Redeemer's 2013 Lenten Poetry
Before our 2013 Ash Wednesday service we were invited by Phillip Aijian and the Redeemer Church artists to practice writing poetry as a lenten discipline. Writing poetry can help us to slow down during lent, be present with the here and now, and be "Stones of Remembrance". We asked our church to write about their own lenten experience and, if they desired, to share them. Below you will find the poems that have were shared by members and attenders of Redeemer Church.
Treasure
By Victoria Van Vlear
Inspired by Christina Rossetti’s “A Pause of Thought”
1
Within the attic of my heart,
There lies an ancient chest.
Its wood is overlaid with gold
And silver pearls abreast.
Untarnished steel secures the lock
And I hold fast the key.
I keep it close in case some thief
Should seek to steal from me.
At every hour of the day
I steal up to that room
To peek in at my treasure; safe
In mellow, dusky gloom.
But every time I mount those stairs
My heart quakes, full of lead.
My feet don’t hear; they hasten on
To check my treasure’s bed.
2
The dawn of every morning brings
A man to my front door.
Relentless; asking always, “Will
You give me your treasure?
“I know you think it beautiful
And guard it jealously.
If it were stolen from your sight,
You’d follow zealously.
“And yet its burden is too great
For you to bear alone.
Its weight already bends your back--
It soon will have you prone.
“You think about it night and day;
It is possessing you.
Allow me, please, to take it; trust
Me—you’ll feel just like new.”
3
His words so kind, his eyes so bright,
That sometimes I say yes.
The joy I feel—relief—beyond
What simple words express.
But always when he carries it
Across my heart’s threshold,
I cry out, “Wait!” and take it back,
Though it makes me sick and cold.
I want to open up my heart--
Release my iron hold.
My worry is an ugly prize,
Though wrapped in shiny gold.
And yet there’s hope—he’s constant in
His staunch pursuit of me,
And daily draws me nearer so
I trust him, and walk free.
Within the attic of my heart,
There lies an ancient chest.
Its wood is overlaid with gold
And silver pearls abreast.
Untarnished steel secures the lock
And I hold fast the key.
I keep it close in case some thief
Should seek to steal from me.
At every hour of the day
I steal up to that room
To peek in at my treasure; safe
In mellow, dusky gloom.
But every time I mount those stairs
My heart quakes, full of lead.
My feet don’t hear; they hasten on
To check my treasure’s bed.
2
The dawn of every morning brings
A man to my front door.
Relentless; asking always, “Will
You give me your treasure?
“I know you think it beautiful
And guard it jealously.
If it were stolen from your sight,
You’d follow zealously.
“And yet its burden is too great
For you to bear alone.
Its weight already bends your back--
It soon will have you prone.
“You think about it night and day;
It is possessing you.
Allow me, please, to take it; trust
Me—you’ll feel just like new.”
3
His words so kind, his eyes so bright,
That sometimes I say yes.
The joy I feel—relief—beyond
What simple words express.
But always when he carries it
Across my heart’s threshold,
I cry out, “Wait!” and take it back,
Though it makes me sick and cold.
I want to open up my heart--
Release my iron hold.
My worry is an ugly prize,
Though wrapped in shiny gold.
And yet there’s hope—he’s constant in
His staunch pursuit of me,
And daily draws me nearer so
I trust him, and walk free.
Job Three
By Matthew Soule
Over a week ago I heard from four servants –
Scared, disheveled, and beardless men –
My sacrifices were all inane. “Curses!”
Sons, daughters, oxen, sheep, and camels –
Burned, crushed, captured, perished.
As fragile as the robe I so easily tore.
My legs brayed and then buckled.
I skinned my knees – Oh, the benevolent pain!
And my hands found the dust from which I was made.
In all of this I did not sin,
Offering again my threadbare self –
Now a naked, hairless, and pitiful man.
All of that befell before these cantankerous boils,
Which I popped with a jagged edge of a broken pot.
My outward calamity proved itself within.
Alone and in the throes of pain, is my life vain?
Betraying her loyalty to riches, my wife maintained:
“Till death do us part. Curse God and die!”
And so we parted ways – one path became two –
Me in my tears and ashes, she on her feathered pillow.
And pretentious men came to say why such things happen.
“Oh, the grave!
Where the wicked ceases
And the strong man releases
The slave.”
Scared, disheveled, and beardless men –
My sacrifices were all inane. “Curses!”
Sons, daughters, oxen, sheep, and camels –
Burned, crushed, captured, perished.
As fragile as the robe I so easily tore.
My legs brayed and then buckled.
I skinned my knees – Oh, the benevolent pain!
And my hands found the dust from which I was made.
In all of this I did not sin,
Offering again my threadbare self –
Now a naked, hairless, and pitiful man.
All of that befell before these cantankerous boils,
Which I popped with a jagged edge of a broken pot.
My outward calamity proved itself within.
Alone and in the throes of pain, is my life vain?
Betraying her loyalty to riches, my wife maintained:
“Till death do us part. Curse God and die!”
And so we parted ways – one path became two –
Me in my tears and ashes, she on her feathered pillow.
And pretentious men came to say why such things happen.
“Oh, the grave!
Where the wicked ceases
And the strong man releases
The slave.”
Four Poems
By Nathan Barstad
Poem 1
I await the Bread of Heaven
To feed my hungry soul
I await the Bread of Heaven
To come and make me full
Dreams that I have dreamed
Fail for lack of vision
Of the Bread of Heaven
In this earthly living
Daily I awaken
To the sound of ringing
Longing for that Day
When down will be descending
The holy Host of heaven
To my longing lips
Pursed in expectation
Of that holy kiss.
Poem 2
I am slow in fasting
Reluctant to give up
Temporal and terrestrial
Bread for the
Constant and celestial
Host.
Poem 3
Sing, O shout: Happy Resurrection Day!
Now, it is calling from a long way off--
Now, it is here and at my very door!
Rising, it stands forth with the new Day's Sun,
With each degree more and more manifest
In all brilliance and magnificence,
Arms outstretched to illuminate the Sky--
That vast ocean overhead in which lies
Every burning star, immortally stayed,
High in heaven, each awash with sunlight
Until all such lights become as nothing
In this, the great and glorious burning--
Arms outstretched to illuminate my eye
So to behold the rising of the Day.
Poem 4
Break not the fast, my Love, till morning rise
And therewith rise all mournings, cries and sighs.
Feast upon Heaven's feast that satisfies
The hung'ring soul, which in the belly lies,
Whence all Passion's desires doth arise,
Which must be subjected to that demise
Of the Passion of our Lord and Christ,
Whose loud lamentations forever rise,
Mingled with His sufferings and His sighs,
Which be the bread and wine that satisfies
That which in the depths of the belly lies
And thence the waters of life there arise
To everlasting life from the demise
Of our Lord and our Savior, Jesus Christ.
