Lift my eyes to Yours,
my heart to Yours,
and hold me there.
I would not stray from You
willingly,
yet weakness diverts my gaze
too often.
Be consoled, my soul.
His heart’s gaze never strays.
His hold never weakens.
December 14, 1999
Category: Poetry
Steep me in your stillness
Steep me in your stillness, Lord
Steep me in Your stillness, Lord.
Oh, calm my restless soul.
Hush my spirit,
and put Your finger on my lips.
Say to my stormy being,
“Quiet, be still.”
Then hold me close
and let me rest
my head
against Your breast.
July 19, 1999
Cold
A Sunday-poem by Mother Mary Francis:
Cold
This is the season of snows,
when the sky, all in pieces, is falling,
and bells from invisible towers
are soundlessly tolling.
Over the carpeted earth,
footsteps are coming and going,
leaving no tracks on a land
where winter is snowing.
Where are they hanging, the bells?
Whose are the feet that come walking?
And voices gone speechless with cold–
to whom are they talking?
Sound is an alien here,
and vision the child of a stranger.
Nothing is feeding the heart,
nothing but hunger.
Feed then my eyes and my ears.
God, feed my hunger with hunger,
my longing with snow-falling snow,
my heart with your winter.
There came a greater man
Baptism of our Lord
with each step through jordan
the water parted wide
priests and ark stood on dry ground
where once was swelling tide
safe through its torrents we all passed
in canaan to abide
shamed and naked, in disgrace
our captors led us away
to settle us by exile streams
where foreign gods held sway
sadly, there we hung our harps
and could not sing or play
an odd prophet, desert worn
with thundering voice appeared
and stood again where waters flow
to call for all to hear
that we should take our place once more
in jordan’s midst with tears
and then there came a greater man
to pass through swelling tide
when waters broke a voice was heard
the heavens opened wide
and our new joshua arose
salvation to provide
“Chaplain Mike”
The long night
This night is the long night,
It will snow and it will drift,
White snow there will be till day,
White moon there will be till morn,
This night is the eve of the Great Nativity,
This night is born of Mary Virgin’s Son,
This night is born Jesus, Son of the King of glory,
This night is born to us the root of our joy,
This night gleamed the sun of the mountains high,
This night gleamed sea and shore together,
This night was born Christ the King of greatness
Ere it was heard that the Glory was come,
Heard was the wave upon the strand,
Ere ’twas heard that his foot had reached the earth,
Heard was the song of the angels glorious,
This night is the long night.
~Celtic tradition
Advent Prayer (repost)
Advent Prayer
Like foolish folk of old I would not be,
Who had no room that night for Him and thee.
See, Mother Mary, here within my heart
I’ve made a little shrine for Him apart;
Swept it of sin, and cleansed it with all care;
Warmed it with love and scented it with prayer.
So, Mother, when the Christmas anthems start,
Please let me hold your baby–in my heart.
Sr. Maryanna, O.P.
Robert, Cyril. Mary Immaculate: God’s Mother and Mine. New York: Marist Press, 1946.
Christ comes
A Sunday-poem from Sr. Genevieve Glen, OSB:
Christ comes, the promised peace of God,
His hands with healing filled,
In him is brokenness made whole
And love from hate distilled.
And when he comes, for whom we long,
Then will all rage be stilled.
Christ comes, the promised hand of God,
To cast the veil aside
That shrouds the world in bitter grief,
Where none from death can hide.
And when he comes, for whom we long,
Then will all tears be dried.
Christ comes, the promise kept by God,
The faithful One, and true.
In him is ev’ry hope confirmed
And ev’ry fear subdued.
And when he comes, for whom we long,
Then all will be made new.
Advent Sunday
A Sunday-poem by Christina Rossetti:
Advent Sunday
Parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins (detail)
Behold, the Bridegroom cometh: go ye out
With lighted lamps and garlands round about
To meet Him in a rapture with a shout.
It may be at the midnight, black as pitch,
Earth shall cast up her poor, cast up her rich.
It may be at the crowing of the cock
Earth shall upheave her depth, uproot her rock.
For, lo, the Bridegroom fetcheth home the Bride:
His Hands are Hands she knows, she knows His Side.
Like pure Rebekah at the appointed place,
Veiled, she unveils her face to meet His Face.
Like great Queen Esther in her triumphing,
She triumphs in the Presence of her King.
His Eyes are as a Dove’s, and she’s Dove-eyed;
He knows His lovely mirror, sister, Bride.
He speaks with Dove-voice of exceeding love,
And she with love-voice of an answering Dove.
Behold, the Bridegroom cometh: go we out
With lamps ablaze and garlands round about
To meet Him in a rapture with a shout.
Come quick!
The Way
The Baptist’s eyes
are everywhere
shining
“Prepare the way!”
as honey drips
and reeds sway
in sun
in wind–
Come quick!
My own heart
pounds
and parts
like the Red Sea,
but blood is thick
and the Way is clear
and near–
Come quick!
Do not delay.
~Rita A. Simmonds
God of me
I post a poem every Sunday mostly for myself. I love poetry–and always have–and I’m hoping someone out there does as well. One of the reasons I love poetry is because it forces us more to the edges of heaven, to open our minds to the beauty and goodness and truth of God.
Small Song
God of the sky,
God of the sea,
God of the rock
and bird and tree,
you are also
the God of me.The pebble fell.
The water stirred
and stilled again.
The hidden bird
made song for you.
His praise is heard.You heard him sing
from in the tree.
And searching still
I know you’ll see
The love that wings
to you from me.~Luci Shaw
Witnesses to Hope 