©B D Prewer 2006
These prayers
may be freely used without the express permission of the author
when they are––
either read
aloud by a leader of worship
or included
in a once-off printed ‘Order of Worship.’
They may not be printed, neither singly nor in bulk,
in any other publication
without permission.’
CONTENTS
THE COLLAR: A PASTOR’S REBELLION
WHAT DO YOU FIND AT CHRISTMAS?
CHRIST THE KING: UNPRINCELY PRINCE
MY FACE
I saw this fellow
with my face
who wore it with
amazing grace.
I asked him who
he thought he was,
what was his game
and what his cause?
He looked at me
with searching eye
and gave me this
succinct reply:
“I am the one
you yet can be,
if you will come
and follow me.”
BURIED TREASURE
The kingdom is heaven is like treasure lying buried in
a field. Matthew 3:14
This world is not a futile field,
though doubts abound,
our days are meant for light and love
so rarely found,
mere infants know that every place
is holy ground.
Men worry much and toil too hard
for tawdry fame,
in business or in pop careers
they make their name,
yet meek folk know that pride can’t buy
the sacred flame.
The gifts of God like sun and rain
are always free,
and faith and love are not rewards
for industry,
the pure of heart look on that Face
eyes cannot see.
The clowns of God do not resign
to fear and doom,
they make us chuckle at ourselves
dispelling gloom,
for in their mirth they’ve buried death
in Jesus’ tomb.
BY THE CORNER OF MY EYE
By the edge of my eye
a fleeting glimpse
of Light fools cannot see
nor I convince;
exceeding dawn and dusk
and moonlit plains,
more lovely than rainbows
in spring rains.
At the far range of ears
a tune sublime,
a music that’s been there
before all time;
beyond Bach and Mozart
at their choice best,
a harmony in which
sore souls find rest.
Near the rhythm of my heart
a larger beat,
the pulse of the Unseen
we long to greet;
it’s surely from the grace
I have long known,
such sturdy love belongs
to One alone.
DEATH
There you are again,
old fool,
lurking in the shadows
like some cheap soap opera
private eye,
or rattling old bones
in the night
as you have often done
from our childhood fears
to old age.
Just when we relax,
thinking
you might have outgrown
your silly stunts
and games,
or maybe been buried
under
the slag heap of our busy toil
or become wearied
by our faith,
you turn up again
squeezing
through the cracks in creeds
with that silly smirk
on your face,
pleased as punch to see us
startled;
like some cantankerous relative
who delights in turning up
inopportune.
I don’t know, old spook
who is
the bigger fool,
you, or we with our knee-jerk
jitters?
Death, don’t put on airs;
loser!
You are just another con artist
as empty as a garden tomb
at dawn.
SALTLESS
Matthew 5:13-16
The absurdity
of saltless salt
and hidden lanterns
is outranked
and outshamed
by the obscenity
of faithless faith
and Christless Christians.
THE TREE OF MY LIFE
The tree of my life
I give to you,
Lord Jesus Christ.
Not just my limbs
but my trunk and root
leaf, flower and fruit,
I give to you.
In sunshine or cloud,
through hail storm or frost,
I give to you.
With springtime lush growth
and winter’s hard pruning,
I give to you.
With all that I am,
in all that I do,
the tree of my life,
Lord Jesus Christ
I give to you.
BUSH BALLARD JESUS
He was just a country bloke
and you knew it when he spoke,
but he came with light-full words unlike any heard before,
He taught those who would listen
and his kindly eyes would glisten
as he laid his hand on lepers and gave good news to the poor.
The mobs soon gathered thickly,
with their lonely and their prickly
for he always had the time for those of lesser breed.
There were many folk who saw him
and a few good souls were for him,
yet many only came for a laugh and a free feed.
But when he spoke of losses
and of carrying their crosses,
enthusiasm wilted and they turned for home again.
It was not unexpected
that he soon would be rejected
for the selfish are not keen to share another’s pain.
He turned to his disciples
afraid they had few scruples,
and he put it to them sadly, "Will you also go away?”
Though some hangers-on absconded
it was Rocky who responded,
“You have a life that’s boundless, and we are here to stay.”
.
He smiled then, almost shyly,
knowing Peter was not wily
and seeing love crush fears that flicked across each eye.
That night he spent awake
wrestling until daybreak,
for he was just a young man who did not want to die.
A PASTOR LOOKS BACK
Some fields where once we sowed good seed
have turned to stone
the reapers who once laughed and sang
are now all gone
the barns where we then danced with joy
stand now forlorn.
On hills where sheep found ample feed
the wild goats own
where shepherds once knew each by name
the wolves now roam
the folds that sheltered from the storm
have tumbled down.
The plots where now the workers toil
have marginal soil
yet though the land is hard to work
they give their all
and there’s great joy when there is gleaned
one precious soul.
LAUGHTER OF THE HOLY ONE
We hear your laughter,
full of wonder and hope,
before the beginning
of the beginning,
your laughter
overflowing the voidless void,
full of wonder and hope
We hear your laughter
full of wonder and hope
in the first nano-instant
when all things began,
your laughter
when from nothing all came to be
full of wonder and hope
We hear your laughter
full of wonder and hope
when flaming worlds
wheeled into galaxies
your laughter
when the morning stars sang together
full of wonder and hope.
We hear your laughter
full of wonder and hope
as one planet found its place
and its seas and shores
your laughter
as prolific life spread around the earth
full of wonder and hope.
We hear your laughter
full of wonder and hope
when woman and man
looked into each other’s eyes with love
your laughter
through diverse races, tribes and cities
full of wonder and hope.
We hear your laughter
full of wonder and hope
when Abram and Sarai
set out in elementary faith
your laughter
when David sang and Isaiah had dreams
full of wonder and hope.
We hear hour laughter
full of wonder and hope
when Mary and Joseph
came to
your laughter
defiant over foul Herod’s slaughter
full of wonder and hope.
We hear your laughter
full of wonder and hope
when a Galilean preacher
made friends of sinners
your laughter
in parables of abundant grace
full of wonder and hope
We hear your laughter
full of wonder and hope
when despised and rejected
he stumbled to a cross
your laughter
mixed with tears yet defiant over pain and evil
full of wonder and hope.
Your laughter
full of wonder and hope
when death lost its sting
and the grave its victory
your laughter
echoing through the Easter dawn
full of wonder and hope.
Your laughter
full of wonder and hope
when Peter found his courage
and Thomas his larger faith
your laughter
with millions of your common saints
full of wonder and hope.