I await the Bread of Heaven
To feed my hungry soul
I await the Bread of Heaven
To come and make me full
Dreams that I have dreamed
Fail for lack of vision
Of the Bread of Heaven
In this earthly living
Daily I awaken
To the sound of ringing
Longing for that Day
When down will be descending
The holy Host of heaven
To my longing lips
Pursed in expectation
Of that holy kiss.
Poem 2
I am slow in fasting
Reluctant to give up
Temporal and terrestrial
Bread for the
Constant and celestial
Host.
Poem 3
Sing, O shout: Happy Resurrection Day!
Now, it is calling from a long way off--
Now, it is here and at my very door!
Rising, it stands forth with the new Day's Sun,
With each degree more and more manifest
In all brilliance and magnificence,
Arms outstretched to illuminate the Sky--
That vast ocean overhead in which lies
Every burning star, immortally stayed,
High in heaven, each awash with sunlight
Until all such lights become as nothing
In this, the great and glorious burning--
Arms outstretched to illuminate my eye
So to behold the rising of the Day.
Poem 4
Break not the fast, my Love, till morning rise
And therewith rise all mournings, cries and sighs.
Feast upon Heaven's feast that satisfies
The hung'ring soul, which in the belly lies,
Whence all Passion's desires doth arise,
Which must be subjected to that demise
Of the Passion of our Lord and Christ,
Whose loud lamentations forever rise,
Mingled with His sufferings and His sighs,
Which be the bread and wine that satisfies
That which in the depths of the belly lies
And thence the waters of life there arise
To everlasting life from the demise
Of our Lord and our Savior, Jesus Christ.
Hunger
By Laura Flemming
“He humbled you and let you be hungry”
-Deuteronomy 8:3
I’ve never really gone hungry,
but I’m hungry every day
for another bite, taste,
a scrap of the sweetness
given up during Lent.
Standing before the unattended
sheet of brownies,
I give up my slight fast easily,
hungering and thirsting
after flour and sugar,
discipline bowing before a
crumb of cake.
I join a generation of grumblers
never content with daily bread,
leaving a trail of bodies
scattered in the wilderness.
He who shouldered the weight
of the world wore as weak a frame
as the idolaters but never deigned
to mark for a meal even the smallest
pebble of disobedience.
I have failed at my fast,
but is anyone really surprised?
I was never expected to down
the cup of splintered wood and nails
or preserve my inheritance
whole in the face of steaming stew
or suppress the promptings
of my inner tempter,
let alone that of a satanic serpent.
Man shall not live by bread alone,
but I must have my bread:
small, thin, brittle,
blessed, and broken for me.
-Deuteronomy 8:3
I’ve never really gone hungry,
but I’m hungry every day
for another bite, taste,
a scrap of the sweetness
given up during Lent.
Standing before the unattended
sheet of brownies,
I give up my slight fast easily,
hungering and thirsting
after flour and sugar,
discipline bowing before a
crumb of cake.
I join a generation of grumblers
never content with daily bread,
leaving a trail of bodies
scattered in the wilderness.
He who shouldered the weight
of the world wore as weak a frame
as the idolaters but never deigned
to mark for a meal even the smallest
pebble of disobedience.
I have failed at my fast,
but is anyone really surprised?
I was never expected to down
the cup of splintered wood and nails
or preserve my inheritance
whole in the face of steaming stew
or suppress the promptings
of my inner tempter,
let alone that of a satanic serpent.
Man shall not live by bread alone,
but I must have my bread:
small, thin, brittle,
blessed, and broken for me.
Mandatory Lent
By Steve Coombs
Lent, we are told, is about giving up that which binds our hearts shut so we cannot hear His voice
The things that provide us with a shield against his sharp love and pointed power
And so we ask him to take them from us, but only a little – maybe only for a few hours
That way we don’t have to be burned clean by his fire and can return to our comfortable filth
To our ‘homey’ heart with an abandoned hearth and plenty of dark pits we think we can ignore.
This whole Lent thing is easy! Even if I only do it halfway I still get plenty of points
I don’t suppose I need that many more before I can go back to my hard-earned comforts.
At least, that’s how I thought it worked
I never considered that He might intervene and take away what I wasn’t willing to give up
That he would strip the armor from my soul,
The warmth of contentment,
The security of a well-laid plan.
“Not that, anything but that!” I screamed – I demanded
“That wasn’t part of the deal!” I complained – I begged
And now I have no armor left
The fight inside is gone (sometimes)
I am, in a way, resigned – resigned to the fact that I cannot run away
He will have his way with me, pain and all
But – and this is an important but – He is not the removed puppet-master I pictured
The manipulator and planner – in other words, he isn’t me
He is above me, but also below me.
Beside me, on my left and my right. Within and without me.
Wading in the filth and grieving with me in my sorrow
A strong rock to hold onto when everything else spins out of control
The only friend left by whom I can be held until the morrow
The things that provide us with a shield against his sharp love and pointed power
And so we ask him to take them from us, but only a little – maybe only for a few hours
That way we don’t have to be burned clean by his fire and can return to our comfortable filth
To our ‘homey’ heart with an abandoned hearth and plenty of dark pits we think we can ignore.
This whole Lent thing is easy! Even if I only do it halfway I still get plenty of points
I don’t suppose I need that many more before I can go back to my hard-earned comforts.
At least, that’s how I thought it worked
I never considered that He might intervene and take away what I wasn’t willing to give up
That he would strip the armor from my soul,
The warmth of contentment,
The security of a well-laid plan.
“Not that, anything but that!” I screamed – I demanded
“That wasn’t part of the deal!” I complained – I begged
And now I have no armor left
The fight inside is gone (sometimes)
I am, in a way, resigned – resigned to the fact that I cannot run away
He will have his way with me, pain and all
But – and this is an important but – He is not the removed puppet-master I pictured
The manipulator and planner – in other words, he isn’t me
He is above me, but also below me.
Beside me, on my left and my right. Within and without me.
Wading in the filth and grieving with me in my sorrow
A strong rock to hold onto when everything else spins out of control
The only friend left by whom I can be held until the morrow
Lenten Haikus
By Adam Omelianchuk
Why the long face?
At Lenten service
I am supposed to feel grief
Rather talk to friends
How hard could it be?
Watching SNL
Gave up late TV for Lent
Been only three days
Graduate School
Awake. Read. Eat. Write.
Study wearies the soul. Sleep.
And dream of lost love
A Mind Full of Ashes
The knowledge of God
Sensus Divinitatis
Lost in Eden's wind
Taste and See
Call me religious
I am not spiritual
Give me bread and wine
At Lenten service
I am supposed to feel grief
Rather talk to friends
How hard could it be?
Watching SNL
Gave up late TV for Lent
Been only three days
Graduate School
Awake. Read. Eat. Write.
Study wearies the soul. Sleep.
