I, Paul, an old man,
and now also a prisoner for Christ Jesus,
urge you on behalf of my child Onesimus,
whose father I have become in my imprisonment;
I am sending him, that is, my own heart, back to you.
I should have liked to retain him for myself,
so that he might serve me on your behalf
in my imprisonment for the gospel,
but I did not want to do anything without your consent,
so that the good you do might not be forced but voluntary.
Perhaps this is why he was away from you for a while,
that you might have him back forever,
no longer as a slave
but more than a slave, a brother,
beloved especially to me, but even more so to you,
as a man and in the Lord.
So if you regard me as a partner, welcome him as you would me.
—Philemon 9-10, 12-17

No man is born to be another’s slave
if all are children of the only God.
Naked we came, and naked to the grave
we go—the very road our Master trod—
and no one wields by right an unjust rod.
But I have come back, Philemon, even so,
and Paul says he will pay you what I owe.

He means to come here—so prepare a room—
and sent me on ahead to serve his needs
while yet we wait the coming of the Groom.
We labor, both, repenting our past deeds,
but not as slaves: as those who have been freed.
He sent me back to ask you for a choice,
but you can read it here in his own voice,

for he would not compel you as you did
my service.  Say those years are at an end.
Are you surprised I ran from you and hid?
Stole from you, too?  But I will make amends,
for we must be as brother and as friends.
Yet I have nothing but the grace of God
who rules me with a more forgiving rod

as he rules all men: mercifully slow
to anger, rich in love more than a king.
In him, I am not what I was, although
I’m still the most unprofitable thing—
yet apple of his eye, jewel in his ring—
and he will make a way for me or Paul
to pay you back, who pays back each for all.

Yet if I must, if you compel again
and make me fetch and carry as I did
to go one mile, I will go two miles then.
Unwilling, I will do more than you bid,
for there’s a mercy from all ages hid
and it is this most willingly I seek.
Strike me, and I will turn the other cheek,

but do not strike your servant, Philemon.
Let us in Christ’s own name be reconciled,
begin again as we mean to go on.
I left this home a runaway and wild,
returning now a man, no more a child.
But the strongest under too much weight will crack.
If not for Paul, I’d never have come back.

Do you see this woman?
When I entered your house, you did not give me water for my feet,
but she has bathed them with her tears
and wiped them with her hair.
You did not give me a kiss,
but she has not ceased kissing my feet since the time I entered.
You did not anoint my head with oil,
but she anointed my feet with ointment.
So I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven;
hence, she has shown great love.
But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.
—Luke 7:36-50

I have no alabaster jar,
no precious thing to give:
A broken heart, a wincing scar,
a tongue that cried, “Forgive!”

and even these have I held back,
have kept and called them “mine”
though in these fragments, seamed and cracked,
you poured a new-made wine;

though I have drunk it—deeply drunk—
and by that taste I live;
but still this frightened heart has shrunk
from bringing you a gift.

If I should dare approach you here,
dare set aside my shame,
still I have nothing but a tear
to lay upon your flame.

And yet I love.  And yet you are.
Then I must be your bride,
must be the alabaster jar,
broken.  Take what I hide.

The sin you’ve taken—take the grief
with all from me that pours.
Now from myself am I a thief,
and what was mine is yours.

I lay it on you as a balm,
this burden of the world;
and weep again for what will come,
my hair, my fears unfurled;

and you have not sent me away
or pulled back from my touch,
who know—better than I can say—
you have forgiven much.

Jar for one of the ‘seven sacred oils’, calcite – Museo Egizio, Turin S 8441 p02 By Museo Egizio In Turin (IT), CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=147853257

Come, Lord, as you came once into the dark
from light beyond the wisdom of our eyes;
come as before and blind us with a spark
who sit here used to night’s unbroken skies.
Come truth from truth, to sift us from our lies.
We tell ourselves that we are good and true—
Remove the beam and let us look at you:

Not just the righteous, children of the light,
or those who say they’re not like other men;
not just for those who seek you in the night,
whose hearts remind them of your mercies then;
not only for the sparrow and the wren,
the innocent, you plunged beneath the flood,
but for the monstrous, too, you shed your blood.

And still it flows, for we are monsters still—
Could we be else when Abel had no sons?
How many stones cry out, and yet we kill,
deaf to the wails our forebear had begun?
And you are there in every single one,
where open-eyed before the firing squad
you stand condemned again, O Lamb of God.

Here in the warzone, cratered in the earth;
here on the posters—LOST—but never found;
a mother weeps remembering a birth
here where a child is lowered to the ground;
here, spotless victim, must your grace abound
where wrens and sparrows die and monsters live,
where so much, so much begs you to forgive.

