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.