And dream of lost love
A Mind Full of Ashes
The knowledge of God
Sensus Divinitatis
Lost in Eden's wind
Taste and See
Call me religious
I am not spiritual
Give me bread and wine
Hunger to Hunger
By Phillip Aijian
Even in Lent, none goes hungry
without great effort. I adopt the Bob Dylan diet--
cigarettes and sunglasses, hymns of penitence
on my harmonica. When I emerge
on the other side of Easter I will return
to cramming bread in my mouth, sky
into my eyeballs, canticles into my ears.
Hunger’s interrogation shapes every plane
of my body, forges my questions into forks
and my demands into knives. I have my manners
and return to my table—eat, rinse, repeat.
But these days, I tire of washing my silverware,
catching my hunger’s reflection by a blade
going dull. Because forty days pass quickly,
I can practice feeding upon that certain and holy “No”
without much likelihood of picking up good habits
or estranging my bad company. I will feast
upon hollowness like that red kite, all tongue,
wind-tasting without a single swallow. Where, Spirit,
your new feast? I weary of moving from famished to full,
from sober to drunk, aroused to idle. Tie a string
to my tow point and stunt me into your gales.
without great effort. I adopt the Bob Dylan diet--
cigarettes and sunglasses, hymns of penitence
on my harmonica. When I emerge
on the other side of Easter I will return
to cramming bread in my mouth, sky
into my eyeballs, canticles into my ears.
Hunger’s interrogation shapes every plane
of my body, forges my questions into forks
and my demands into knives. I have my manners
and return to my table—eat, rinse, repeat.
But these days, I tire of washing my silverware,
catching my hunger’s reflection by a blade
going dull. Because forty days pass quickly,
I can practice feeding upon that certain and holy “No”
without much likelihood of picking up good habits
or estranging my bad company. I will feast
upon hollowness like that red kite, all tongue,
wind-tasting without a single swallow. Where, Spirit,
your new feast? I weary of moving from famished to full,
from sober to drunk, aroused to idle. Tie a string
to my tow point and stunt me into your gales.
Untitled
By Natasha Cheeley
“Feelings,” she wrote, “are enough to live off of forever.”
But then she woke up, wondering where they went.
No matter -- they were a nuisance from wherever,
thinking that they too had disappeared for Lent.
“Out of sight, out of mind” she scribbled once more,
tired of the distractions and chaos that warred on her heart.
Today she wanted silence, free from it being a chore.
The buzz and the pace she wanted no part.
“Best Friends Forever” from Him was all she sought,
not a Father, a Husband, a Teacher, or King,
just a comrade in this tiresome war she fought,
Standing side-by-side, seeing the same true thing.
“My yoke is easy, and my burden is light” she read,
and the anxieties of guilt and shame arose.
What if mine are too heavy, or are too many to shed?
“It is true,” he wrote, “that perfect grace endlessly flows.”
But then she woke up, wondering where they went.
No matter -- they were a nuisance from wherever,
thinking that they too had disappeared for Lent.
“Out of sight, out of mind” she scribbled once more,
tired of the distractions and chaos that warred on her heart.
Today she wanted silence, free from it being a chore.
The buzz and the pace she wanted no part.
“Best Friends Forever” from Him was all she sought,
not a Father, a Husband, a Teacher, or King,
just a comrade in this tiresome war she fought,
Standing side-by-side, seeing the same true thing.
“My yoke is easy, and my burden is light” she read,
and the anxieties of guilt and shame arose.
What if mine are too heavy, or are too many to shed?
“It is true,” he wrote, “that perfect grace endlessly flows.”
An Existential Monday Mourning
By Natasha Cheeley
Her loss is tragic,
reminding me that loss is life.
The child loses his blanket,
the mother loses her list,
the Father loses his Son.
Being lost never defines who I am,
where where I am not.
Knowing the loss is worse than
just the losing.
Life teaches us to let go.
Letting go of the safety.
Letting go of the control.
Letting go of the Begotten.
Learning to let life nestle in it's stead.
reminding me that loss is life.
The child loses his blanket,
the mother loses her list,
the Father loses his Son.
Being lost never defines who I am,
where where I am not.
Knowing the loss is worse than
just the losing.
Life teaches us to let go.
Letting go of the safety.
Letting go of the control.
Letting go of the Begotten.
Learning to let life nestle in it's stead.
re:Lent
Gloria Soledad
I.
The time has come to celebrate
Death, suffering, and privation
It starts with a thumbs up
Of palm ash in a mark of execution
Taking a moment to think back
On the curse of your mortality
And not forgetting to remember
That you too will dissolve into ground.
II.
This is no feast: this is the empty and friendless table
At which we sit with a plate full of thorns and splinters.
I was a born quitter—why should I give up comfort
That generations strove and died to provide?
I’ve been taught to avoid the parts of town where
Streets are called “Sorrowful Way” and “Narrow Path.”
When I am tempted, after 40 seconds of fasting,
The devil takes me to the second floor food court and says,
“Command that paper and metal to turn into loaves of—“
And before he finishes, I have a Hot Dog on a Stick, flaming
Sword deep in my mouth with my eyes on Mongolian BBQ.
Scripture verses ring like tinny nursery rhymes, but don’t sing
It is written, and I have read, but on a dry tongue, it feels dead
Where is the Deuteronomic power to defeat the devil?
Like God’s name, so sacred, it lies covered in dust, unused.
III.
Lenting is not relenting
Fasting is slowing
But I want to skip to the final chapter of the last book
Not to read present tense with a hungry ache
On pages that cut the fingertips like bone and marrow
Let this couplet pass
Beneath feet like grass
Which fire turns ash
And sand into glass
The time has come to celebrate
Death, suffering, and privation
It starts with a thumbs up
Of palm ash in a mark of execution
Taking a moment to think back
On the curse of your mortality
And not forgetting to remember
That you too will dissolve into ground.
II.
This is no feast: this is the empty and friendless table
At which we sit with a plate full of thorns and splinters.
I was a born quitter—why should I give up comfort
That generations strove and died to provide?
I’ve been taught to avoid the parts of town where
Streets are called “Sorrowful Way” and “Narrow Path.”
When I am tempted, after 40 seconds of fasting,
The devil takes me to the second floor food court and says,
“Command that paper and metal to turn into loaves of—“
And before he finishes, I have a Hot Dog on a Stick, flaming
Sword deep in my mouth with my eyes on Mongolian BBQ.
Scripture verses ring like tinny nursery rhymes, but don’t sing
It is written, and I have read, but on a dry tongue, it feels dead
Where is the Deuteronomic power to defeat the devil?
Like God’s name, so sacred, it lies covered in dust, unused.
III.
Lenting is not relenting
Fasting is slowing
But I want to skip to the final chapter of the last book
Not to read present tense with a hungry ache
On pages that cut the fingertips like bone and marrow
Let this couplet pass
Beneath feet like grass
Which fire turns ash
And sand into glass
Lent
By Laura Flemming
"There is no space
or place without God."
So I sit and listen
and shut off npr and listen
as I scrub dish after
dish in quiet, sloshing
sprays of soap and water
on the work shirt
I forgot to change.
