogs share what you have prepared.
A pity these rich bastards won’t be there—

unless you save ‘em.  Wash ‘em.  Make ‘em clean.
If anyone can do it, Lord, it’s you.
Be ready, though: They’ll just ask what you mean.
You’ll have to make it clear that true is true
and up is up and words say what they do.
Your word is, Feed the hungry in the land,
but I eat from the trash and from your hand.

Still, nothing dirty’s ever touched these lips
because you purify.  Make us all pure
so we can join your feasting when it rips.
No one should feel the fire that endures.
Send ‘em a word, Lord; let ‘em know for sure.
And if they still won’t hear a word you said,
let me come back and tell ‘em when I’m dead.

The Rich Man and Lazarus (The Parables of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ), print, after Sir John Everett Millais, engraved and printed by Dalziel Brothers (MET, 21.68.4(17)) – 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=60858306

The kingdom is a kingdom of slow change,
of mountains wearing down to sand, to dust,
a world cocoon where atoms rearrange,
becoming something new.  Help me to trust

when all within me screams for cataclysm
and earthquake shattering our ancient chains,
but all you offer is this slow baptism,
my rust and weathering beneath your rains.

If you are patient with me, let it teach
my anxious heart some patience with your ways.
This stone heart worn to sand along your beach
will cast no shadow in your morning’s rays,

but catch the light, refract—no flaws or mars—
and all the sand that’s left will shine like stars.

Sand from Pismo Beach, California. 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

The days roll into years; the years roll on;
the efforts of a life pile up as leaves.
They leave no monument when they are gone,
and no one but the tree who lost them grieves.
Despairing of improvement, still I’m drawn
to that bright hope my heart as yet believes.

The day will come: You’ll show me mercy yet
when kindness and hard truth have finally kissed;
when peace and justice on the field have met,
not just as velvet glove and iron fist
but partners in a gentle minuet—
‘til then despair and hope must coexist.

But they will fall as autumn leaves in turn
when all things in your love at last will burn.