Isaiah

In the year King Uzziah died,
I saw the Lord seated on a high and lofty throne,
with the train of his garment filling the temple.
Seraphim were stationed above; each of them had six wings:
with two they veiled their faces,
with two they veiled their feet,
and with two they hovered aloft.

—Isaiah 6:1-8

“The earth is filled with glory,”
the hosts of heaven cried,
“Oh, holy, holy, holy!”
in the year Uzziah died.

And oh, the doorframe trembled;
the air filled up with smoke,
for God is in his temple.
The seraphim had spoke!

But I cried out in terror
and I cried out once more
as loud as any seraph,
for I had seen the Lord.

“Depart from me, my savior,
for I am all unclean!”
But came an ember flaming
that burned away my sin.

Then God said, “Who is for us?
What herald shall I send
to sing this glory chorus
to all the earth's far ends?”

And I cried out, “I'm here, Lord!”
And I cried out, “Send me!”
And I went crying forward
to tell what I had seen:

That God is in his temple
and none escape his sight.
But take the flaming ember
and swallow down its light

and fill the earth with glory
from inland to the coast.
Cry “Holy, holy, holy
is God the lord of hosts!”

Isaiah, fresco painted by Michelangelo and his assistants for the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican between 1508 to 1512 – Self-scanned, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=2776989

O Radix Jesse

For Advent.

 O Father, as you know our span,
 teach us to count our days and nights,
 to make our peace with what you plan
 and know our place in it aright.
  
 For we, new shoots in dawn's new light,
 will wither long ere dusk should fall.
 Does all our promise, once so bright,
 to nothing come at Gabriel's call?
  
 A root that once grew cedar tall
 and sleeps as dead within the earth,
 yet living still in winter's pall,
 awakens and awaits its birth.
  
 A feast from in our barest dearth,
 from barren soil a rose shall bloom;
 from all our oldest sorrows, mirth,
 a dawning light from midnight gloom.
  
 New life is sprouting from the tomb;
 He comes, the long-expected flow'r!
 Come, withered hearts, prepare him room:
 Your faded leaves shall be his bow'r.
  
 We, too, shall blossom in his pow'r,
 a harvest even greater than
 we bore before, when comes his hour,
 when God-with-us comes, born a man.

The Tree of Jesse, By Unknown Miniaturist, English (active 1140s) – Web Gallery of Art: Image Info about artwork, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15498239

The Prophet’s Song

I say I will not mention him, I will no longer speak in his name. But then it is as if fire is burning in my heart, imprisoned in my bones; I grow weary holding back, I cannot!
Jeremiah 20:9

Then I said, “Woe is me, I am doomed! For I am a man of unclean lips, living among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!” Then one of the seraphim flew to me, holding an ember which he had taken with tongs from the altar. He touched my mouth with it. “See,” he said, “now that this has touched your lips, your wickedness is removed, your sin purged.” Then I heard the voice of the Lord saying, “Whom shall I send? Who will go for us?” “Here I am,” I said; “send me!”
Isaiah 6:5-8

You set a fire within my bones,
a coal upon my lips;
their smoke pours out in cries and groans,
all joyful songs t'eclipse.

How can I sing, my God, for joy?
How can I fail to sing?
These burning embers would destroy
all other gifts I bring.

So as you bid, I lift my voice
with all the wildfire's roar
to sweep away the brittle joys
of those who doom ignore.

When summer storms fill skies with awe
and lightning strikes the ground,
I am the spark that finds the straw
that in rich fields abounds.

They smother me; they stamp me out,
but Lord, you made me flame:
Raise me and set my foes to rout,
for glory of your name!

For glory, Lord, is what you are,
the source of every spark.
Make of your world a burning star
and drive away the dark.

By Unknown author – Manuscrit (Constantinople, Xe siècle) dit Psautier de ParisFolio 435 versoBibliothèque Nationale de France (Mss., Grec 139), Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=715188

Isaiah

They shall beat their swords into plowshares
and their spears into pruning hooks;
one nation shall not raise the sword against another,
nor shall they train for war again.
O house of Jacob, come,
let us walk in the light of the Lord!
Isaiah 2: 1-5

It’s such a glorious idea: humankind ending war and starting peace. When I was little, I believed it was right around the corner. Now, I think that only the eschaton can make it happen. But I know at least that the eschaton will happen. Without that hope, I think peace will never happen. Isaiah may have believed that, too:

  The first sword we e'er knew was flame
 to bar us from our native home
 and bid us wildernesses tame,
 all in fulfillment of our doom.
 Not long, and all the weapons came,
 and still the wastelands do not bloom.

What will you do with us, O Lord,
 who break no ground but cleave our kin?
Who till the earth only to scour
 for worthless stones therein to win?
 Who have no jewels of any worth
 except their glaring, glitt'ring sin?
 
  I shall say, 'Come!' (so says the Lord).
 'My house is higher than the hills;
 its chambers echo with my Word
 whose music there will heal your ills.
 The nations shall stream hitherward
 to learn what Zion's savior wills.'
  
 And then, oh, then we'll wonders see!
They'll drive their swords into the ground
 to till and turn the desert green.
 The waste with harvest will abound!
 The world shall all one garden be
 whose fruits in every heart are found!