Later I scrape off
the bread dough crusted
on my palm as I sit
to write, sharing
the couch with
teaching books,
clean laundry,
and the Presence
of the Holy.
or place without God."
So I sit and listen
and shut off npr and listen
as I scrub dish after
dish in quiet, sloshing
sprays of soap and water
on the work shirt
I forgot to change.
Later I scrape off
the bread dough crusted
on my palm as I sit
to write, sharing
the couch with
teaching books,
clean laundry,
and the Presence
of the Holy.
Just Enough
By Janelle Aijian
Bread, they said, and how having had
hardly a taste of this panic—the terror
of the turning, spinning spokes
of a chariot wheel tumbling toward
a ruinous confrontation—how can I,
not knowing the dark sun driving down
on hot backs broken with bricks and
hopelessly bent by barrier after barrier,
who am I, who wearies walking the meanest path
of petty privations to claim,
when the flakes flew down to feed
the frenzied masses, that someone
should have seen, should have savored and said
When we need it, there too will be water.
hardly a taste of this panic—the terror
of the turning, spinning spokes
of a chariot wheel tumbling toward
a ruinous confrontation—how can I,
not knowing the dark sun driving down
on hot backs broken with bricks and
hopelessly bent by barrier after barrier,
who am I, who wearies walking the meanest path
of petty privations to claim,
when the flakes flew down to feed
the frenzied masses, that someone
should have seen, should have savored and said
When we need it, there too will be water.
Morning Prayer
By Randall Wetzig
[This is not a poem, but is a morning prayer]
Father, I have a deep need and longing.
I keep trying to fill it with things that seem good: Money, sex, respect from other people (etc.)
The only thing that can fill it is you.
I was made to be united with you.
Please fill me Holy Spirit.
In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.
Father, I have a deep need and longing.
I keep trying to fill it with things that seem good: Money, sex, respect from other people (etc.)
The only thing that can fill it is you.
I was made to be united with you.
Please fill me Holy Spirit.
In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen.
Water from the Desert
By Aaron Gleason
"I went out into the desert looking for a house
but all I found was shelter
I went out into the desert looking for a feast
but all I found was food
I went out into the desert looking for a pool
but all I found was water
I went out into the desert looking for a religion
but all I found was forgiveness
I went out into the desert looking for a belief
but all I found was faith
I went out into the desert looking for a method
but all I found was truth
I went out into the desert looking for friends
but all I found was love
I went out into the desert looking for a god
but all I found was a Savior
I went out to look for everything I thought I wanted
but all I found was everything I could ever need"
The Kingdom has come and is coming:
"why do you rush?
why do you hurry?
the kingdom is coming
and where my kingdom is so am I
and where my kingdom is so are you
there is no need to tarry long on what I have not told you
nor is there need to worry that you may never know
do you not know me?
do you not know my son?
have I withheld anything from you?
my very spirit lives in you and your sisters
my very son has ransomed you and your brothers
am I not even now your father forever
have I not even this day begotten you to my very heart
do you not have my love?
I am a good lover
I do not burden you
I am a good father
I do not disturb your rest
how can you doubt my love when it is the only thing I have ever given to you
I have told you that I am one
I have told you that I am and there is none else besides me
but when my Son appeared you went into a frenzy
you said we know this man to be God
and yet this man Jesus tells us that his father is God as well
and when you received my spirit your hearts again were troubled
you said One we can understand, and two possibly
but three?
what sort of math is there in heaven?
Can Yahweh not count?
there is no counting in heaven, nor is their math
there is only me
and my son
and my spirit
and our love
we have always been and we always will be
and we have always been One
what about this do you not understand?
I have spoken clearly
I have revealed the deepest mystery to you
I have not withheld my eternal family from your eyes
what is it that you do not understand?
you who were not there before there were things at all
you who live but a short while and then disappear
you who cannot even understand each other in your simple finitude
why would you ever expect to understand me?
is it not enough that the deepest chamber of my home has not been closed to you
that my very heart has been opened and you have been beckoned to come within
you construct glasses to see me more clearly when I have pulled back the veil from your eyes
know me as I am and cease from your worries
nothing is needed that I have not provided
nothing is urgent that I have not done
my kingdom is coming
even now I am amidst you and yet just around the corner
one more corner now till my son returns at the completion
why do you rush?
why do you hurry?
the kingdom is coming
and where my kingdom is so am I
and where my kingdom is you are loved, now and forever"
but all I found was shelter
I went out into the desert looking for a feast
but all I found was food
I went out into the desert looking for a pool
but all I found was water
I went out into the desert looking for a religion
but all I found was forgiveness
I went out into the desert looking for a belief
but all I found was faith
I went out into the desert looking for a method
but all I found was truth
I went out into the desert looking for friends
but all I found was love
I went out into the desert looking for a god
but all I found was a Savior
I went out to look for everything I thought I wanted
but all I found was everything I could ever need"
The Kingdom has come and is coming:
"why do you rush?
why do you hurry?
the kingdom is coming
and where my kingdom is so am I
and where my kingdom is so are you
there is no need to tarry long on what I have not told you
nor is there need to worry that you may never know
do you not know me?
do you not know my son?
have I withheld anything from you?
my very spirit lives in you and your sisters
my very son has ransomed you and your brothers
am I not even now your father forever
have I not even this day begotten you to my very heart
do you not have my love?
I am a good lover
I do not burden you
I am a good father
I do not disturb your rest
how can you doubt my love when it is the only thing I have ever given to you
I have told you that I am one
I have told you that I am and there is none else besides me
but when my Son appeared you went into a frenzy
you said we know this man to be God
and yet this man Jesus tells us that his father is God as well
and when you received my spirit your hearts again were troubled
you said One we can understand, and two possibly
but three?
what sort of math is there in heaven?
Can Yahweh not count?
there is no counting in heaven, nor is their math
there is only me
and my son
and my spirit
and our love
we have always been and we always will be
and we have always been One
what about this do you not understand?
I have spoken clearly
I have revealed the deepest mystery to you
I have not withheld my eternal family from your eyes
what is it that you do not understand?
you who were not there before there were things at all
you who live but a short while and then disappear
you who cannot even understand each other in your simple finitude
why would you ever expect to understand me?
is it not enough that the deepest chamber of my home has not been closed to you
that my very heart has been opened and you have been beckoned to come within
you construct glasses to see me more clearly when I have pulled back the veil from your eyes
know me as I am and cease from your worries
nothing is needed that I have not provided
nothing is urgent that I have not done
my kingdom is coming
even now I am amidst you and yet just around the corner
one more corner now till my son returns at the completion
why do you rush?
why do you hurry?
the kingdom is coming
and where my kingdom is so am I
and where my kingdom is you are loved, now and forever"
A Poem On Trying to Write Poetry During Lent
By Lindsay Morgan
I can write. I have so many words, all the time.
But I don’t write. I am afraid of the hard work of writing,
of finding out I am incapable of hard work,
or of finding out that after I work hard
that I still failed, and that would be the worst.