Your laughter
full of wonder and hope
when all things draw together
in universal reconciliation
your laughter
resounding in a new heaven and new earth
full of wonder and hope.
MY APOCALYPSE
Dread,
the darkest dread
absorbs me
as I recede, recede,
into the void.
Rushing sound,
a syphoning wind,
sucking me down
deeper, deeper,
into darkness.
Utterly alone,
the hand of my beloved
clutches for me
but cannot touch
my receding.
Stripped,
of all worldly esteem,
no more husband,
father, pastor,
wordsmith.
The void
is all that’s left
and the rushing
wind of receding
and dread.
Dread;
this is it then;
the old enemy
has won;
End.
Yet.
A strange
knowing comes
and warms
all that is left
of me.
Somehow
in this darkestness
I am free, free,
absolutely
free!
Set free
of foolishness,
scrappy wisdom,
and those questions
that plague.
Stripped
of planning for tomorrow
and regretting things
of yesterday;
free.
Released
from ambiguities,
an immoral world,
and the weight
of integrity.
.
Somehow
this dreaded,
rushing emptying
is utter
kindness.
And now
in this void
NOTHING comes
and smiles
at me:
“My child,
I have waited
a long time
for you to come
home”
I KNOW YOU
You, whom people call God
Yahweh, Allah, Krishna,
or the great Uncaused Cause,
I am knowing you
I am knowing you
because you choose
to be knowing me.
You are
the thirst that impels me
the enigma that puzzles me
the joy that surprises me
the lamp that guides me
the stream that washes me
the bread that nourishes me
the calm that stills me
the optimism that fills me
the warmth that enfolds me
the cross that carries me
the injuries that heal me
and the death that liberates me.
You, whom people call God,
Yahweh, Allah, Krishna,
or the great Uncaused Cause,
I am knowing you:
You are that Awe-love
that filled the lovely Jew, Jesus;
and through him you are
my only absolute Friend.
THE BLIND SEE
Mark 8:24
They brought a village man
who had been long since blind
to Jesus that healing prophet
who got inside one’s mind.
Jesus used his own saliva,
L ike a mother’s soothing kiss,
to anoint the clouded eyes
where something was amiss.
The man exclaimed with wonder,
he saw a walking tree,
Jesus touched those eyes again,
and the blind did truly see.
He went back to his village,
the gossips all a-chatter,
Bethsaida was now famous,
the Healer did not matter.
GLORY
John 12:23-27
This matchless Jew
really knew
the difference between fame
and glory.
Where we see cruel loss
and dark shame,
he saw God’s hand
even on a cross.
Where we fear and slide
he took his stand.
From mistrial and abuse
he did not hide
but went on to end his story
without excuse.
Knowing that his hour had come
he shared God’s glory.
SPRINGTIME
Lover of cherry blossom
and buzzing bees,
of blue hyacinths
and nesting swallows:
we praise you for changing seasons.
Lover of fresh-green paddocks
and playful lambs,
of wild lilacs in bushland
and of cooing doves:
we praise you for springtime.
Lover of golden wattles
and boxing kangaroos,
of audacious magpies
and flowing gum trees:
we Parsee you for unleashed energy.
Lover of slate-smooth lakes
and fluffy cygnets,
of sudden thunder storms
and wild daisies:
we praise you for the renewal of life.
Lover of tiny bobbing ducklings
and of delighted infants,
of sun showers and rainbows
and rosette clouds at dawn:
we praise you for dying and rising.
For everything there is an opportune time,
and a season for all things,
O bless the Lover, O my adoring soul,
and with all that is within me
bless and praise God’s Holy Name!
THE RIGHT
John1:12-14
To those who receive
this living Word
is given the right.
The children of God
dance into the light
where the glory grows
and the loving shows
in every deed!
TO GOD THE LIGHT
To God the light of all that shines
from moonlit lake to galaxy
lovers’ eyes and a saint’s smile:
all praise and wonder be.
To God the life of all that breathes
from city street to scrub mallee
emus, lizards, farmers, Christ:
all praise and wonder be.
To God the joy of all that sings
from kindergarten to deep sea
whales and children, flutes and choirs:
all praise and wonder be.
To God the hope of all who love
from Kings Cross to
forgiving mums and laughing saints:
all praise and wonder be.
JUDGEMENT
John 1:24-26
In this very day
we corrupt or heal,
the choices we make
are heaven or hell.
For the time has come,
says the Child of God,
when the voice of truth
shall wake the dead.
INEVITABLE
Matthew
19:21-24
The famous and rich
with greed and lust
inherit a world
of moth and rust.
Should the Joy of life
knock at the door,
corroded hinges
open no more.
FAITH
I said to the man
from Galilee,
“How many fig-trees
grow in the sea?”
He answered me with
a grin on his face:
“As many as the fools
who live by grace.”
GOD IS
God is.
God is love;
unlikely as life’s gestation,
unexpected as incarnation.
God is love;
simple as salt and yeast,
humble as the last and least,
grace-full as the lame walking,
joy-full as the dumb talking.
God is love;
fearsome as crucifixion,
awesome as resurrection.
God is.
SEVEN A.M.
A light frost
dusts the shaded slope,
the rising sun
fondles the valley,
a flock of wood ducks
spatter the smooth lake,
a flight of swallows
trawls the air for insects,
and my soul
trawls the morning
for some glimpses
of that first glory
which precedes
the birth of suns
yet empties itself
among us,
full of saving grace
and loving truth.
CONGREGATIONS
They live by faith;
congregations of common people
enlivened by an uncommon gospel,
sowing and nurturing mustard seeds.
They live by hope;
congregations growing or dwindling,
determined on Christ’s optimism
.in the midst of the cynical crowd.
They live by love;
congregations with a spirited outlook,
looking to serve the world
and love as they have been loved.
They live by grace
defying all the secular odds
in Broome, Fitzroy and Kings Cross;
congregations convened God.
WARRUMBUNGLE
Yesterday
I rose early
to see emu and roo
feeding among grasses
deep-iced with frost,
their familiar forms
framed against bushland
folding and steep-sloping
to the Breadknife
and Belougery Spire.
Already
the memory is fixed
and has become an icon
which I may visit
in those plodding times
when I become stale
among limited goals
and trivial prayers.
MACHOR TOR
Why is it
that we like to climb high,
grunting and sweating
to reach a tor
and savour the scene
with elation?
