Thursday, October 24, 2013

Every good and perfect gift...

The God who formed you,
Wondrously wrought you,
Knit you and laid out your days
(each and every one
when as yet there were none -
well, three, anyway),
This God whose ways are perfect,
May He call you,
Cleanse you,
Redeem you for Himself,
That you give back what you are given,
Yourself,
To Christ (your other
elder brother - so we pray),
And live for
and love Him
all your days.

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Song to the Creator

Sing high songs,
sweetly sung,
tune tongues to tell
how God our Father
spoke out the singing stars,
a joyful chorus,
jubilation at the dawn;
right praise rightly sung
to the Father of Lights!

Generous God is,
pouring out His glory,
light into the night
a call, all creatures great and small,
- shine like Him!

Show back borrowed beams,
sing back the stars' songs,
give back granted glory
to God, First-Father all-filling forever!

Waiting

We are waiting
for baby;
like looking
intently
at that last
little
bit
of
honey on the spoon,
knowing it will
(eventually)
drop down delicious dollop
on the piping-hot biscuit
(but not
quite
yet).

Monday, October 14, 2013

Song to Autumn in the Desert

You come dressed in different clothes
than your sisters further north.
You do not wear the leaves
so deciduously pretty,
in the fashionable fall.
You flirt at us with sunbeams,
later-rising,
cooler mornings;
as with most of the desert
we sense your heat and coolness,
you radiant thing.
The doves fly higher, later,
and the white-wings travel south,
(I don't know why -
what could be lovlier
than being here
in the desert
with you?).

To the Moon - Part 3

Crawford's head swam as he walked up to Cheryl at her desk and asked for a first-day packet.  She had two aces up and one long string of cards going, but she had locked up her four of clubs and frowned as she glanced up.

"Oh, rats, a spade...  I suppose you'll want your things now, and we'll find you a desk, too."  She brightened back to her cheerily secretarial demeanor.  "Come this way!"  She flounced out of her chair and over to a small door, opened it, and gestured for Crawford to follow.  He did.

The room they entered was wide, but constructed radially, like a small Quonset hut.  It had no windows in the walls, but on the far end Crawford could see two round black portals flanking the exit door.  Stuffed into the low corners where the roof became the wall and met the floor were crates, most labeled with surnames, some with blank white index cards.  On one of these Cheryl wrote "CRAWFORD" with a thick marker.  She tugged it out and looked at Crawford.  When he didn't notice, she huffed loudly.

"Sorry."  Crawford picked it up as Cheryl smiled saccharine at him.  They walked to the door at the other end of the room, and Cheryl prattled on about keeping track of his things and never forgetting to put his crate away where it belonged and of course to keep the pressure suit handy and the rebreather, too, and the nearest exits were a long way away and the alarm sounded just like a fire engine but they hadn't had it go off for a few months and the doors were all like this one with the inswing on the high pressure side and they wouldn't open all the way so the outrushing air was supposed to shut them if a breach happened and you never propped the door and then they walked out of the Quonset room.

Crawford was shown to an office without windows, which was just as well as he would have spent all his time staring out of them.  He supposed it was a corner office, but that seemed less a mark of distinction here than on earth.  His ceiling sloped down on two axes, maxing a sort of inverse-double-barrel-arch which would have made the Romans jealous.  He had a small desk, a sleek computer, and several potted plants.

"Free air," said Cheryl when she saw his puzzled glance at them.  "Oh, and now that the elevator is in, you can probably even go home tonight!"  With this pronouncement she spun on her heel and tripped back to her office on her too-high heels.

The desk was bare, except for the computer.  No drawers, no features.  The computer also appeared to be molded into the top of the desk.  When Crawford pulled the chair out, it slid on a track.  He surmised that these precautions were all in the event of sudden loss of pressure.  He noted ruefully that his door swung in towards his office.  He prayed against meteorites.

