photo by me: Antietam wheat-fields, ready for another peaceful harvest



Verily, verily, I say unto you, unless a kernel of wheat fall into the ground and die, it abideth alone: but if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit.

- john 12:24

The Waterfall - Henry Vaughan

With what deep murmurs through time's silent stealth
Doth thy transparent, cool, and watery wealth
           Here flowing fall,

           And chide, and call,
As if his liquid, loose retinue stayed
Lingering, and were of this steep place afraid;
         The common pass
         Where, clear as glass,
         All must descend
         Not to an end,
But quickened by this deep and rocky grave,
Rise to a longer course more bright and brave.

Dear stream! dear bank, where often I
Have sat and pleased my pensive eye,
Why, since each drop of thy quick store
Runs thither whence it flowed before,
Should poor souls fear a shade or night,
Who came, sure, from a sea of light?
Or since those drops are all sent back
So sure to thee, that none doth lack,
Why should frail flesh doubt any more
That what God takes, He'll not restore?

O useful element and clear!
My sacred wash and cleanser here,
My first consigner unto those
Fountains of life where the Lamb goes!
What sublime truths and wholesome themes
Lodge in thy mystical deep streams!
Such as dull man can never find
Unless that Spirit lead his mind
Which first upon thy face did move,
And hatched all with his quickening love.
As this loud brook's incessant fall
In streaming rings restagnates all,
Which reach by course the bank, and then
Are no more seen, just so pass men.
O my invisible estate,
My glorious liberty, still late!
Thou art the channel my soul seeks,
Not this with cataracts and creeks.

(Guidance)

Guidance
John Henry Newman, 1801 - 1890

Lead, kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home—
Lead thou me on!
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene—one step enough for me.

I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou
Shouldst lead me on.
I loved to choose and see my path; but now,
Lead thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.

So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it still

Will lead me on,

O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till

The night is gone;

And with the morn those angel faces smile

Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.

(photo credit to: jonathan smith) 

Architecture

Over a delicate arch –

an eyebrow of stone –

on the unruffled forehead

of a wall

in joyful and open windows

where there are faces instead of geraniums

where rigorous rectangles

border a dreaming perspective

where a stream awakened by an ornament

flows on a quiet field of surfaces

movement meets stillness a line meets a shout

trembling uncertainty simple clarity

you are there

architecture

art of fantasy and stone

there you reside beauty

over an arch

light as a sigh

on a wall

pale from altitude

and a window

tearful with a pane of glass

a fugitive from apparent forms

I proclaim your motionless dance

- Zbigniew Herbert

Of War & Worship

Worship
John Greenleaf Whittier


'Pure religion and undefiled before God the Father is this, To visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.' (James 1:27)

The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken, 
And ghosts of old Beliefs still flit and moan 
Round fane and altar overthrown and broken, 
O'er tree-grown barrow and gray ring of stone. 

Blind Faith had martyrs in those old high places, 
The Syrian hill grove and the Druid's wood, 
With mother's offering, to the Fiend's embraces, 
Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood. 

Red altars, kindling through that night of error, 
Smoked with warm blood beneath the cruel eye 
Of lawless Power and sanguinary Terror, 
Throned on the circle of a pitiless sky; 

Beneath whose baleful shadow, over-casting 
All heaven above, and blighting earth below, 
The scourge grew red, the lip grew pale with fasting, 
And man's oblation was his fear and woe! 

Then through great temples swelled the dismal moaning 
Of dirge-like music and sepulchral prayer; 
Pale wizard priests, o'er occult symbols droning, 
Swung their white censers in the burdened air 

As if the pomp of rituals, and the savor 
Of gums and spices could the Unseen One please; 
As if His ear could bend, with childish favor, 
To the poor flattery of the organ keys! 

Feet red from war-fields trod the church aisles holy, 
With trembling reverence: and the oppressor there, 
Kneeling before his priest, abased and lowly, 
Crushed human hearts beneath his knee of prayer. 

Not such the service the benignant Father 
Requireth at His earthly children's hands 
Not the poor offering of vain rites, but rather 
The simple duty man from man demands. 

For Earth he asks it: the full joy of heaven 
Knoweth no change of waning or increase; 
The great heart of the Infinite beats even, 
Untroubled flows the river of His peace. 

He asks no taper lights, on high surrounding 
The priestly altar and the saintly grave, 
No dolorous chant nor organ music sounding, 
Nor incense clouding tip the twilight nave. 

For he whom Jesus loved hath truly spoken 
The holier worship which he deigns to bless 
Restores the lost, and binds the spirit broken, 
And feeds the widow and the fatherless! 