It is a conquest,
not of a mountain
but of oneself.
As old age takes over,
the chosen tors are lower
but the conquest stays sweet.
We are much older now
than when we first came this way.
Without regret
we let the young folk
tackle the Breadknife
and Bluff Mountain.
Macha Tor
is most satisfying.
now.
BUNYA IMMANUEL
With eagles God soars above the pines,
with pademelons he nibbles young grass,
with brush turkeys he hunts for berries,
among these mountains.
In vine thickets he shelters pigeons,
in little creeks he composes songs,
in misty rain he nurtures mosses,
among these mountains.
Children skip through his green cathedrals,
old folks glimpse him at their picnics,
each gorge and peak declare his glory,
among these mountains.
CARETAKER
The caravan park
is watched over nurturingly
by a caretaker
with grey hair and green fingers.
She is a single woman,
a one-time companion
to wealthy widows,
but now old and discarded.
Home is now a caravan
which she has surrounded
with the gentleness
of ferns and exotic plants.
The caravan sites
are being transformed
with a variety of trees
and small beds of flowers.
In her loneliness
she has changed a plain acre
into a small sanctuary
of burgeoning beauty.
.
It is a gift to be simple,
it is a gift to be free.
YOU CONFOUND ME
Messiah Jesus,
Joy of loving hearts,
you confound me.
I comprehend you less
than I thought I knew
sixty years ago
when my faith was young.
No surprise in that;
You have been confounding
human minds
for two millennia—
Son of man,
Son of God,
touched with our hands,
the eternal Word become flesh,
effulgence of God’s glory,
begotten not made,
light of light,
humble son of a carpenter,
seated at God’s right hand,
crucified failure,
Christus Victor,
truly our brother,
truly our Lord,
Confounded?
Comprehensively confounded!
And so I should be;
if I were not so
I would be either
damnably arrogant
or already dead;
maybe both?
BIRDS
I commence each day
watching the birds
which bountifully
visit and enrich
my neighbourhood.
Minors, magpies, mudlarks,
rosellas and red-rumped parrots,
wood and black ducks,
galahs, corellas, cockatoos,
wattlebirds and ravens,
little honey eaters and swallows,
ibis, herons, spoonbills,
and on special mornings
pelicans and swans.
They go about their business
as if we land-bound, cumbersome
humans did not exist.
Singing and nesting,
chasing each other,
in Spring enthusiasm
circling the lake
like athletes doing laps,
feeding on worms and insects,
teaching their young to fly.
In my old age
I still have wonderful dreams
in which I join the birds
in riding the wind.
I do not do it very well,
there is much puffing,
I cannot as yet soar high,
but I can do it.
By God
I can do it!
In my dreams
I cannot understand
why so many other people
will not
even attempt it!
Oh you birds,
keep enticing me!
Oh Eagle of Heaven,
mistress of the winds,
guide me up
towards the sun!
LIFE OF MY LIVING
Holy Friend,
You are the life of my living
the joy of my laughing,
the faith of my believing,
and the death of my dying.
Help me so to love you that
my trust may ever be grounded in you,
my service be ever shaped by you,
and my dying be forever content in you.
THANKS FOR THINGS FINITE
That our hands, feet and muscles,
blood cells, brain cells,
our genetic codes and DNA
are finite:
Blessed be God!
Blessed be God forever!
That our money and possessions,
status, fame or titles,
houses, mansions and palaces,
are finite:
Blessed be God!
Blessed be God forever!
That skyscrapers and monuments,
sacred sites and cathedrals,
maths, science and technology
are finite:
Blessed be God!
Blessed be God forever!
That the world and its creatures,
sun, moon and milky way,
the awesome span of time and space
are finite:
Blessed be God!
Blessed be God forever!
That Jesus and his parables,
faith, hope and love,
and the
are infinite:
Blessed be God!
Blessed be God forever!
That by the grace that gives faith,
by the cross and empty tomb,
by the tireless thrust of the Spirit,
we can share infinity:
Blessed be God!
Blessed be God forever!
Praise God in whom we live and move,
Praise God with whom we love and serve,
Praise God for songs that never end,
Praise God our Saviour and our Friend.
CONSIDER THE BIRDS OF THE AIR
Holy Friend
of gregarious galah and flitting crimson finch,
of regal back swan and dainty blue wren,
help us to be aware of you.
Holy Friend
of raucous wattlebird and gossipping wagtail,
of dancing brolga and flocking budgerigar,
help us to approach you.
Holy Friend
of salty seagull and the singing thrush,
of wandering albatross and cocky apostle bird,
help us to believe you.
Holy Friend
of colourful king parrot and cute fairy penguin,
of wary cassowary and calling currawong,
help us to trust
you.
Holy Friend
of warbling magpie and strutting mudlark,
of stalking heron and belligerent honeyeater
help us to be judged by you.
Holy Friend
of laughing kookaburra and chirping cockatiel,
of skimming pelican and circling kite,
help us to be healed you.
Holy Friend
of mimicking bowerbird and tinkling bellbird,
of cautious jabiru and cheerful Jacky winter,
help us to trust you.
Holy Friend
of waddling wood duck and bold drongo,
of sweeping spoonbill and diving grebe,
help us to be empowered by you.
Holy Friend
of chattering lorikeet and mimicking lyrebird,
of plumed egret and diving sea eagle,
help us to be enamoured by you.
Holy Friend
of discreet reed warbler and noisy whip bird,
of nesting magpie goose and jaunty spinifex pigeon,
help us to adore you.
UNFINSHED SERMONS
Great Friend, how can it be
that One of whom I am so sure
confounds my sentences
like kites in turbulent air?
A thousand themes or more
that start out full of verve and hope
to tell it as it is
go bankrupt and fall in a heap.
I know I’m not the first
and I shouldn’t take it personally;
far bigger minds than mine
have floundered most dismally.
Our wise creeds and dogmas
that seemed so fixed and safe,
can become just the ravelled sleave
of over-familiar belief.
Even our cherished hymns
become feathers on the wind;
too frail to bear the Weight
that raptures heart and soul and mind
Let’s face it, awesome Friend,
I must fall short, missing the best;
my sermons left abandoned homes
whose builders have gone bust.
L
TO THE HOLY SPIRIT
You, elusive Truth,
we cannot name you
for you defy our analytical minds
and smile at our philosophical assumptions.
