Necessary

There is no necessary thing
in all that you have made—
the fletching of the finch's wing,
the dappled summer shade,
the ripples spreading in a ring
from where the herons wade—
You have no need of anything,
yet see how they're arrayed.

And if the little bird should fall,
the world, one sparrow less,
would notice none of it at all,
would suffer no distress.
But you who hear the sparrow's call
and paint its stippled dress,
who see in death its awkward sprawl,
hold it in tenderness.

I am no sparrow in your hand,
no ray of light that fell.
There is no height I can demand,
and I shall fall as well.
The only rock where I can stand
is you, my God, yourself,
who need me not—yet you command,
and in that grace I dwell.

Photo: Don Green By Channel City Camera Club from Santa Barbara, US – Stepping off, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=106054518

Moar Birbs!

Your Spirit came down like a dove
beside the river Jordan
to point us to the one you love--
now birdsong fills the morning.
We see the lilies of the field,
consider well the ravens,
and know your goodness with us here
on earth as 'tis in heaven.

The gulls that glide upon your breath
still hover o'er the waters.
Wherever sparrows build their nests,
there you have set your altars.
The swallows clinging to the eaves
know you are their true shelter:
the shade and safety of the leaves
your fortress and protection.

And if a single feather falls,
your hand is there to catch it.
If death should silence all their calls,
new life awaits new hatchings.
So bird to bird calls out your name
and note by note rejoices,
and we who marvel at this grace
lift up our hearts and voices!

Painted tiles with design of birds from Qajar dynasty By Unknown author – davidmus.dk, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=25157065

Vulture

Before he sent the raven or the dove,
Noah unleashed a vulture from the ark
and there she waits, still circling up above,
unhurried as the beat of her own heart.

For all the secrets buried in the flood
she clears away for Noah and his kin.
They dig their fields on plots she has made good.
Where she has cleared a place, we start again.

And after our next great apocalypse
(and every cataclysm after that),
when all our songs have died upon our lips,
she will be there, her hunger just as vast.

But now she hangs, as silent as the grave,
as patient as the mountains wearing down.
Upon the heights or underneath the wave,
wherever we may go, we will be found.

We need not run—no, she will come to us.
In all the world, there's nothing else so sure
as vulture's wingbeats stirring up the dust
when she has come to make us clean and pure.

If man were meant to fly, he would have wings,
but flipperless upon the flood we rise.
She is no gentle dove, no olive brings,
but someday she will raise us to the skies.

American Black Vulture Coragyps atratus, Farallon, Panama, 2005 December; This individual was one of a large group of vultures (and circling frigatebirds) waiting for fish offal from local fishermen. By Mdf – first upload in en wikipedia on 21:55, 13 December 2005 by Mdf, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=704791

St. Cecilia’s Day

Let there be music in my heart:
O Spirit, sing in me
resounding notes of peace unmarred
by my cacophany.

You sing in groans; let me have words,
and I will wake the dawn
with all the wrens and mockingbirds
who sing to raise the sun.

With whippoorwill and nightingale
I'll sing at midnight, too.
Your song in terror does not fail,
then let me sing with you.

For oh! The world seems bleak indeed,
and oh! The night is long.
In discord, grant me harmony;
in sorrow, give me song.

And when at last the morning comes,
give me to sing still more
with all the world as horns and drums,
your mercy to adore!

And you—no dove, but meadowlark—
sing loud, and louder still
'til music overflows my heart
and all the world is filled!

Lefthand side folio 132v and righthand side folio 133r from the Book of hours by the Master(s) of Zweder van Culemborg Illuminations on the left folio 132v The full-page miniature shows St. Cecilia of Rome holding two birds The virgin martyr cecilia of rome; possible attributes: falcon, musical instruments, organ, wreath of roses and lilies (11HH(CECILIA)) Birds (+ animals as attributes) (25F3(+13)) – This media file is from the collections of the Koninklijke Bibliotheek, part of which is available on Wikimedia Commons., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=61225730

The Mustard Tree (In the Branches of the Vine)

“To what shall we compare the kingdom of God,
or what parable can we use for it?
It is like a mustard seed that, when it is sown in the ground,
is the smallest of all the seeds on the earth.
But once it is sown, it springs up and becomes the largest of plants
and puts forth large branches,
so that the birds of the sky can dwell in its shade.”
Mark 4:26-34

Another one based on Sunday’s readings, to the tune ODE TO JOY.

In the arms of Christ the savior,
in the branches of the vine,
build your nest in shade and safety;
rest and shelter you shall find.
Heaven's manna you shall savor,
scattered by his hand divine:
Gather it in grace and favor;
in his Temple, rest and dine.

There is room for every sparrow
in the echo of his Word,
hawk as swift as any arrow,
ruby-throated hummingbird.
Swallows following the harrow
sing the promise they have heard:
Enter, though the gates are narrow,
when they rise to greet the Lord,

Come, the kingdom bids you enter;
come, the savior calls you in.
Come when autumn turns to winter;
come out of the storm and wind.
Here find shade from summer's swelter;
here find mercy for your sins.
Here within his heart find shelter:
Here eternal spring begins!

Female ruby-throated hummingbird feeding on nectar from scarlet beebalm (Monarda didyma) By Joe Schneid, Louisville, Kentucky – Own work, CC BY 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=6691558

You Hide In Everything

You hide in everything,
delighting in your play—
you disappear in anything
each time I head your way.
The siskins' outstretched wings
reveal a golden ray
lain hidden as they perch and sing,
until they fly away.

You dance away from me
whenever I draw near.
I look and look but never see;
I hush but never hear.
The wrens may seem to flee—
they fly but do not fear,
and sing unseen in every tree
and ring upon my ear.

O God in every place
and with me, touch my eyes
to see the wonders of your grace
in their mundane disguise:
as fluttering through space,
or stillness split by cries,
a feather's brush against a face,
and every bird that flies.

By photochem_PA from State College, PA, USA – Bird in a tree, CC BY 2.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=75359530