Sunday, March 30, 2014

Lent 22: Luke 18: 9 - 14

The Pharisee and the tax collector

Until Yourself become my prayer
I swing in the wind like a broken gate:
A leafless branch against the window
Susurrating in the night.
I am become the emptiness between the stars,
The loose sail swinging wide,
The smoking lantern in the hour of need-light.
I am become the wild tempest
That barely stirs the puddle,
Mouthing futile words to my unknown self.

Breathe me Your truth.

Let me know as You know,
Past the gilded scarecrow
That postures on its pedestal
In some imagined place.
Let me see again the broken child
Whose life-sums don’t add up,
Whose fingers break the beauty that they touch;
Who must learn again to weep.
Let me take off the grown-up clothes,
Uniform of the marketplace,
Self-deception’s foil.

Let these lame feet stagger
The straight road to Your arms,
Tottering in folly
To the place where I am caught

And held (yes, held!) forever!

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