Yet we know you dearly,
like we know beauty and love:
the warm womb of birth and rebirth,
the nurturer of faith and hope,
the enabler of all that is good in us,
the fire warding off the soul-frost,
the sea breeze checking hot anger,
the dawn air filling our sleepy lungs,
and the peace that bottoms out beneath sorrows.
Yet we know you partially,
like completed fragments of a jig-saw:
the zest that drives playful puppies,
the mothering that broods over land and sea,
the fire in the gut of prophets,
the creative energy that sends eagles soaring,
the geometry behind creative chaos
and the thrust of self-transcendence.
the soul of quark and electron,
the light that lightens the Milky Way,
We know you most clearly,
in the smile and pain of Joseph’s son:
the source of his mother’s conceiving,
the key to his surviving against the odds,
the light of his believing,
the good humour of his teaching
the dynamic of his healing,
the foolishness of his dying,
the confounding of his rising,
and the assurance of his Presence
with us to the end of the world.
You elusive Spirit Truth,
we cannot name you or tame you,
but with hearts that burn within us
we do love and adore you.
kiss of life
power of atoms and the quirkiness of quarks
TO THE UNTAMABLE GOD
* For 2 voices or Leader and People
Holy One, source and sustenance,
breath of mercy, fire of faith,
we say the name “God”
as we love and worship you.
Yet these are only the fringes
of
your countless ways
and we don’t really know
who
you really are.
The more we raise our voices,
or pour concrete creeds,
the more it is embarrassingly obvious
how little we really know of you,
and even how much less
we
have learnt from you.
Yet by grace we celebrate
the
little we have grasped and loved.
Yours is the grin on a child’s face
as they trump us with a riddle,
the milk and honey hopes
of pilgrims for a promised land,
the percentage of empty space
within
an atom
the cup of wine always full
and
running over.
Yours is the springtime bushland
and the diminutive violets,
the sea breeze on a summer’s day
and the eye of a wintry storm,
the old man swimming laps
and
the youth racing past him,
the heat of a billion suns
and
a moon-lit farmland.
Yours is the majesty
of a billion galaxies,
the peculiar behaviour
of sub-atomic particles,
the haunting song
of
a blackbird at dusk,
the love in the hug
of
a wrinkled grandmother.
Yours is the resilient adhesive
which creates community,
the fearsome whirlpool
of cosmic black holes,
the smile of an infant when it sees
its
mother come through the door,
the timeless eternity
which
cradles time and space.
Yours is the thirsty soul
looking for living water,
the enigmatic young Man
sitting by the well,
the anguish of a mother
watching
her crucified Child,
the chorus of joy
at
Easter dawn.
Holy One, source and sustenance,
breath of mercy, fire of faith,
these are only the fringes of you ways,
we cannot know who you really are.
Yet we know you are lovingly present
in
all times and all places,
and you are, without fail,
really
there for each of us.
We thank you, we praise you,
we adore you,
and gladly attempt to serve you
in temple or on street.
Holy, Holy, Holy Friend,
the
earth is full of your glory.
Blessed are all who glimpse you
thrice-blessed
those who trust you.
Hallelujah!
BY THE WELL
The thirsty Jew sat by the well,
where once old Jacob used to dwell,
but today he was on his own.
He had no bucket and no rope
and yet he sat there full of hope
because he never was alone.
The day was hot the well was deep
but still the vigil did he keep
waiting to share his drink
A lonely woman found him there
she had a rope yet did not dare
to speak to a Jewish shrink.
Although he had enough and more,
he begged a drink from this deep bore,
but she looked askance at him.
“Do you a Jew ask this of me,
a Samaritan as all can see,
unclean and much a doubter?
He smiled as one who knew this game,
but yet he was not into blame,
instead he offered her some water.
She pouted then and thought him queer
but this man dealt with grace not fear
and he saw her as God’s daughter.
He told her things he should not know,
she knew the truth, no bluff and show,
and found
THOSE WHO WALK WITH CHRIST
Those who walk with Christ
shan’t live like lords or kings,
but they shall know the hidden joy
which pulses through all things.
Those who embrace his truth
need never fear dismay,
though earth and sky dissolve
he will not go away.
Those who dine with him
will never be mislead,
the wisdom of all worlds
hides in each crumb of bread.
Those who die with him
need never die in fear;
he says when evening comes,
“Now you be of good cheer.”
.
PRAYING WITH PAINT
An artist is a strange child
who prays with paint?
though seldom are they called
a blessed saint.
Through paint and brush they glimpse
unpainted Joy,
a vision that art critic’s spleen
cannot destroy.
A potter is a strange child
who prays with clay,
yet fingers cannot ever shape
the Form they pray.
Yet they take mud undaunted,
believing still,
that one day it might yield
to hand and will.
A poet is a strange child
who prays with pen,
and though the Rhyme eludes
they’ll try again.
They will not bluster, or to
trite words succumb;
they seem to know the best
may yet still come.
A ’muso” is a strange child
who prays with sound,
and in this world’s discord
hears themes Profound.
Some nights they’re woken by
such perfect pitch
as leaves them tingling with
la divine itch.
A preacher is a strange child
who prays with tongue,
and wrestles with a Word
that’s ever young.
A hapless cause though this
may seem to be,
he’s the first sinner this Word
sets loose and free.
THE NEEDLE’S EYE
It may seem a spacious world
on this side of the eye,
but it really is confined
to things that rot and die.
You have to become slim,
and leave the madding race,
to slip through the small grill
and find the boundless space.
Tourist baggage can’t come
dragged on its noisy wheels,
nor leather brief case fit
packed with cash, shares or deals.
Backpackers find it hard,
shop trolleys rarely fit–
nor brand-name gym bags
carried by sport’s elite.
Titles and rank stick out,
they’re much too dignified,
and academic hubris
snags like religious pride.
One needs be meek and poor,
and naked as a baby,
counted as losing life,
ranked as a mere nobody.
Only the clowns of God,
escape this dying den—
in fact it’s rather painful
like being born again?
MORE: CREED OF DAMNATION
More bargain sales, more cluttered lives,
more credit cards, more folk on the skids,
more teen models, more bulimic girls,
more pub pokies and more hungry kids,
More sexual tricks, more broken vows,
more porno sites, more sadistic force,
more trial partners, more empty lives,
more mega weddings and more quick divorce,
More proud mansions, more security guards,
more
deregulation, more laissez faire,
more take overs, more blatant greed,
more global warming and more despair.