Not for the righteous—they need nothing else;
not for the just who pay back what they owe;
not for the good wage war against our hells;
not for the innocent let mercy flow:
Loose the chains, and let the condemned ones go.
Have mercy, Lord, and blind us yet again:
Grant us a peace beyond this monster’s ken.

A polemical allegory represented as a five-headed monster, 1618 By Unknown engraver – https://resolver.kb.nl/resolve?urn=urn:gvn:RIJK04:RP-P-OB-77.294, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=17279335

Brothers and sisters:
Christ Jesus, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God something to be grasped.
Rather, he emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
coming in human likeness;
and found human in appearance,
he humbled himself,
becoming obedient to death,
even death on a cross.
—Philippians 2:6-11

For God so loved, he poured himself:
the Father to the Son—
the fullness emptying itself—
and Spirit, three-in-one.

There was no drop of love held back
for one to claim his own.
All giving all, there was no lack
‘til one stood off, alone;

who came, God-with-us by his birth;
who hunger knows and loss:
God’s fullness dwelling on the earth,
alone, then, on the cross.

He did not grasp equality,
but opened wide his hands
and let the fullness, flowing free,
pour out upon our sands.

For in the image of our God
we all were empty then,
but he restores what we had lost
and makes us whole again.

Our emptiness filled with himself,
God’s fullness in us poured:
Now we pour forth from where he dwells,
for God so loves the world.

Street art by Clet rapresenting Christ on a no through road sign. By Cletartista – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=46838086

“And of this pain do not expect an end

until some God shall show himself successor

to take your tortures for himself and willing

go down to lightless Hades and the shadows

of Tartarus’ depths…. The mouth of Zeus

does not know how to lie, but every word

brings to fulfillment.”

–Prometheus Bound (tr. David Greene), lines 1026-1034

Just finished rereading Prometheus Bound, and read up a little on the lost sequel, Prometheus Unbound. It’s likely the latter included a scene between Gaia, Mother Earth, and her son Prometheus, to whom she had whispered all his wisdom. This is a riff on that idea:

I did not tell you everything I knew,
my own Prometheus, far-sighted one—
but what is left unspoken still comes due.

I told you what I wanted to be true:
Mankind could not live long beneath the sun—
I did not tell you everything I knew

but hoped for hopes I could not yet construe
when you stole flame from where ambrosias run—
but what is left unspoken still comes due.

The flame you gave to man his mind imbued
with craft: A raging blaze your spark’s begun.
I did not tell you everything I knew:

You should have left him witless, weak, and nude—
He wove destruction from the thread you’d spun.
But what is left unspoken still comes due.

‘Til God should fall to Hades, this is true:
There is no saving man from what he’s done.
I did not tell you everything I knew,
but what is left unspoken still comes due.

Prometheus Being Chained by Vulcan By Dirck van Baburen (circa 1594/5-1624) – http://hdl.handle.net/10934/RM0001.COLLECT.5855, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=83504878

When every strife and sorrow’s past
that dog us as we roam,
oh, may each pilgrim come at last
to find himself back home,

to shelter from the world of woes
upon his mother’s breast—
a petal of the great white rose
where Virgil comes to rest.

And when the final bridge is crossed,
the final race is run,
may all the ones we thought we’d lost
be shining in that sun.  Amen.

*****

She is the deep night’s farthest eastern edge
where first a glimmer seeps into our skies
of hope across unfathomable depths—
from there, the sun of justice soon will rise.

As ordinary, though, as any dawn,
familiar, daily contours of our lives:
The sun comes up; of course the night is gone.
Miraculous, each time the day arrives.

Dark Mary, spotted only by the stars,
through you the glory of the Lord came forth:
Pray that his sun may rise within our hearts,
that in us, too, the savior may be born.  Amen.

The Black Madonna of Częstochowa, Poland, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=894536

“If anyone comes to me without hating his father and mother,
wife and children, brothers and sisters,
and even his own life,
he cannot be my disciple.
Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me
cannot be my disciple….
In the same way,
anyone of you who does not renounce all his possessions
cannot be my disciple.”
—Luke 14:25-33

Teach me to count the days aright
I have upon this earth:
How many morns and noontides bright
run onward from my birth?
One only, speeding toward the night—
O God, what is that worth?

And everything that fills this day
is slipping through my hands,
even as the moments fall away.
Not long do we withstand
the ticking clock.  I cannot stay;
I fall—where will I land?

I can take nothing when I go:
The loss will be complete,
for all we really get to hold
is the cross, and our defeat.
Then take the ones I love, O Lord:
I lay them at your feet!