I don’t write because I am afraid of exposing myself,
afraid of the exposure of my inner failure, afraid of confession,
afraid of honesty. But Love is honest.
Love makes me get up and pursue the Good and say things and
write things and love things, most of all, love things, love
all of it. Love it so that I cannot help but write it in order to
celebrate it, memorialize it, offer it to God, put it in a story
to be retold so that others might see the Good and love it too,
and know that God has been here, and if you look, if you have eyes,
you will see that he is still here.
There are things that cast out fear.
But I don’t write. I am afraid of the hard work of writing,
of finding out I am incapable of hard work,
or of finding out that after I work hard
that I still failed, and that would be the worst.
I don’t write because I am afraid of exposing myself,
afraid of the exposure of my inner failure, afraid of confession,
afraid of honesty. But Love is honest.
Love makes me get up and pursue the Good and say things and
write things and love things, most of all, love things, love
all of it. Love it so that I cannot help but write it in order to
celebrate it, memorialize it, offer it to God, put it in a story
to be retold so that others might see the Good and love it too,
and know that God has been here, and if you look, if you have eyes,
you will see that he is still here.
There are things that cast out fear.
Horrible Salvation
By Aaron Gleason
Kurtz in his madness teaches
"Don't fear the reaper"
The oyster cult preaches
And we cry macabre to these cultural leeches!
Even though our own apostle longs to die
We have become deeply connected to this pig sty
Like the prodigal we remain unclean
Bathing in our lawlessness
Pretending that this makes us unseen
But the wisest one has told us that the day we die is far better than the day we live
And we being poor don't have very much to give
But the father only asks for your life
Why wouldn't you give it up?
It's full of suffering and strife
Outsiders should think we worship death, not cars
After all we worship the only God that truly died
This same god who crafted the very stars
Is the only god that dereliction has cried
So it is "horror" that Jesus preaches
And don't "fear the reaper" he also teaches
And we have become the churchly leeches
When we pretend our gospel is one of peaches
Only by pain is pain overcome
And only by suffering is the victory won
And only by death is death made unstung
And only this god can truly say "I am love"
Because he did not remain above
But descended to us through a man and a dove
True life is dying with him
Only by death can our real life begin.
For what is sown in shame will be resurrected in glory
That's why we can take comfort in our story
Our deaths are not merely a passage to a cloud
But one day when the trumpet rings loud
We will find ourselves covered in shame no more
But bodily awake to the riches messiah has in store
For in his body all sin he bore
And in a thousand years the pain will be a memory from yore
And these saving truths are no folklore
For Our lord has died
And Our lord has risen
And so our death too lasts but a season
This hope in our hearts has a compelling reason
Our god has gone where we must go
And he has done these things to show
That nothing can overpower him
Please god grant us our new life begin!
Amen.
"Don't fear the reaper"
The oyster cult preaches
And we cry macabre to these cultural leeches!
Even though our own apostle longs to die
We have become deeply connected to this pig sty
Like the prodigal we remain unclean
Bathing in our lawlessness
Pretending that this makes us unseen
But the wisest one has told us that the day we die is far better than the day we live
And we being poor don't have very much to give
But the father only asks for your life
Why wouldn't you give it up?
It's full of suffering and strife
Outsiders should think we worship death, not cars
After all we worship the only God that truly died
This same god who crafted the very stars
Is the only god that dereliction has cried
So it is "horror" that Jesus preaches
And don't "fear the reaper" he also teaches
And we have become the churchly leeches
When we pretend our gospel is one of peaches
Only by pain is pain overcome
And only by suffering is the victory won
And only by death is death made unstung
And only this god can truly say "I am love"
Because he did not remain above
But descended to us through a man and a dove
True life is dying with him
Only by death can our real life begin.
For what is sown in shame will be resurrected in glory
That's why we can take comfort in our story
Our deaths are not merely a passage to a cloud
But one day when the trumpet rings loud
We will find ourselves covered in shame no more
But bodily awake to the riches messiah has in store
For in his body all sin he bore
And in a thousand years the pain will be a memory from yore
And these saving truths are no folklore
For Our lord has died
And Our lord has risen
And so our death too lasts but a season
This hope in our hearts has a compelling reason
Our god has gone where we must go
And he has done these things to show
That nothing can overpower him
Please god grant us our new life begin!
Amen.
Dissatisfaction
By Lindsay Morgan
Nothing different ever happens during lent.
The minutes keep going like always.
People get in their cars and drive to all their places,
Cats jump into garbage cans to eat something smelly,
Girl Scouts sell cookies, and they
build some character I guess,
Coffee places have lines in the morning
(Maybe one or two minutes shorter),
Most people you see in public don’t want to
talk to you, and that’s fine because it would
be odd if they did. The laundry’s finished.
The same tv shows play, not like
Christmas or the super bowl.
You get coupons on your receipts
at the grocery store, especially if
(or maybe even if?) you don’t buy
alcohol or coffee or meat. Roads are
under construction, kids ask for
hamsters, you have to replace your
toothbrush, street sweeping, oil refineries,
night clubs, people that nobody notices,
redesigned coke bottles, agriculture.
And then you turn around quickly to
try to catch something different,
to see if your toys are alive today.
You wish they were alive today.
The minutes keep going like always.
People get in their cars and drive to all their places,
Cats jump into garbage cans to eat something smelly,
Girl Scouts sell cookies, and they
build some character I guess,
Coffee places have lines in the morning
(Maybe one or two minutes shorter),
Most people you see in public don’t want to
talk to you, and that’s fine because it would
be odd if they did. The laundry’s finished.
The same tv shows play, not like
Christmas or the super bowl.
You get coupons on your receipts
at the grocery store, especially if
(or maybe even if?) you don’t buy
alcohol or coffee or meat. Roads are
under construction, kids ask for
hamsters, you have to replace your
toothbrush, street sweeping, oil refineries,
night clubs, people that nobody notices,
redesigned coke bottles, agriculture.
And then you turn around quickly to
try to catch something different,
to see if your toys are alive today.
You wish they were alive today.
Ashy Valentine
By Ingrid Chung
The ashes
on your forehead
surprised me
no smooth surface
for my lips.
You are but dust
and as my lips take in your cinders
I wonder
if loving you is worth anything.
In 50 years, we will be but dust.
If this moment is worth having
because it, too, shall pass.
And I didn’t love you once
and I have not loved you always since
and I will not always love you now.
But if love is possible
because of an Other
not my frailty
because He is Love
and He is in us
then dust
is not the final return.
We are His.
on your forehead
surprised me
no smooth surface
for my lips.
You are but dust
and as my lips take in your cinders
I wonder
if loving you is worth anything.
In 50 years, we will be but dust.
If this moment is worth having
because it, too, shall pass.
And I didn’t love you once
and I have not loved you always since
and I will not always love you now.
But if love is possible
because of an Other
not my frailty
because He is Love
and He is in us
then dust
is not the final return.
We are His.
In my name or in the name of Jesus?