More high-place scandals, more déjà vu,
more glitzy casinos, more dazzled fools,
more law and order, more corrupt police,
more high flyers and more drug mules.
More speeding cars, more paraplegics,
more bank profits, more repossessed farms,
more exploitation, more desperation,
more gold and jewels and more burglar alarms.
More on the run, more junk food meals,
more grog to drink, more grief to taste,
more sporting stars, more performance drugs,
more time to play and more years to waste.
More empty churches, more firework displays,
more self-made men, more exploited friends,
more shopping malls, more crippling debts,
more quick decisions and more loose ends,
More injustice, more suicide bombs,
more unrepentance, more shifting goals,
more spin doctors, more cynical voters,
more pop cults and more lost souls.
THREE SCORE YEARS AND TEN.
From threescore years and ten
a few straws have been gleaned,
they’re not those easy creeds
from which slowly weaned.
God is not any thing,
for things age and decay;
yet there’s this absent One
who will not go away.
The bound are truly free,
the small stand very tall;
the weak are truly strong,
empty folk have it all.
Fools say there’s nothing new
under the wearying sun,
yet when we‘ve seen it all
the new has just begun.
The invisible is true stuff,
but solids are a myth;
there is no greater birth,
than those pangs we call death.
Through three score years and ten,
I’ve learned to be content;
the landlord of this scheme
does not charge any rent.
THE COLLAR: A PASTOR’S REBELLION
* Note:
This is an adaptation of a poem by George Herbert, 1593-1633..
His
very beautiful original follows this one.
I struck my desk, and cried, No more!
I’ll go abroad.
Why should I ever sigh and pine?
It’s my turn to be free; free as the road,
loose as the wind, free to explore.
Must I still wear this suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
to bleed me dry, and not restore
what I have lost with happier fruit?
Sure there was wine,
before my sighs did dry it;
there was corn
before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no joys to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay,
all withered, all wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
and you have hands.
Recover all your sigh-blown age
on double pleasures.
Leave your cold doctrine of what is fit,
and forsake your cage,
your place of sands
which petty thoughts have made,
yes, made of me,
to enforce and tightly draw;
such heavy law,
while I was blinkered
and would not see.
Away! Take
no heed;
I will abroad!
Call in some favours there,
tie up my fears.
He that forbears complaint
and serves all need,
deserves his load.
But as I raved and grew
more fierce and wild
at every word,
I thought I heard One calling,
“My Child?
And I replied,
“My Lord!”
THE COLLAR
* George Herbert
I struck the board, and cried, No more!
I will abroad.
What? Shall I ever sigh and pine?
My lines and life are free; free as the road,
loose as the wind, as
large as store.
Shall I be still in suit?
Have I no harvest but a thorn
To let me blood, and not
restore
What I have lost with cordial fruit?
Sure there was wine,
Before my sighs did dry it: there was corn
Before my tears did drown it.
Is the year only lost to me?
Have I no joys to crown it?
No flowers, no garlands gay? all blasted?
All wasted?
Not so, my heart: but there is fruit,
And thou hast hands.
Recover all thy sigh-blown age
On double pleasures:
Leave thy cold dispute of what is fit,
and not forsake
thy cage,
thy rope of sands,
Which petty thoughts have made, and made to thee
good cable, to enforce and
draw,
and be thy law,
While thou didst wink and wouldst not see.
Away! take
heed;
I will abroad!
Call in thy favours there; tie up thy fears.
He that forbears
to suit and serve his need
deserves his load.
But as I rav’d and grew more
fierce and wilde,
at every word,
I thought I heard one calling,
Child? :
And I replied,
My Lord!
MANY ROADS?
Those who appear
shy of arriving
tell us there are many roads
to take and explore
if we would find at last
the many faces
of the one Great Sea.
Aren’t they weary
of the roads
that promise to lead
to spectacular promontories
or golden beaches
yet which peter out
among rocks or sand hills
far short of the Ocean?
One friend
advised
that its is much better
to travel hopefully
than to arrive
at the end.
Not where I am,
old friend!
The Ocean
where I now bathe
and sometimes dare
out of my depth offshore
makes anticipation
and even special campsites
on the way
seem like a bore!
AFTER A BURIAL
When we leave a burial
there seems nowhere to go;
no firm step to take,
to wise word to speak;
so we usually disperse
awkwardly to begin,
silently or with a whisper,
singly or in a cluster,
as if expecting something,
some last sign to happen;
we are relieved that it doesn’t,
yet uneasy that it hasn’t.
THOSE GREY DAYS
Just when the day
seems brightest
and the weather charts
of my soul
tell me of more
good days to come,
the grey mist arrives
over my horizon
and closes in
irresistibly;
clammy, dull,
chill and penetrating
to the marrow
of my soul;
of course I resist;
mock it defiantly,
say favourite prayers
whistle hymns new and old,
whisper my bottom-line creeds,
strike at it
with my Bible
and finally
scream at it in anger;
but it
comes on
insinuating
itself
into every
crevice
of my
being,
shutting
out the sun,
cutting off
the warmth
and making
even
my dearest
ones
like trees
walking;
then it is
I feel utterly bereft,
unloved and unlovely;
in this grey dominion
only once voice
reaches me,
one alone,
sending faint flecks
of comfort
into my shadowland;
one voice,
one hope,
one grim foreword
to resurrection;
the God who cries out to God
that he is
forsaken;
Lord Jesus,
remember me
as you come
Into your kingdom.
ABANDONED POEMS
You’re far, yet close,
so large, so small,
You leave my words and sentences
no where to go at all.
You’re thirst, yet joy,
the loss that’s gain,
You watch me flush, unfinished
poems down the drain.
Beyond, within,
the wall, the door,
You scatter all my matchstick words
upon the library floor.
You’re pen, and Word,
the known Unknown,
Your holy ways are not my ways
yet I never write alone.
The king who’s pawn,
judge in the dock.
You upend thoughts and hint at codes
mere brains cannot unlock.
The One, the Three,
timeless, timely,
the paradox ….. …………………….
……………….. on me.
HE SET HIS FACE
Luke 9: 51
Through haze and dust
there goes the Christ
with on thing on his mind,
his face is set
hard as cold flint
going to meet his end.
The anxious twelve
have found no salve
to soothe their rampant fear,
when one’s doubts scoff
the climb is rough
and nightfall is not far.
On Zion’s heights
the city waits
to take in Nazareth’s son.
Barabbas snarls
Caiaphas smiles
with guile as old as sin.