I know not when the time will come,
but I know the day will end,
and so I give my precious ones—
You’ll hold them all ‘til then,
and when that night is past and done
you’ll give them back again.

Early crosses at Clonmacnoise, Ireland, Photo By Ingo Mehling – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15676225

Branches

Those barren branches died five years ago;
as stark as ink they stand against the sky,
the record of unprecedented snow,
memorial for the eyes of of passers-by.

But year by year each new and nearby branch
has grown and greened and reached for still more light,
their leaves enough to catch the wind and dance
while yet the dead in rigor stand upright.

I look out, mornings, on the growing trees;
I know what has been written on the days
and have no need to read.  I knew that freeze,
and still remember what the leaves erase.

But there will come a day when someone else
looks out this window at the neighbor’s tree
and cannot see the hieroglyph that spells
the forces weaving through all they can see.

All unsuspecting they will laugh at frost
here in a place that gets so little snow,
and never thinking of what could be lost
they’ll go in ignorance—until they know.

But I won’t know.  I’ll be dissolved in ink
and written on the sky for all to see,
and I will stand unmoved by any wind
until the new, green growth has covered me.

Gladiolus

The drought is over and the rains
have come again, though summer still
is winding up the anchor chains.
Her empty sails begin to fill,

and in the garden one red thumb
has crowned the gladiolus’ tip:
a promise of the blaze to come.
A note of home waits on our lip

to swell full-throated into song—
not yet, but when the measure’s full—
and comfort. We have waited long.
The clanking chain will cease its pull

and let our homesick hearts go free
in music for a different day.
We shall return from months at sea
and let the summer sail away.

Image credit: Looking up into the branch structure of a Pinus sylvestris tree By Teslaton – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=4182221

Take again the spindle and the distaff;
twist and turn the flax to linen thread
though you know it tangles into mischance,
though you know you labor for the dead.
Still you know each sepulchre’s a tomb:
Every shroud bedecks a birthing room.

It was you who wove the seamless garment
stripped away from him at Calvary,
spun the flesh to clothe the Word Incarnate
once you’d said, “Let it be done to me.”
Christ in glory seated on his throne
takes again the mantle you had sewn.

Though he tore it in his great endeavor—
fraying, threadbare, naked to the heart—
ripped the veil that parted us from heaven
as his flesh and bone were pulled apart.
Could he have restored the grievous tears?
Yes, but still the wounded cloth he wears.

Take then, Mother, take again your spindle;
take this mortal labor in your hands.
Spin and weave and stitch that selfsame linen
as you made your firstborn’s swaddling bands,
wrapping in your love his human need.
Weave that love again for all who bleed.

We go hence into the dark unknowing,
tattered as a dishrag with our wear.
Let us see your worklamp’s steady glowing
as you weave our hopes into your prayer:
We have tried to do as he had said.
May your son breathe life into the dead.

Did he learn from you this patient stitching?
He who wove creation with a word
slowly now is mending it and knitting
all things back together, beast and bird,
sea and land, and heaven unto earth,
as you weave bright clothes for our rebirth.

So our bodies, too, shall be rewoven
of the threads unraveled from his side,
filaments of gold, in flame pure-proven
as the king of love arrays his bride.
Mother, pray for us to Christ your son:
as it was for you, his will be done.

Eve spinning, the spindle in her right hand: Hunterian Psalter, ca 1170 (Glasgow University Library) By Anonymous – http://special.lib.gla.ac.uk/exhibns/psalter/psalterindex.html, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2549773

Rather, when you are invited,
go and take the lowest place
so that when the host comes to you he may say,
‘My friend, move up to a higher position.’
Then you will enjoy the esteem of your companions at the table.
For every one who exalts himself will be humbled,
but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.
—Luke 14:7-14

O Lord, I am not worthy
to take a higher seat,
but hungry still and thirsty,
I’ll sit here at your feet.
I’ll take the scraps of mercy
if I can come and eat.

You call the meek and humble
to sit there at your side—
though neither, may I come there
to see you take your bride?
Give me, O Christ, your comfort
and take away my pride!

For you have set a table
in sight of all your foes,
and I have been the greatest,
the paragon of those.
Yet leave me not forsaken:
Forgive and draw me close.

I come, Lord, though I falter—
Stoop down and hear my plea:
Though I would be exalted,
its better still to be
a beggar at this altar
if you will humble me.

More details

Pieter Bruegel the Elder – Peasant Wedding – Google Art Project 2- Google Art Project: Home – pic Maximum resolution., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=20361036