(A song in response to sermon on 2/17/2013)
By Kelley Miller
How it must break Your heart when I don’t come
How it must make You cry when I run
Away from You… away from You…
Why do I turn away to other things
That will not satisfy or meet my need
Why do I run? Why do I run away from You?
You’re always knocking on the door of my heart
Even when I’m trying so hard to stay apart
You are waiting for me to let You in
To sit with me honestly in this sin
Your yoke is easy, Your load is light
When I rest in You, Lord Jesus Christ
Your yoke is easy, Your load is light
When I do all in the name of Jesus Christ
How it warms Your heart when I come
And brings you delight when I run
To You… I run to You…
When I see acceptance on Your face
I rest secure in Your embrace
When I come… When I come to You…
You are already in my heart
There is nothing that can ever keep us apart
You are here with me
Your Spirit is working, making me more free
Your yoke is easy, Your load is light
When I rest in You, Lord Jesus Christ
Your yoke is easy, Your load is light
When I do all in the name of Jesus Christ
When I come… When I come to You…
I come… Father I come to You…
How it must make You cry when I run
Away from You… away from You…
Why do I turn away to other things
That will not satisfy or meet my need
Why do I run? Why do I run away from You?
You’re always knocking on the door of my heart
Even when I’m trying so hard to stay apart
You are waiting for me to let You in
To sit with me honestly in this sin
Your yoke is easy, Your load is light
When I rest in You, Lord Jesus Christ
Your yoke is easy, Your load is light
When I do all in the name of Jesus Christ
How it warms Your heart when I come
And brings you delight when I run
To You… I run to You…
When I see acceptance on Your face
I rest secure in Your embrace
When I come… When I come to You…
You are already in my heart
There is nothing that can ever keep us apart
You are here with me
Your Spirit is working, making me more free
Your yoke is easy, Your load is light
When I rest in You, Lord Jesus Christ
Your yoke is easy, Your load is light
When I do all in the name of Jesus Christ
When I come… When I come to You…
I come… Father I come to You…
A Dance of Surrender
By Brittney Becker
Standing on the precipice,
I must now commence and decide.
I’ve been running and dodging, too scared to slow down,
This tactic I’ve made to avoid.
I’ve been running it’s true.
But from what – or from Whom?
I’m scared to just sit lest His presence be felt.
Yet, I’ve felt it before –
Why now do I fear?
Peace-giving, faithful, life-giving He,
Forever unchanging,
Thus He’ll still be.
My heart, it is running,
Searching for love.
My brain always stirs,
In my dreams it still runs.
My soul, it is weary,
Wilting, indirect Son.
I need Thee, Lord Jesus,
Why don’t I ask You to stay?
Close by me forever, for the rest of my days?
…I'm hiding, Lord Jesus,
Afraid of Your gaze.
I’m not sure what You’d say
Of how I’ve been spending my days.
I’m afraid to surrender –
To sell all and ‘bout face.
So I sit here and wrestle,
And internally ache.
“Come to Me all who are weary, and rest.
Don’t be anxious.
Do not worry,
I hear your requests.
You’re running, I see it,
And only getting so far.
My Child, I love you!
I see where you are.
These things that are heavy for you,
I hold light.
My plan, it is great,
Please let go of this fight.”
My God, I’m afraid to let go,
Lest You take.
These alters I’ve built,
In which I’ve began to claim stake.
I want to hold dear,
To these erections of mine.
See, they’re right here before me!
Yours may take time.
Wait.
Stop.
I must ponder anew.
These things in my life,
Are they of You?
Here I must pause.
I must ponder these things.
Good, better, best –
What is true of my seeds?
What have I planted?
Good fruit? – Or just weeds?
A little of both, I would say,
But it’s taken much toil.
I’ve been running in circles
And am now covered in – soiled.
I can plant all I want,
But deep down I know,
It’s only in light of Your Son it’ll grow.
Have mercy on me,
Help me escape my own plight.
This disaster I’ve made
I’ve done apart from your light.
A conventional, toil-full, love-seeking life,
This I may have if my heart sees it right.
But why would I choose this in light of Your love?
Alone, running, and pushing
These doors not from above?
Again, I must see,
My choice is right here.
Which path will I choose
This Ash Wednesday this year?
From dust I have come.
To dust will I go?
It is either that or new life in surrender,
I know.
Hidden in Christ is the best place to be,
So why does my heart – tempted – continually seek?
My God, I’m not strong.
My life is a mess
Apart from Your love,
Afraid You won’t bless.
“My Child, I hear you.
I see you.
I know.
You long to be held,
To be fully known.
And that’s what you are!
Seek not the things of this earth.
Keep your eyes fixed on Me.
In Me know your full worth.
I know that you’re scared,
Afraid what could be.
But stop asking, ‘What if?!!’
Look instead just to Me.
The winds and the waves will subdue you each time,
But remember, my Child,
These too – they are mine.
Thus I am reaching right here
To this place where you sank.
Please cling to me tightly
As you emerge from the drink.
I’m not asking you know the steps from this place.
I want you to trust me,
Do not go your own way.
My Child, the love of dance in your heart,
It’s a call to draw closer,
To the steps of My heart.
Right foot, left foot.
Promenade.
Hes-i-ta-tion,
Then forward on.
This dance of surrender,
It’s an art form indeed.
‘Step, two, three; ‘Step, two, three,
Into My lead.”
…My Jesus,
I choose to look to Your face.
I’m tired of looking to the wind and the waves.
I don’t see from here to there I will go,
But because I’m not leading,
I’ll trust that You know.
My dance is not pretty alone by myself.
Mechanical.
*stumble*
Pride-filled.
Oh, help!
It’s truly when I’m in Your arms that I’m free.
Unsure where I’m going –
and yet wholly me!
‘Step, two, three; ‘Step, two, three,
Into Your lead.
Here I am safe,
Knowing You eternally see.
I must now commence and decide.
I’ve been running and dodging, too scared to slow down,
This tactic I’ve made to avoid.
I’ve been running it’s true.
But from what – or from Whom?
I’m scared to just sit lest His presence be felt.
Yet, I’ve felt it before –
Why now do I fear?
Peace-giving, faithful, life-giving He,
Forever unchanging,
Thus He’ll still be.
My heart, it is running,
Searching for love.
My brain always stirs,
In my dreams it still runs.
My soul, it is weary,
Wilting, indirect Son.
I need Thee, Lord Jesus,
Why don’t I ask You to stay?
Close by me forever, for the rest of my days?
…I'm hiding, Lord Jesus,
Afraid of Your gaze.
I’m not sure what You’d say
Of how I’ve been spending my days.
I’m afraid to surrender –
To sell all and ‘bout face.
So I sit here and wrestle,
And internally ache.
“Come to Me all who are weary, and rest.
Don’t be anxious.
Do not worry,
I hear your requests.
You’re running, I see it,
And only getting so far.
My Child, I love you!
I see where you are.
These things that are heavy for you,
I hold light.
My plan, it is great,
Please let go of this fight.”