ALL THINGS TO ME
You have a prodigal’s welcome for me—
Your house of love, my empty space,
my coming home, your warm embrace.
You make the world new for me—
Your party time, my cleansing bath.
my new robes, your joyful laugh,
You are now all things to me—
Your light and truth, my redeemed days,
my destination, your freeways.
You choose what is best for me—
Your call to serve, my work and toil,
my evening prayers, your midnight oil.
You choose what will nourish me—
Your Spirit truth, my empty shrine,
my hungry soul, your bread and wine.
You put no new tax on me—
Your easy yoke, my burden light,
my gratis strength, your star by night.
You give your own treasure to me—
Your precious pearl, my mustard seed,
my new vision, your priceless creed.
Your turn defeat into conquest for me—
Your wounded hands, my dispelled doubts,
Your Easter greeting, my Easter shouts
You have larger things in store for me—
Your open door, my glimpse of heaven,
my new school, your Newhaven.
LEGION
He was the caring sort of man
who felt the pain of others,
but when this burden got too much
scant help came from his brothers.
They never tried to hear him out,
but jumped to quick conclusions,
they gave lectures he did not need
and multiplied confusions.
They tied him down and took some blood,
and ignored his opinions,
they treated him like some cheap meat
for Satan and his minions.
The many voices drove him mad,
their hearts now turned to stone,
strong with grief he broke their bonds
and went to live alone.
The cemetery became his home,
stone slabs became his nest,
the nice folk stayed away at last,
and thought it for the best.
He made his bed among the tombs,
and now slept very well,
he did not fear the quiet dead,
the living were his hell,
A stranger came across the sea
who did not play their game,
he simply sat beside this child
and asked, “What is your name?”
AT OUR CHURCH
When seekers come
into our church
how much is gain
how much is pain?
Are we a den
of pious thieves
eager to lift
each person’s gift
of skill and time
to suit ourselves
without respect
to their project?
Pray let it be
that we become
servants of all
lords of none.
Let their likeness
to God’s true son
be advanced
much enhanced
in whatever way
is best for them
and then we’ll dare
be a house of prayer?
PARABLE BREAD
Winnowing is divisive
there’s nothing in between,
The chaff must be expelled,
before the grain is clean.
Grinding corn takes effort
skill and power combine,
the mills of love work slowly
but they grind very fine.
Baking bread’s not easy
not some flimsy desire,
the bread that on your table
has first endured the fire.
The bread we share is sacred
a paradox divine,
until the bread is broken
we cannot taste the wine.
MIRACLES?
What others claim
I don’t decry,
but miracles
have passed me by.
There’s been no cloud,
no burning bush,
no Naaman’s ass
to give a push.
There has been one
defining Thing,
an In-fluence
that makes me sing.
It comes as free
as sun and rain,
to bring me joy
and growing pain.
I can’t be bought
it can’t be sold,
it found me young
and finds me old.
This Thing once wore
a human face,
it is my one
redeeming Grace.
THE GREY MIST
Just when the days
seem bright
with laughing
eyes
and the weather charts
of my soul
tell me of more
shining times to come
the grey mist comes
over my horizon
and sweeps in
irresistibly;
clammy and smogfoul
chill and penetrating
to the marrow of being.
Of course
I resist
mock it defiantly
say prayers
whistle hymns
strike at it with my Bible
and at the last
mute-scream.
But it is merciless,
insinuating itself
into each plane and crevice
of mind and soul,
shutting out the sunlight
and making loved ones
into mere shapes
in dank gloom.
Then it is I feel
bereft
icily bereft
of human warmth
unlovely and unloved
and utterly alone
as if fatally severed
from you, God.
My reason
protests
rebukes me sternly
lecturing
that I’m never alone
that YOU must still be
in the grey
around me.
But my spirit
does not savour YOU
and my feelings
ache with nothingness.
I just hang on
to faith’s memory
and to my Lord’s
forsakeness.
WHY THIS PERSON?
Sure there were seers before him
as there are stars to guide seafarers,
and there were saints after him,
as there is moonlight for pilgrims.
But this one disruptive Person,
why does he enthral me?
And why do I want to write ‘person’
with a capital P?
It is not just that he is all
that humans were meant to be;
rather something larger than life,
a fecund kind of Singularity
informs his every word and deed
and makes him more contemporary.
than any seers that ever were
or saints that are to be.
Sure, there were lights before him
as starlight precedes the dawn,
and there are lights after him
as the moon reflects the sun.
SONG: FOR ORDINARY SAINTS
( Tune “When the saints come marching in)
O give us faith, give us more trust,
and our spirits will improve.
Without your help we are too timid
but with you the mountains move.
O give us hope, much brighter dreams,
and the new age will draw near.
Without your help our dreams get clouded,
but with you the vision’s clear.
O give us love, best gift of all,
and our conflicts will be stilled.
Without your help we get frustrated
but with you we are full-filled.
O give us faith, Christ’s hope and love,
and we’ll treasure each child’s birth.
With your help love conquers all things
and the meek inherit the earth,
or, after HC
Thanks for the bread, broken and shared,
the simple meal we treasure most,
thanks for the wine, Your precious grace-sign,
served with love by Christ our Host.
It’s time to part, it’s time to serve,
it's time to go our way in peace.
Hope, faith and love are free as sunshine
and forever will increase.
Troubles may come, sorrows assail,
as we travel on the road,
though we may tire, Christ’s love is tireless,
and our Lord shares every load
It’s time to hope, it’s time to laugh,
to celebrate our liberty,
love is the way, truth and the good life,
and Christ’s grace our guarantee.
SING A NEW SONG: Psalm 96
Tune:
Cambridge, or any 66.86 metre
Mint brand new songs to
God
each day sing of free
grace,
display his light
among all lands,
neglect not place nor
race.
God is the greatest
theme,
no song or tune
enough;
the things that lost
souls crave are junk
but Christ’s love will
hang tough.
Light surrounds his
coming.
strength, love and
beauty blend;
number your blessings,
church of God,
and your joy shall not
end.
Extol Christ’s loving
name,
bring gifts into his
house.
Link hands together as
we sing
till earth rocks with
his praise.
Let Christians show
the world
that grace has come to
stay,
Christ’s new age shall
redeem all lands
and never go away.
Let the stars dance
and cheer,
and earth pick up the
beat;
let seas roar and
farmlands shout
and bushland join the
treat.
We welcome God’s
advent
who comes to sort this
world,
his judgements will
heal broken lives
and truth will all
enfold.