The first message in his inbox was a welcome from Delvins.  The second was a task from Delvins.  The third was from Cheryl; there were bagels in the breakroom.  Back to Delvins, asking how far he had come on his task.  Crawford sighed.  He was inclined to doubt if Delvins had done him a favor.

Friday, October 11, 2013

Song to the Trinity

Our good-great-gracious God
rings round this wide world
with bluest sky and blackest night,
hangs the spheres
here, there, anywhere,
flung by His hand and governed by His law.

This God, thrice-holy Trinity,
never erring, neither sparing the Son,
nor stinting in the Spirit,
He who leads us to and reads us of the Son,
feeds the heart at ebb,
and flows deeply, richly goes with us,

to light roads narrow dark and weary,
in thickest night points always
to the Son.

Our sovereign-savior, sin-slayer, Jesus Christ,
once walked this fertile earth,
his birth the knell for hell and Satan's host,
once more He comes,
with justice in Hand,
sharp sword, the word,
his legs as burnished bronze will touch this world
(the smoke chokes but cannot cloak the wicked),
and Ho! His cry, hand to the sky, Wait No More!
The Day has come, all's set and sorted out,
the sky rolled up, seas flee,
valleys lift, a rift far as Azal.


City-building Son,
metes and measures out our place palatial,
golden Zion, square and fair,
high her gates and high her walls,
long the tables, trenchers, high her halls,
full-up of feasting, strong songs shouted to and by
our battle-bruised-and-never-broken King,
tears begone! the flagons round again,
once more adore and praise the Lord,
cast down all crowns but His,
once more adore and praise the Lord!

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Autumn Days

Crisp clean morning air,
Slanted sunbeams rising late,
Autumn has arrived.

Quiet evenings,
Cooling once the sun has set,
Talking on the porch.

Speaking of the good,
Making mention of the hard,
Seeing stars appear.

The first October
without the warm kindnesses
of my dear father.

The first November
with one fewer place setting
around the table.

The first December
with a quieter Christmas
and a colder wind.

Monday, October 7, 2013

Web

We are all of us enmeshed,
entangled, intertwined,
tied to life by a thousand threads
thick and thin,
placed by God in this web
of family, friends, even foes.
Is it a trap?
A spider's spinning,
set to suck you dry?
Is it a net?
Slung confidently
beneath the high-wire of life,
reminding you that
if you fall,
you may yet get up again?
The answer (to you)
depends, hinges, hangs upon your view
of Him who at the center
spun the web
and touches every thread.
This God (whose ways are perfect)
made you you,
and those about you all themselves,
who spread out the constellation of the stars
and just as surely guards
and wards
your way.
Will you rest
in His hands?
Or fight
and cut the strings
that hold you safe,
and fall?
(into what? I do not
want to know -
neither do you)

Wednesday, October 2, 2013

As Those Who Have No Hope...


It is not so that we grieve,
despair begone from Christian heart!
We sorrow, still, at sin
and the cold touch of death,
still watching Adam's sons,
allowed to snatch them,
one by one,
but death will be disgorged,
on that day
of twilight morn and noon,
when Christ the victor rides
and slays the dragon.


The sea gives up its dead,
the bloated belly of the grave is slit,
and all men shall come forth
to stand,
and parted at the hand
of God,
of Christ on his
great white throne,
they leftward moan
and rightward shout in triumph.

On, now, up to new Jerusalem!
City of peace,
at last made whole,
made perfect, cubely shaped
and polished gleaming bright
no night
shall dim the eye
no tear
near there and death?
Where is death?
Drained, like the sea
empty,
no more a terror,
man's error, sin in Adam,
now is done,
made right by Christ,
who braved the cross,
the loss
of fellowship more sweet
than we imagine
or can tell.

So fasting mourners come and feast,
the table now is laid, the debt is paid,
and Christ calls out to come,

without money,
without price,
with fear of naught but God,
find rest
and blessed
are they
who mourn, for
they shall be comforted.