My God, I’m afraid to let go,
Lest You take.
These alters I’ve built,
In which I’ve began to claim stake.
I want to hold dear,
To these erections of mine.
See, they’re right here before me!
Yours may take time.
Wait.
Stop.
I must ponder anew.
These things in my life,
Are they of You?
Here I must pause.
I must ponder these things.
Good, better, best –
What is true of my seeds?
What have I planted?
Good fruit? – Or just weeds?
A little of both, I would say,
But it’s taken much toil.
I’ve been running in circles
And am now covered in – soiled.
I can plant all I want,
But deep down I know,
It’s only in light of Your Son it’ll grow.
Have mercy on me,
Help me escape my own plight.
This disaster I’ve made
I’ve done apart from your light.
A conventional, toil-full, love-seeking life,
This I may have if my heart sees it right.
But why would I choose this in light of Your love?
Alone, running, and pushing
These doors not from above?
Again, I must see,
My choice is right here.
Which path will I choose
This Ash Wednesday this year?
From dust I have come.
To dust will I go?
It is either that or new life in surrender,
I know.
Hidden in Christ is the best place to be,
So why does my heart – tempted – continually seek?
My God, I’m not strong.
My life is a mess
Apart from Your love,
Afraid You won’t bless.
“My Child, I hear you.
I see you.
I know.
You long to be held,
To be fully known.
And that’s what you are!
Seek not the things of this earth.
Keep your eyes fixed on Me.
In Me know your full worth.
I know that you’re scared,
Afraid what could be.
But stop asking, ‘What if?!!’
Look instead just to Me.
The winds and the waves will subdue you each time,
But remember, my Child,
These too – they are mine.
Thus I am reaching right here
To this place where you sank.
Please cling to me tightly
As you emerge from the drink.
I’m not asking you know the steps from this place.
I want you to trust me,
Do not go your own way.
My Child, the love of dance in your heart,
It’s a call to draw closer,
To the steps of My heart.
Right foot, left foot.
Promenade.
Hes-i-ta-tion,
Then forward on.
This dance of surrender,
It’s an art form indeed.
‘Step, two, three; ‘Step, two, three,
Into My lead.”
…My Jesus,
I choose to look to Your face.
I’m tired of looking to the wind and the waves.
I don’t see from here to there I will go,
But because I’m not leading,
I’ll trust that You know.
My dance is not pretty alone by myself.
Mechanical.
*stumble*
Pride-filled.
Oh, help!
It’s truly when I’m in Your arms that I’m free.
Unsure where I’m going –
and yet wholly me!
‘Step, two, three; ‘Step, two, three,
Into Your lead.
Here I am safe,
Knowing You eternally see.
The Alabaster Flask
By Matthew Keefe Haggerty
A lovely, little girl was born to citizens of Rome.
Her parents, neither rich nor poor, performed for patrons all
Throughout the provinces. In every town and city, home
Was where the three would be kind mother, father, baby small.
Their little troop would put on acts from song and dance to plays
Of wanton gods and heroes brave, which earned them widespread praise.
These happy years so precious as the seasons passed them by.
The child showed much skill in arts from quite an early age.
Melantha, she was named, it meant dark flower, climbing vine,
A supple branch that draws its strength from others. Center stage
Became her home, most talented, most beautiful, sublime.
As she matured their troop grew bigger but she held her place.
The other actors held no grudges for her warmth and grace
Wound through the company; in hearts held dear, in eyes held high.
A time of hardship fell upon the players. Emperor
Tiberius’ many, costly wars required means
And men. What added to Rome’s capital by force thus were
Diminished for the actors through neglect. Their splendid scenes
So few beheld, their golden songs most did not hear. The show
That traveled ‘round the continent, could not. Their spirits low,
Their buckles cinched, plans for happiness had gone awry.
The father, desperate to save their shrinking wealth and fame,
Devised a plan. A lonely, well-off widower in years
Advancing wished for private audience with she whose name
He well knew: dinner, dialogue, a song for just his ears.
“Melantha, dearest,” father said, “agree to this and save
us all. Suggest to him a loan, a gift, our debts to waive.”
He handed her a dagger. “Just in case he comes too nigh.”
She knew she had to use her charm for ends unethical,
But for her friends and family she’d use a potent dose.
The widower’s defenses low, seclusion took its toll;
While she entrances, he advances, oh! Too far, too close,
Too much. She reaches for the dagger, distance narrowing,
He falls on her, he falls on it. A gasp. Face harrowing,
Breath shortening, eyes piercing. Shaking, she begins to cry.
She knew she mustn’t go back home, endangering the ones
She loved. Whatever treasures lay about she took then fled.
The distant latitudes where Rome exiled her wayward sons
Would shelter her from law if not from guilt of blood she shed.
Her old career now at an end for fame would her betray,
The blade though offered new life from the one it took away,
A different kind of play. She saw it flash before her eye.
I am melantha, i am the dark, twisting vine.
As my figure enthralls you, they crawl up your spine,
My tendrils, these fingers, unfasten, unravel
The knots that guard you and those behind your navel.
How you came to be my poor, unfortunate host
Embittered foes, clutching competitors, the most
Darling wives, unwilling to share, they have sent me.
As you fill the goblets and smooth the fragrant sheets,
Reveling in my praises, your heart quicker beats,
Knowing not that ardor speeds the poison through your
Veins. you are not the first to fall to my allure.
In this flask of alabaster dwells liquid death.
No power is greater than to seize living breath,
Even so, i am cursed: i asked not for beauty.
She hesitated by the dock. Mediterranean
Sea breezes ‘gainst her veiled face brought cries of men and gulls.
Assassin. Homicidal thief. New titles feeling thin
And void of absolution. Power dearly gained now lulls
Her further into acts of greater sin. “IfI accept
This course at least the foul I’ll send to Hades’ land.” She leapt
Aboard the nearest vessel shouting, “Let the sails fly!”
For years she wandered dispossessing cities’ wicked souls
And wicked souls their wealth, disbursing it among the poor.
This cruel charity began to choke her lofty goals;
The violence made her vile. Whispers came and offered more,
“Become an actress on a greater stage, Your powers use
To cleanse the souls of principalities, their heels bruise.
You’ll sanctioned be, no consequence, no need for alibi.”
Arriving in Jerusalem, a hot bed of deceit,
Melantha witnessed Roman rule under Herod, king
And self-said Jew. A race whose vast religion held its seat
Herein this city. Leaders of this cult were suffering
Because a man called Jesus, gaining public praise, upset
Their jurisdiction, turning people to his Way. A threat
She knew they wanted her to fix, her dark craft to apply.
A simple man he was, with laborer’s rough hands, and feet
That had not trodden many marbled floors. His simple robe,
The article of note, was seamless stitched, that no mean feat.
His reasons, his philosophy they hired her to probe.
And if his answer angered them would she be forced to kill
This lonely man, this wanderer, to all he bore good will?
A tragedy, for one so pure, that Jesus had to die.