LORDS PRAYER
Tune: St Michael 6686
Father of heavenly love,
all joy surrounds your name,
your kingdom come
your will be done
till earth your grace acclaim.
Give us today our bread
to share with those in need.
Forgive our sins
as we forgive
with word and by our deed.
Deliver us from fear
when trials test our days.
Your kingdom, power
and glory are
our true delight and praise.
EASTER HYMN Tune Vulpius
TIS 367
The night has gone, the dawn is clear,
now is the end of fret and fear,
our Jesus lives, take up the cheer.
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Alleluia!
The seal of God rests on this day,
now faith and love have the last say,
peacemakers laugh, God’s children play,
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Alleluia!
The merciful obtain free grace,
the poor delight in heaven’s space,
the meek and pure look on God’s face
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Alleluia!
The world is new, reborn and young,
things never done have now begun,
let joy and praise fill every tongue
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Alleluia!
Now in our midst lives God’s true Son,
let gloom and doom today be gone,
let leaven and earth now party on:
Alleluia! Alleluia!
Alleluia!
SPIRITUAL OLYMPICS
Tune: “Battle Hymn”.
For boxers
My life is reeling from the punch that Love’s pure fist has thrown,
it’s left me seeing lots of lights maybe the saints have known
this knock-out is more blessed than the crown of champion,
I’ve come into my own.
For runners.
I’ve stopped dreaming of winning on the elite sprinters’ track,
I’ve joined that triers’ Coach who has run to hell and back,
He takes me on a steeple-chase with many a slip and stack,
but I’ll soon get the knack.
For fencers
.
I thought I was a chance in the main fencing event,
I’d bluffed my way through duels before with cunning and intent,
but when I fought the Master I took wounds that left me spent,
yet now I find content.
For gymnasts.
I’ve done a triple back flip like I’ve never done before,
I flipped so high I landed and shot through a heavenly door,
applause is all around me from the redeemed hosts galore,
I’m not scared any more.
GOD OF ALL BEAUTY
Tune: maybe “Slane” or any
suitable 10 10 10 11 metre,
God of all beauty and Source of true light,
redeem our ugliness, restore our sight,
soften our hardness and capture our will,
and pour out your Spirit, our emptiness fill.
God of all lowliness, Friend of each soul,
lead us to holiness, make our lives whole,
repair our brokenness, reclaim our dust,
and bring us to faithfulness, rebuild our trust.
God of all happiness, Spring of deep joys,
pity our foolishness, remove our toys,
destroy our vanity, scatter our pride,
and bring us to sanity and in you reside.
God of all loveliness of you we sing,
to you our best songs your family bring,
let all creation now sing the same tune,
give praise merry sun, and give praise stars and moon.
CHRISTMAS: INCARNATE
John 1:10-11
The Source of galaxies
now wears a human face.
The Word that oversees
deep mysteries unknown
now comes unto its very own;
yet they, who are a stubborn race,
close fetid minds against his grace.
WHAT DO YOU FIND AT CHRISTMAS?
What do you find at Christmas
when the frantic fuss is gone,
the shopping is all over
and the pre-parties all done?
What do you find at Christmas
when the cards are all exchanged,
rushed emails written and sent,
the menu fully arranged?
What do you find at Christmas
when gifts are all unwrapped,
eating and drinking ended
and your energy zapped?
When you step into the stable
and look into the stall?
Something truly Awesome
or nothing there at all?
CHRISTMAS: NEAR SEVENTY SIX
Near seventy six there are no new tricks
as Christmas comes yet again,
I still remember days of December
when childhood was my domain;
after a short night I woke at first light
to leap on the gifts by my bed,
eating and drinking (my stomach not shrinking!)
the rest of the day quickly sped.
But now I am old I’m no longer sold
on pleasures that come and go;
from joy and the tears of the turning years
there’s one sure thing I do know:
In comfort or tatters nothing else matters
but one Event in the straw,
as I kneel before that I know where I’m at
and shall not want any more.
BEARING GIFTS
Three wise men,
bearing their precious possessions
travelled from afar.
One from Sydney,
others from Oxford and Harvard,
following their own star.
It mattered not
that their trumpeted arrival would be
after the main season.
For each of them
everything on earth was amenable
to scientific reason.
Flown in ahead of them
were mobile laboratory, cameras
and infra red eye.
No room for chance,
they came with all the technology
that money could buy.
They arrived late,
to let the superstitious pilgrims
get out of the way.
With utter care
they set things up, while minders
kept the press at bay.
Proud self belief
moved them around the stable
and to the fabled stall.
Each man entered
sure of what they would discover—
nothing, nothing at all.
After three days
of thorough forensic examination
at that manger scene,
three of earth’s wisest
declared there was no Wonder there,
nor had there ever been.
ONE DROVER’S CHRISTMAS
The drovers were on a stock route
watching their herds by night,
out of the east came some min min *
that spooked the men with light.
They seemed to sing in the darkness
a music both sour and sweet,
it entered the soul with catharsis,
the drover’s boy danced to the beat.
One min min beckoned the boss man,
so he left the herd with the rest,
the min min danced on before him
like a lost soul re-possessed.
They came at last to Menindee
near a stable behind the pub,
the drover slowly dismounted
and tied his horse to a shrub.
He stood and waited for guidance,
though his throat cried out for a beer,
the min min stopped at a door
and the drover swallowed his fear.
The door was half off its hinges,
but he dragged it open wide,
he saw a weary young woman
with a new born baby that cried.
It was nothing like he had expected,
he did something he hadn’t for years,
he fell down on his knees in that stable
and shed unaccustomed tears.
Were they tears of joy or sorrow?
He never did know for sure,
but he did dare take a new stock route
no drover had travelled before.
· Min min: strange lights in the Outback.
· Indigenous people saw them as spirits.
BORN WHERE?
They say he was born in
a town in Judean hills,
I think he is born in Sunbury
a town with very few frills.
They say there were heavenly angels
that sang the night he was born,
I’ve heard some angelic music
from kids last Sunday morn.
They say he was born in a cow shed,
no room for him with a view,
I know he found a warm place
in the heart of a plumber I knew.
They say he arrived with the taxes
that Caesar placed on their land.
I know he comes with free graces
that most don’t understand
They say he his birth was miracle
one-off in the distant past,
I reckon it’s still taking place
among the least and the last.
