The Dying and the Dead

O Son of Heaven, only lord of life,
I offer you the dying and the dead:
the man who turns from burying his wife
to hear his doctor say the cancer's spread,
the children falling silently to earth
in cracks and crevices of toppled stone,
the mother who will not survive the birth,
the young man once more eating all alone.
Take them, O Lord, in venerable hands—
the labor of our hands, the bent world's fruit—
take all the grief and death, O Sorrow's Man:
“This is my body given up for you.”
For we all bow our heads and feast on dust;
we all will drink the cup of bitter tears.
O, take this dented chalice and these crusts
and crawl into each crumb, each drop of fear,
each block of rubble burying the lost,
each cancer cell, each blade that rends the flesh,
each prison wall, each bullet, every cross,
and all the myriad doorways into death:
Imbue them with yourself, O God who bleeds;
take as your skin the many silent roads,
drawn out so every line to your heart leads,
and drown death in your pulse's ebb and flow.
Then we will eat your flesh and drink your blood
in that one meal where all of us take part
until the tide has turned in mercy's flood
and we live on forever in your heart.

*Memento mori*. Gravestone inscription (1746). Edinburgh. St. Cuthbert’s Churchyard. Photo By Daniel Naczk – Own work, CC BY-SA 4.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=51699963 Exif_JPEG_PICTURE

Come All Whose Hearts

Thus says the LORD:
Say to those whose hearts are frightened:
Be strong, fear not!
Here is your God,
he comes with vindication;
with divine recompense
he comes to save you.
Then will the eyes of the blind be opened,
the ears of the deaf be cleared;
then will the lame leap like a stag,
then the tongue of the mute will sing.
Streams will burst forth in the desert,
and rivers in the steppe.
The burning sands will become pools,
and the thirsty ground, springs of water.
—Isaiah 35:4-7a

Come all whose hearts are frightened
and blinded by their tears,
for Christ the dawn arising
like day is drawing near,
and you who sit within the dark
will see, at last, the brightest spark.

Come all whose hearts are muted
by this world's angry noise,
for Christ, in our confusion,
speaks out, a still, small voice.
You've kept your silence for so long,
but you will raise the joyful song.

Come all whose hearts are burning,
are withered in their drought,
for Christ, our deepest yearning,
splits heaven and pours down.
The living water, gentle rain,
will bring you back to life again.

Come all whose hearts are broken—
though no step can you make—
for Christ, the Word, is spoken
and meets you on the way.
He makes our brokenness his own,
and all the wounded shall be whole.

Desna river, feeder of the Southern Bug, at dawn. Ukraine, Vinnytsia Raion By George Chernilevsky – Own work, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=82439234

Bitter Bread

The harvest of our sorrows—
the bitter dust we tilled,
the anguish of the harrows—
this grain we took and milled.
We leavened it with ashes
and kneaded it with tears
to lay it on your altar.
O Christ, come meet us here.

We long to bring you glories,
the bread of finest wheat
and wine to send us soaring,
and lay them at your feet,
to make our best our offering
for you to make divine—
Here is the bread of suffering
and tears distilled as wine.

O higher than the angels,
above all earthly crowns,
you did not spurn the manger—
You do not spurn us now.
When all that we can give you
is brokenness as bread,
you take what you are given
and fill it with yourself.

A Kremikovtsi Monastery fresco (15th century) depicting the Last Supper celebrated by Jesus and his disciples. The early Christians too would have celebrated this meal to commemorate Jesus’ death and subsequent resurrection. Photo By Edal Anton Lefterov – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=15129262

Mary’s Cloak

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.

By anonimous – scan from book Вейцман К., Хатзидакис М., Миятев К., Радойчич С. Иконы на Балканах. София.-Белград. 1967., Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=7678716

When Will Morning Come?

You promised joy would come with dawn
and sorrows would be done—
How long will midnight linger on,
and when will morning come?

At nightfall, weeping entered in;
Lord, when will it depart?
When will the day at last begin, 
the sun rise in my heart?

When will my grief be changed to joy,
my mourning into dance?
O Savior, come!  The night destroy,
your new-made day advance:

that day when you will hear us call
and death will be no more,
when burdens from our shoulders fall,
and we shall sleep secure.

For now we watch and weep the night
and pray for it to end.
When will the stars fade from the sky
and hope begin again?

Come, Lord! Come, Lord! No more delay!
Come quickly, light from light!
Come, dawning of eternal day
and end this endless night!