It's been a while, but, just like the ads say, "there's more!"
Oh Hammer Thrower
Do not shatter
In lustful strength
My only mirror.
How can I know the truth of me
When you blot out every reflection?
Though you sanctify your motions
I am still the one destroyed –
Why should I consent?
Your lightning bolts are much admired
But I cannot survive them
Unless I flow like water
In a way that goes only down.
You bestride the centuries
And they name you as a god
As they match them to your image
(Let the feminine beware!)
God of the crass ones
The warriors of pride
The boundary breakers
Resplendent in their strength
Seeking to prove
That they take no joy in softness.
Yet in grace I shelter me
I sought me shelter in the body of your people
Where the word love sings so sweetly
I was sure it was for me …
Here we have no continuing city
Here the wolves gather, to feast upon the sheep
And the sheep fight over pasture, already sparse and grey.
Where my still waters?
Where is the Shepherd? Where the lives laid down?
Where is the Life, the life for which we die?
Why is love harsh, condemning, casting out
The very sheep for whom the Shepherd died?
And the rain is very cold.
Let me crawl under
The shadow of Your wings.
There is no other shelter, there is no other home ..
Through the cracks in stained glass windows, the wind is very cruel,
And you are not in the building, but outside
In the sleeting rain
In the whiteout pain
Where the saints disdain
I am dancing very slowly in the moonlight on the grass
With the whisper of a hope within my heart
I’ve no partner but the moonlight and the shadows that it casts
And the knowledge of a love that won’t depart.
Yesterday was its own prison in the tears that could not fall
And tomorrow is unknown in the night
Yet right now I know that overarching love controls it all
And I trust the benediction of the light.
The holy words fall from unholy lips
Seductive as the snake, cold as its breath
Confusing sense and thought, “love” hard as ice
That which pertains to life and tastes of death.
Wolves in sheep’s clothing, white as driven snow,
Guardians of the gate, who lock sheep in
The better to devour them, weaving spells
Till righteousness is the new name for sin.
Sheep in confusion, sitting timidly
Under the rain of words, afraid to bleat
Lest they reveal themselves unspiritual
Cracking their teeth on stones that they must eat.
Thunderous the pulpit, hammering with blame
Grace is the special portion of the few
There is no succour for the halt and lame
They have made old the promise ever new.