Types of our human weakness and our sorrow! 
Who lives unhaunted by his loved ones dead? 
Who, with vain longing, seeketh not to borrow 
From stranger eyes the home lights which have fled? 

O brother man! fold to thy heart thy brother; 
Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there; 
To worship rightly is to love each other, 
Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer. 

Follow with reverent steps the great example 
Of Him whose holy work was 'doing good;' 
So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple, 
Each loving life a psalm of gratitude. 

Then shall all shackles fall; the stormy clangor 
Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease; 
Love shall tread out the baleful fire of anger, 
And in its ashes plant the tree of peace!

- found in the New Oxford Book of Christian Verse, 1981 ed.


(painting by me)

Thus spake John Chrysostom:

                                                                                                                              

"The potency of prayer hath subdued the strength of fire;

 it hath bridled the rage of lions, hushed anarchy to rest, 

extinguished wars, appeased the elements, expelled demons, burst the chains of death, 

expanded the gates of heaven, assuaged diseases, repelled frauds, 

rescued cities from destruction, stayed the sun in its course, 

and arrested the progress of the thunderbolt. 

Prayer is an all-efficient panoply, 

a treasure undiminished, 

a mine which is never exhausted, 

a sky unobscured by clouds, 

a heaven unruffled by the storm. 

It is the root, the fountain, the mother of a thousand blessings."

[far beyond the stars]

Peace
Henry Vaughan

My soul, there is a country

Far beyond the stars,

Where stands a winged sentry

All skilful in the wars:

There, above noise and danger, 

Sweet peace sits crown'd with smiles,

And One born in a manger 

Commands the beauteous files.

He is thy gracious Friend,

And (O my soul, awake!)

Did in pure love descend 

To die here for thy sake.

If thou canst get but thither, 

There grows the flower of Peace,

The rose that cannot wither, 

Thy fortress, and thy ease.

Leave then thy foolish ranges; 

For none can thee secure
But One who never changes,
                                    Thy God, thy life, thy cure.                               

(photo by jcs: sunset over the Nicoya Peninsula)                                                               

                                                                                                      

visit to Antietam

Cornflowers fringe the edge of the North Woods (no trees remain, just golden wheat).

Hooker's men died here, trying to breach the rebel's northern flank.

Maryland soil stained with Pennsylvania blood (trees splintered, leaves wet).

South Mountain shrouded in haze, hailstorm of shells, bullets.

Sweet September day, when brother fought brother.

All beauties of field and forest swallowed by the crimson question:

is the cause worthy?

"My heart was saying, 'Lord take away this longing, or give me that for which I long.' 

The Lord was answering, 'I must teach you to long for something better.'" -E. Elliot

[prayers made out of grass]

Mindful
Mary Oliver

 Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean's shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

I follow Christ (Romans 7:24)

I save a judas-kiss for Sunday,
knowing even as I kneel before Him
that I have my price.
My mind wanders, turning aside to paths
strewn with skulls, nakedness, depravity.

A cold chill sets in. To ward it off,

I wrap myself in grave-cloths, instead

of sheltering in His arms. 

Hungry, I eat sand. Thirsty, I swallow brackish slime. 

Still wiping the mire from my face, I encounter another saint.

Thick smile, a nod, and then I praise Him with my dirty lips...

another layer of whitewash. It does not take long

for it to harden into a shell, shutting out the light, 

trapping in the filth. 

Oh wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?

CRACK! A terrible wrenching sound - the Word!

Searing purity, acid eating through the stale veneer...

the grave-cloths instantly disintegrate. My core

exposed. I grovel, vomit, and begin to sob. 

I see His hands, His feet, His side. The thorns.

The nakedness. My shame His covering, 

my foul words in His ears, my deeds stamped

upon His perfect life. 

Unthinkable - He calls my name! 

If I touch Him, I will only further humiliate Him.

He calls again. 

It is agony. 

Repent and believe!

He prays for me. 

I weep. 

What manner of Love is this? 

I weep. 

What kind of God would send His Son?

I weep. 

This God. Him. Jesus.

I repent. He picks me out of my vomit,

embraces me, bathes me, heals me,

and sets my feet, my mind, my soul

upon the Rock. 

Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord!

-by j. cate smith

 

[nature loves secrets & so do I]

a turquoise moment dropped into my lap

mixed with peacock blue & sunset over water -

Oh Lord Creator!

how blessed I am to be your daughter!

take a moment and remember:

         the ocean is not that far away...

the deer ate all of them,
except this one.