They say he will come in great power
to finish what love could not do,
I say he comes with the stranger
waiting in the refugee queue
HOLY WEEK
Hebrews
2:14-16, 5:7-10
It was not angels
but a human being
that he became
in flesh and blood.
He offered up prayers
with cries and tears
in this school of suffering,
sorely tested like us.
Who can visit
except homo sapiens ?
Who else can feel
the crown of thorns
or shudder and groan
at the hammer blows ?
In the long dark hours
of Christ’s agony
we know the loud cry
of forsakenness!
While angels praise
his holy name
earthlings alone
can share God’s pain.
JESUS REMEMBER
ME
Good Friday 2005
Jesus, man of sorrows,
Jesus joy of the new age,
remember me
as you come
into your kingdom.
No lower pit
no higher peak:
this man
forsaken.
No greyer grief
no fuller faith:
this man
forsaken.
No dirtier deed
no costlier gift:
this man
forsaken.
No darker day
no brighter night:
this man
forsaken.
No deeper doubt
no surer truth:
this man
forsaken.
No sharper pain
no purer peace:
this man
forsaken.
No larger loss
no greater gain:
This man
forsaken.
No bloodier deed
no lovelier love:
this man
forsaken.
No lonelier soul
no closer God:
this man
forsaken.
Jesus, man of sorrows,
joy of the new age,
remember me
as you come
into your kingdom.
GARDENER?
John 20: 15
If you are just the gardener,
then let me lay to rest
this whole Christian affair.
If you are just the gardener,
then let me weep alone
by this rock of despair.
If you are just the gardener,
then let me toll the passing
of a hope most sublime.
If you are just the gardener,
then let me go on weeping
until the end of time.
I HAVE MY DOUBTS….BUT
John 20:19-29
I have not seen,
I have my doubts,
but you have transfused
my life with Life
and I receive.
I have not seen,
I have my doubts,
but you have enthused
my soul with Soul
and I believe.
I have not seen,
I have my doubts,
but you have infused
my love with Love
and I conceive.
ON THE BEACH
John 21:1-9
O Lord of all things made new,
how often at daybreak
have you stood on our beaches
but we have not recognised you?
You have called out to us
but we have not heard,
prepared a breakfast feast
but we have not shared?
So we go on toiling
with our old empty nets.
or land on barren beaches
to eat stale crusts.
EASTER: IN HIS STEPS
He always did tread this earth with gentle feet
and left tracks in which seeds germinated,
but now, freed from mortal weight,
his footsteps are gentler-deeper
and in their fertile hollows
new joys take root.
While on the dusty byroad to Emmaus Town,
where two disciples plodded languid,
he opened Scripture’s meaning
and left behind such prints
that even in the twilght
new plants did grow.
At dawn, by a lonely shore of
he gathered driftwood for a breakfast fire;
his feet marked that meeting place
with each loving step he took,
and in each footmark grew
rare seedlings of love.
With an enemy beside Damascus Highway,
where hitherto only thorns had grown,
he etched the scene with footprints
which propagated fruitful vines
so strong that even Rome
grew jealous.
In latter days to one callow, shy, bank clerk
of a provincial city on the
he came to call, and left a spoor
where grew unlikely fruits
such as only holy grace
can give account.
PENTECOST: POURED OUT
The Spirit,
the very being of God,
is now poured out
on the human race.
Poured.
Not allocated sparingly
as from an eye-dropper.
Not carefully measured
like tonic in a medicine glass.
Not even as generous
as a farmhouse cup of tea.
Poured.
Poured.
Poured prodigally,
tumbling and splashing,
quenching the thirsty,
cleansing the soiled,
refreshing the weary;
bountiful as the Milky Way.
Poured.
Poured.
Poured.
On all the human race,
now poured out;
the very being of God
poured out;
the Spirit
poured out.
PENTECOST: DOWNWIND
Downwind
in the Whitsundays
is a wonderful place to be.
The Warmth
caressing one’s face
and cheering the sluggish soul.
The scents
of prolific greening
and the fruits of paradise.
The joys
that belong to God’s children
borne on the flowing Wind.
Downwind
in this holy grail
is a glorious place to be.
* PS
: For overseas readers: Here there is a play on
words;
Whit Sunday/
Pentecost and the Whitsundays,
the latter being beautiful, tropical islands
off the coast of Queensland.
CHRIST THE KING: UNPRINCELY PRINCE
Strangely conceived, born in a shed,
odour of donkeys, straw for your cot,
fleeing by night, price on your head,
refugee child, sharing our lot.
Unprincely prince, our humble lord!
Filling each day, trusting weak blokes,
homeless preacher, fishermen’s friend,
sowing small seeds, telling good jokes
praying alone, at the day’s end.
Unprincely prince, our humble lord!
Stretching the mind, opening the ears,
telling the truth, offending old schools,
spurning cheap fame, conquering fears,
following your star, breaking the rules.
Unprincely prince, our humble lord!
Humbling the proud, lifting the meek,
praising the poor, pitying the rich,
fasting alone, strengthening the weak,
leading the blind, out of the ditch.
Unprincely prince, our humble lord!
Hope of sinners, loved by the crowd,
healing lepers, seeking the lost,
prizing the meek, humbling the proud,
taking love’s risks, paying the cost.
Unprincely prince, our humble lord!
Fool on a donkey, without back-up,
cleansing the shrine, sealing your fate,
breaking the bread, sharing the cup,
betrayed by night, shopped by a mate.
Unprincely prince, our humble lord!
Tried by a fool, crowned with cruel thorns,
hauling your cross, up the steep hill,
l ifted up high, forsaken thing,
scorned and despised, forgiving still.
Unprincely prince, our humble lord!
Tended by women, resting in hell,
in a cold tomb, through blackest night,
delivering souls, from where they fell,
greeting the dawn, with Easter light!
Unprincely prince, our humble lord!
Always among us, sheep and the goats,
prisoner in chains, sick and the poor,
dearest soul-mate, loveliest lord,
our dearest joy, for ever more
Unprincely prince, our humble lord
ALWAYS THERE IS GRACE
In the beginning there is Grace
far preceding time and space,
dreaming hopes of magnitude,
ready with all plenitude.
In the shaping there is Grace,
tireless working in each place,
holiness that’s so profound
that we walk on sacred ground.
In the turmoil there is Grace
underwriting every race,
caring when one soul gets lost
saving at enormous cost.
At the ending there is Grace
superseding time and space,
welcoming the last and least
wearing still a human face.