A glass, darkly

I’ve wanted, striven to be you. 

You, who are so close to God,

so confident and strong,

whose plans bear fruit,

whose sight is clear,

whose virtues highlight my defects. 

But you are not my mirror. 

To see and be seen face to face

I need to pull my gaze away;

to find the glass that gives me back

myself, alive and unadorned,

ready to tackle the only task

that God has ever given – 

to learn, at long, long last 

how to be me.

Garden of delight

Garden of delight

If I don’t mow the lawn, the daisies grow – 

they lift their golden faces to the sun,

their petal ruffs splayed brightly from their necks. 

The grass in tufts surprises me. 

Why is it not one even mass of green,

ten thousand lances neatly pointing up? 

But no. A clump, a patch, another clump, 

and interspersed the usual garden weeds. 

Was Eden’s lawn a neat landscaper’s dream,

a living carpet, uniform and clean,

or lush, fecund, with clump and patch and weed? 

I no more want a club green-keeper’s dream 

than I would want a High Street full of clones

or Stepford wives all crisp and uniformed. 

O, let our wild world garden grow 

a gallimaufry of delight,

all classes, colours, sizes, shapes, and songs

thriving, thronging, belonging, and beloved.

God is good and good is God

God is good and good is God. 

Not all that people think is good, 

not success at another's expense, 

pleasure at another's pain, 

safety behind a pitiless wall, 

but all that lifts the spirit up 

to greet the angelic choir; 

the exquisite pain of the sublime 

in music, words or art;

the homely joy of hospitality, 

bread broken, wine outpoured; 

the grief and yearning tears 

that signal love in heartfelt loss:

the sad and sombre knowledge 

of justice fairly meted out.

All that's good is born of God 

and leads us home.

Golgotha

The Cross will be my place of beauty.

You relish its ragged, ruthless horror,

revel in its hideous cruelty.

You think to crush me with its awful weight.

No! I won’t allow it. I will break

your vicious power with my submission.

I choose to make this Cross my own

by shunning anger, outrage, bitterness,

and offering instead my free forgiveness.

Even you, I will forgive, and promise paradise

to all who glimpse the truth amidst the thorns,

who catch the strains of love among the cries.

I’ll wrap my mother and my friend within

a seamless woven robe of love and care.

I look, and I find beauty even here:

beauty in the hacked and splintering wood,

the dead set nails and spiteful thorns,

and my life’s blood poured out to feed the earth.

And you will see your bullying brutality

somehow flickering, faltering, failing.

I choose beauty. 

Mad, bad, or Son of God

Cf Mark 3:20-35

They entered a house,

but before they could even feed or rest

a jostling crowd began to form,

like storm clouds gathering from the west;

a hungry crowd, starved of truth,

eager, clamouring to be fed. 

His mother and brothers were told of this:

‘He’s out of his mind,’ they said. 

The teachers from the City came

to spy on the one who stood

in the midst of the gathering storm. 

They would burn him if they could. 

‘Wherever he goes, chaos follows –

swarming mobs, Sabbath laws denied –

when demons rave he speaks to them:

he’s demon-possessed,’ they cried. 

From the eye of the storm the Son of Woman

spoke. ‘If none speak truth to power,

then power corrupts and demons thrive. 

I cast corruption out. This is my hour. 

My mind’s my own, my will is God’s, and those

who cede their will to God I here acclaim

as mine, as my true sister, brother, mother,

belovèd, treasured, living in my name. 

Need

Even the Son of God needs help. 

The crowds press in, and he withdraws 

to a boat, to a mountain, to silence

if it can be found. 

The crowds in need (and who does not

need something?) press on, desperate

to draw from this apparently 

bottomless well of hope. 

The Son of Man needs friends to help 

procure a boat, to preach and heal,

and help him rest, but most of all 

to stand with him. 

The Shadow of Death

Behind the house the sun dips slowly down. 

I sit outside and gaze at the lengthening shade,

no chore or worry tugging at my sleeve. 

I watch the garden’s brightness slowly fade –

a vivid patch of green still gleams beside

the garden fence, but soon the shadow’s tide

will dress it in a sombre evening gown. 

Oh how I loved to play and bask and run

in parks and playgrounds in my younger days. 

Heedless of heat and thirst and reddening skin,

I’d wallow in the scorching, noonday rays,

alive with youth’s indomitable might. 

From time to time I still bathe in the light

that freely pours from bounteous Brother Sun. 

My day draws on, but it is not yet done. 

The house awaits. She seems to say, ‘My friend,

in time, without regret, you’ll come on in;

I’ll welcome you with love at your day’s end. 

You have no need to think or do – just be. 

I watch with you; I’m not your enemy. 

You still have time for walking in the sun.’