He saw her standing in the corner and approached before
She fled. “I know why you are here, I know your dark design,
I know your heart and mind and name. Melantha, be once more
Adorning flower, blooming branch, cut back the strangling vine.
Your heart once true is over grown with hate and bitterness
Let go the past, let go your grasp, your errand here dismiss.
For I have come that you may live, your burdens to untie.
He spoke of much, but no reply. Melantha, shaken deep
And thoroughly fatigued, went home. “Who is this man who knows?”
Tears streaming now, “How does he see?” Into the crowd I creep
Yet I am singled out. My dearest dreams, the death I chose
Is known. Beside her stood the alabaster flask, device
For massacre, but now, but now her power to entice
She’d use on Jesus. Maybe he’d forgive. At least she’d try.
I am the vine, you are the branches, whoever
Abides in me and i in him lives forever.
My father, the vinedresser, sent me to redeem
This world, reclaim your souls, to die and rising deem
Hell void and powerless without a right to hold
Enmity between god and man has justly culled
The branches from the vine. the claim does not bear up.
Return to me, my wayward ones, leaves overgrown.
Under your imposing shade you’ll choke all you’ve known,
Even your dearest loves will suffer the same fate
Veiling them from my love, for your love will not sate.
I am the true vine, be grafted onto me. let
Not your grapes be pressed, the harvest time is not yet.
Even so, be blessed, for i have drank of the cup.
Her parents, neither rich nor poor, performed for patrons all
Throughout the provinces. In every town and city, home
Was where the three would be kind mother, father, baby small.
Their little troop would put on acts from song and dance to plays
Of wanton gods and heroes brave, which earned them widespread praise.
These happy years so precious as the seasons passed them by.
The child showed much skill in arts from quite an early age.
Melantha, she was named, it meant dark flower, climbing vine,
A supple branch that draws its strength from others. Center stage
Became her home, most talented, most beautiful, sublime.
As she matured their troop grew bigger but she held her place.
The other actors held no grudges for her warmth and grace
Wound through the company; in hearts held dear, in eyes held high.
A time of hardship fell upon the players. Emperor
Tiberius’ many, costly wars required means
And men. What added to Rome’s capital by force thus were
Diminished for the actors through neglect. Their splendid scenes
So few beheld, their golden songs most did not hear. The show
That traveled ‘round the continent, could not. Their spirits low,
Their buckles cinched, plans for happiness had gone awry.
The father, desperate to save their shrinking wealth and fame,
Devised a plan. A lonely, well-off widower in years
Advancing wished for private audience with she whose name
He well knew: dinner, dialogue, a song for just his ears.
“Melantha, dearest,” father said, “agree to this and save
us all. Suggest to him a loan, a gift, our debts to waive.”
He handed her a dagger. “Just in case he comes too nigh.”
She knew she had to use her charm for ends unethical,
But for her friends and family she’d use a potent dose.
The widower’s defenses low, seclusion took its toll;
While she entrances, he advances, oh! Too far, too close,
Too much. She reaches for the dagger, distance narrowing,
He falls on her, he falls on it. A gasp. Face harrowing,
Breath shortening, eyes piercing. Shaking, she begins to cry.
She knew she mustn’t go back home, endangering the ones
She loved. Whatever treasures lay about she took then fled.
The distant latitudes where Rome exiled her wayward sons
Would shelter her from law if not from guilt of blood she shed.
Her old career now at an end for fame would her betray,
The blade though offered new life from the one it took away,
A different kind of play. She saw it flash before her eye.
I am melantha, i am the dark, twisting vine.
As my figure enthralls you, they crawl up your spine,
My tendrils, these fingers, unfasten, unravel
The knots that guard you and those behind your navel.
How you came to be my poor, unfortunate host
Embittered foes, clutching competitors, the most
Darling wives, unwilling to share, they have sent me.
As you fill the goblets and smooth the fragrant sheets,
Reveling in my praises, your heart quicker beats,
Knowing not that ardor speeds the poison through your
Veins. you are not the first to fall to my allure.
In this flask of alabaster dwells liquid death.
No power is greater than to seize living breath,
Even so, i am cursed: i asked not for beauty.
She hesitated by the dock. Mediterranean
Sea breezes ‘gainst her veiled face brought cries of men and gulls.
Assassin. Homicidal thief. New titles feeling thin
And void of absolution. Power dearly gained now lulls
Her further into acts of greater sin. “IfI accept
This course at least the foul I’ll send to Hades’ land.” She leapt
Aboard the nearest vessel shouting, “Let the sails fly!”
For years she wandered dispossessing cities’ wicked souls
And wicked souls their wealth, disbursing it among the poor.
This cruel charity began to choke her lofty goals;
The violence made her vile. Whispers came and offered more,
“Become an actress on a greater stage, Your powers use
To cleanse the souls of principalities, their heels bruise.
You’ll sanctioned be, no consequence, no need for alibi.”
Arriving in Jerusalem, a hot bed of deceit,
Melantha witnessed Roman rule under Herod, king
And self-said Jew. A race whose vast religion held its seat
Herein this city. Leaders of this cult were suffering
Because a man called Jesus, gaining public praise, upset
Their jurisdiction, turning people to his Way. A threat
She knew they wanted her to fix, her dark craft to apply.
A simple man he was, with laborer’s rough hands, and feet
That had not trodden many marbled floors. His simple robe,
The article of note, was seamless stitched, that no mean feat.
His reasons, his philosophy they hired her to probe.
And if his answer angered them would she be forced to kill
This lonely man, this wanderer, to all he bore good will?
A tragedy, for one so pure, that Jesus had to die.
He saw her standing in the corner and approached before
She fled. “I know why you are here, I know your dark design,
I know your heart and mind and name. Melantha, be once more
Adorning flower, blooming branch, cut back the strangling vine.
Your heart once true is over grown with hate and bitterness
Let go the past, let go your grasp, your errand here dismiss.
For I have come that you may live, your burdens to untie.
He spoke of much, but no reply. Melantha, shaken deep
And thoroughly fatigued, went home. “Who is this man who knows?”
Tears streaming now, “How does he see?” Into the crowd I creep
Yet I am singled out. My dearest dreams, the death I chose
Is known. Beside her stood the alabaster flask, device
For massacre, but now, but now her power to entice
She’d use on Jesus. Maybe he’d forgive. At least she’d try.
I am the vine, you are the branches, whoever
Abides in me and i in him lives forever.
My father, the vinedresser, sent me to redeem
This world, reclaim your souls, to die and rising deem
Hell void and powerless without a right to hold
Enmity between god and man has justly culled
The branches from the vine. the claim does not bear up.
Return to me, my wayward ones, leaves overgrown.
Under your imposing shade you’ll choke all you’ve known,
Even your dearest loves will suffer the same fate
Veiling them from my love, for your love will not sate.
I am the true vine, be grafted onto me. let
Not your grapes be pressed, the harvest time is not yet.
Even so, be blessed, for i have drank of the cup.