As you broke bread in Nazareth
before your desert road,
O Christ incarnate, bone and breath,
I long to taste my home.
The tables where I learned to eat,
to listen and to talk,
they held the bread of finest wheat
and honey from the rock.
The tears that fill your water jars,
now let them be transformed:
Pour out the wine that cheers my heart
in memory and hope.
Give me the bread of earthly love,
the flavors I have known,
and let it be the savor of
my everlasting home.
If I forget Jerusalem—
O Lord, if I forget,
remind me of myself again
in every taste of bread,
and let it tell me of the home
where you have made a place,
where every tribe and tongue is known,
and every feast is grace.
The love that knows and names the stars
aflame in heaven's dome
stoops down to heal our broken hearts
and bring the exiles home.
We left behind us shattered walls
and empty, aching rooms;
love gathers us into its arms
to bear us from our tombs.
Secure and safe the house it builds
where we can dwell in peace,
and long the table love has filled,
and calls us to the feast.
And we, who lived on what we scrounged
or morsels we had begged,
sit down where bread and wine abound
and are not sent away.
For love has heard the raven's prayers
and filled the earth with food,
has known us even to our hairs,
and gives us what is good.
As if we were the very stars,
love knows and calls our names.
With its own light, love fills our hearts
and joys to see our flames.
The image is from the European Space Agency. It is listed as the LH 95 star forming region of the Large Magellanic Cloud. The image was taken using the Hubble Space Telescope. By ESA/Hubble, CC BY 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=8788068
You covered Jesus with your cloak
and took the exile's midnight road.
You fled the tyrant's deadly stroke,
the child within your mantle stowed.
How much would you have given, though,
to wrap him safely at your breast
when you instead saw him brought low
and of his seamless cloak undressed?
You wrapped him once in swaddling bands,
and in the end, a linen shroud.
We took him from your gentle hands
to fill a tomb we'd hollowed out.
But, O my mother, wrap your cloak
today around the burning world.
Protect us from the flames and smoke,
from bullets fired and missiles hurled.
As you held Jesus to your breast,
so hold us close this mournful day.
Wrapped in your mantle may we rest,
then rise to take the exile's way.
O Mary, fill your mother's arms
with all the ones Christ left behind.
Within your cloak hide us from harm,
for him who healed the deaf and blind.
Jerusalem, long have you wept,
repenting of your ancient wrongs.
The sorrows that have never slept
you wail aloud in every song:
Your helpless children torn from you,
your sobbing drowned in shrill alarms,
the swords that ran your heroes through,
the tears that fell through empty arms.
But now rise up and scale the heights:
Your eyes, that endless tears have known,
are dazzled in the dawning light
to see your children coming home.
They come to you on level roads,
on highways over gorges filled
with mountains that have toppled low,
where flowing streams their grace have spilled.
Grief made a wasteland of your hearts,
but look again: New verdure blooms
among the shattered stones and shards,
and new light shines amid the gloom.
Rise up and see, Jerusalem,
your children fill your aching lack.
Now glory in the sight of them
and praise the God who gives them back.
How long, O Lord, shall we live on in exile,
torn from our roots that sheltered in your ground
where hope was green and love was rich and fertile,
until we turned and burned it sere and brown?
How long until our suffering is worthwhile
and all the sabbaths that we lost are found?
Restore us, Lord, as streams within the desert,
and bring us back to reap again in joy.
We sowed in tears, but may it blossom ever,
this rising hope and reason to rejoice:
We shall return and leave our homeland never,
when you reach down in answer to our voice.
For you, O God, are loving and forgiving,
and you will gather all your had dispersed.
Then we shall bring the harvest of your giving
and offer you the hope you gave us first:
the springing green, the lost now found and living,
the ripened gold that from our hearts has burst.
Based on Psalm 85, to the tune KING’S WESTON. (On a side note, why have I never heard the hymn tunes of Ralph Vaughan Williams at Mass?)
Bring us back, oh savior;
bring us to our land.
Give us back your favor;
your forgiveness grant.
If your calm your anger,
if you turn your hand,
oh Lord, if you raise us,
we can rise and stand.
Will you not restore us,
that we may rejoice?
Mercy lies before us:
help us in our choice!
Our own hearts implore us
now to seek your joys.
Oh, Lord working for us,
let us hear your voice.
Make of us your people;
let us be your own.
Righteous ways and peaceful
are your paths alone.
With our hearts made heedful
of the mercies shown,
oh Lord, let us meet you
on the way back home!
Kate Bluett 