Purification

Deep are these waters, deep and moving fast,

My mind, caught in the eddy and the swing,

Falters at knowing, yet is called to know,

The wonder and the mercy of this thing.

Once I would look at lepers on the street

Shuffling past, “Unclean!” their bitter cry,

Locked up within the prison of disease –

Yet these, I knew, were far more clean than I.

I, daughter of the seed of Abraham,

Born in the covenant, the fold of God,

Was now a creature of such bitter shame

I cringed from streets where decent women trod.

I cringed, and in the lonely bitter night,

I wondered how my life had come to be

A gagging poison moving in my veins

A tremulous and hated infamy.

But oh, my story is as old as time,

When the seducer came, well, I was weak,

And ignorant, believing this was love

Soon I became the victim false men seek.

Shame spiraled down through shame, and down some more,

Until that day they grabbed me from some bed,

And hauled me forth with coarse and cruel jests

I stood there silent, broken, with bent head,

Awaiting stones; but that day no stones came

Instead clear words I never thought to hear

Turned the accusers back upon themselves.

For the first time, I felt a different fear.

I heard their footsteps leaving, one by one,

Till all was silence, then I raised my eyes.

He looked at me as though my soul were real

And there was nothing for him to despise.

I did not understand, how could I then?

My dirty life was clean. My soul reborn

Sang with the angels, laughed against the night

And rose up like a bird into the dawn.

He took my shame, I never dreamt what cost

He placed on it – for shame he paid such price!

My worthless life was reckoned at such worth:

Purification comes through sacrifice!

And so he gave what I had never sought;

And so I live, and so he died for me,

And so his dear blood has my freedom bought.

He was made captive for my liberty.

I walk in wonder, I am mercy’s thrall,

Unfeigned, unstained, a captive of delight:

Washed into whiteness, no shame to recall,

And lifted into glory clean and bright.

Things you shouldn't say

Somewhere along the way I missed the memo.

Perhaps it was a fluff-cloud day,

When my heart was in the sky,

My attention wandering.

Or maybe fear

Clanked chains so loud

I simply didn’t hear.

Or maybe my parents.

For reasons all their own

Forgot to give the message.

Perhaps I was simply

Socially dyslexic -

Or someone switched the tags?

Somehow, it seems, I never learned the rules.

So much is understood, but never spoken

By some strange code whose key I never saw:

Truth reconstructed in a neater frame

To fit in some denatured comfort zone.

I will go wander with the daffodils,

Who never blush or stammer at my words,

And maybe ponder this strange mystery,

Or maybe not .. perchance a bird might sing. ..

Going away

Going away

It is only when you leave that you remember

The smell of eucalyptus in the air,

The rain that drums so hard and fiercely tender

The sunlight far too bright for you to bear.

The artful architecture of the gum trees

Where each branch twists in balance to the whole

Where leaves are worn as garnish, not as garment,

Their beauty has been rooted in my soul.

The balmy air of a soft summer morning,

Before cicadas sing the heavy heat

A sky so blue you yearn with reaching sorrow

And ground too hot to walk on in bare feet.

The Music

The Music

Sometimes I hear it in a sudden snatch of birdsong,

The intensity of rain,

Your footsteps in the breeze.

You laugh through the cicadas

And splash in the fountains:

Air and water sing of you.

But more often I hear with my eyes.

The sky’s infinity sings of you:

Blueness in immeasurable caress.

I catch your tune in the rain-dropped leaves,

The gladness of buttercups,

The playfulness of clouds.

The lift of a bird’s wing

Breaks my heart with melody,

And the trees cry “Hallelujah!”

In antiphonal chorus.

The waves crash with angelic percussion,

And the small things warble, “yes!”

But clearest of all, the music sounds in stories.

Its chords ring out in courage and sacrifice,

Pianissimo in tenderness,

And marching sharp in truth.

Harps sound in common kindness,

And flutes in soul’s resolve.

The mystery of grace demands

An orchestra of tears.

In the story of your love

The music swells past bearing.

Blessed are the ears that hear,

And the souls that listen

And the hearts that understand.

Blessed are they that sing

Your own notes back to you

However out of tune.

And blessed are the feet that move in time

To the melody of heaven.

Let ..

Let me dance in your heart this fragile moment,

Let us kiss souls with wonder we have seen.

Let us hold hands and weep for life’s short-falling,

Let us hold vigil for what might have been.

Let us strew roses in the sunless alleys,

Let us plant trees where no tree ever grew,

Let us be unafraid to speak affection

Nor, in discomfort, turn from what is new.

Let us clap with delight like little children.

Let terrible compassion make us wise.

Let us breathe deep and share our secret dreaming.

Let us not let our old clothes cramp our size.

Let us wipe slow tears from each other’s faces

Let us look up and laugh against the sky.

Let us be swords – but not against each other.

Let us take up the Life that bids us die.

Knowing ..

They knew him in the breaking of the bread
But we are strangers now, and do not stay
But leave him lying buried in the hay

The Road

The beginning of the road called Love is so attractive that many people choose it. Not everyone does, of course, some prefer the golden road of Greed, or the stark, twisting road of Power, and others are drawn to Knowledge, or Pleasure or even choose to go nowhere at all. But it starts in wide meadows of flowers and soft sunshine, and many think that they have arrived when they have barely passed the entry point, and sit around in easy groups making daisy chains. What becomes of them when the storms gather, and the cracking lightning sizzles across the open fields, I do not know, but perhaps they have to make a real choice for the first time in their lives.

But the meadows are only the beginning of the road. It continues. Fairly soon (though sooner for some than for others, but such is the nature of the road) another road branches off, broad and fair, There is a row of fine hotels there, which cost almost nothing to inhabit. Many turn aside there, for surely this is a pleasant place to go, and look what pleasant people are already there. And every hotel is called ‘Nice’. And those that turn off at this point keep straying further, for each hotel seems more agreeable than the one before, and they are so pleased with themselves for becoming ‘nice’ people, that they do not even notice that each hotel is made of thinner and thinner cardboard.

But the road called Love continues, and gradually the travellers notice that three possibilities have developed. On the right hand side the road surface goes harder and smoother. Eventually it veers off from the road called Love, into Moralism. Those who take that exit will find it leads them at last to a stern wilderness strewn with rocks. As fast as they try to build themselves shelters there from the rocks, they pull them off again in order to throw them at one another. On the other edge, the left side, the path gets softer and softer, until your feet start to sink into it like sand. Eventually this veers off into the road called Tolerance, and those who follow it end up in a slow quicksand. Because they are all sinking they cannot pull each other out.

Meanwhile, shed of these diversions, the road named Love continues. It is narrower now, and goes more steeply. Sometimes it is so steep that one has to use both hands and feet to climb it. Sometimes it is so narrow it feels like walking a tightrope. Many turn back or stop when they reach those places. Some even devote themselves to telling others not to go there, “it’s too dangerous”. They do not understand that, though there may be scrapes and bruises, no one can ever fall very far. There is always a safety net: the Everlasting Arms are stretched to catch any who lose their footing, and lift them up once again.

At last, and the road is a different length for every traveller, they reach the summit of the road. It is a stark, bare hill, surmounted with a cross. By this time the journey has changed the traveller, and they rarely hesitate. Willingly they climb up to the cross, willingly they embrace it. And the moment that should be death becomes the moment of transformation, for the road of Love is the road to LOVE, LOVE in all its fullness, and they know themselves truly to be the beloved of the Beloved.