A Sunday-poem by Amy Carmichael:
Spun-gold
We cannot bring Thee praise like golden noon-light
Shining on earth's green floor;
Our song is more like silver of the moon-light,
But we adore.
We cannot bring Thee, O Belovèd, ever,
Pure song of woodland bird;
And yet we know the song of Thy least lover
In love is heard.
O blessèd be the love that nothing spurneth;
We sing, Love doth enfold
Our little song in love; our silver turneth
To fine spun-gold.
A repost from a year ago. (I still love this poem!)
A beautiful snow last night and this morning a bird singing outside my window. This brings to mind a poem by Jessica Powers about a chickadee in a snow storm. There is always something to be learned from God’s creatures if we just take the time to look and ask Him to help us to really see.
Look at the Chickadee
I take my lesson from the chickadee
who in the storm
receives a special fire to keep him warm,
who in the dearth of a December day
can make the seed of a dead weed his stay,
so simple and so small,
and yet the hardiest hunter of them all.The world is winter now and I who go
loving no venture half so much as snow,
in this white blinding desert have been sent
a most concise and charming argument.
To those who seek to flout austerity,
who have a doubt of God’s solicitude
for even the most trivial of His brood,
to those whose minds are chilled with misery
I have this brief audacious word to say:
look at the chickadee,
that small perennial singer of the earth,
who makes the week of a December day
the pivot of his mirth.~Jessica Powers
Today’s poem comes from Amy Carmichael:
Love, travelling in the greatness of His strength, Found me alone, Footsore and tired by the journey's length, Though I had known All the long way many a kindly air, And flowers had blossomed for me everywhere. And yet Love found me needing Him. He stayed; Love stayed by me. "Let not your heart be troubled or dismayed, My child," said He. Slipped from me then, all troubles, all alarms, For Love had gathered me into His arms.
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
A well-loved and wonderful poem:
Pied Beauty
Glory be to God for dappled things--
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced-fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.
All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change.
Praise him.
~Gerard Manley Hopkins
I know it’s the Feast of the Baptism of the Lord, but I couldn’t find a good poem commemorating it, so instead I’ll share this one about Epiphany by Luci Shaw:
Star Song
We have been having
epiphanies like stars
all this year long.
And now, at its close,
when the planets
are shining through frost,
light runs like music
in the bones,
and the heart keeps rising
at the sound of any song.
An old magic flows
at the silver calling
of a bell,
rounding,
high and clear.
Falling. Falling.
Sounding the death knell
of our old year,
telling the new appearing
of Christ, our Morning Star.Now, burst,
all our bell throats!
Toll,
every clapper tongue!
Stun the still night.
Jesus himself gleams through
our high heart notes
(it is no fable).
It is he whose light
glistens in each song sung,
and in the true
coming together again
to the stable
of all of us: shepherds,
sages, his women and men,
common and faithful,
or wealthy and wise,
with carillon hearts,
and, suddenly, stars in our eyes.
There Was a Time: An Advent Poem
There was a time when there was no time,
When darkness reigned as king,
When a formless void was all that there was
in the nothingness of eternity,
When it was night.
But over the void and over the night Love watched.
There was a time when time began.
It began when Love spoke.
Time began for light and life, for splendor and grandeur.
Time began for seas and mountains, for flowers and birds.
Time began for the valleys to ring with the songs of life,
and for the wilderness to echo with the wailing of wind
and howling of animals.
And over the earth, Love watched.
There was a time when time began to be recorded.
A time when Love breathed and a new creature came to life.
A new creature so special that it was in the image and likeness of Love
Of Love who is God.
And so man was born and the dawn of a new day shone on the world.
And over man, Love watched.
But there came a time when the new day faded.
A time when man who was like God tried to be God.
A time when the creature challenged the creator.
A time when man preferred death to life and darkness to light.
And so the new day settled into twilight.
And over the darkness, Love watched.
There was a time of waiting in the darkness.
A time when man waited in the shadows,
And all creation groaned in sadness.
There was waiting for Love to speak again–for Love to breathe again.
And kings and nations and empires rose and faded in the shadows.
And Love waited and watched.
Finally, there came a time when Love spoke again.
A Word from eternity–a Word
Spoken to a girl who belonged to a people not known by the world
Spoken to a girl who belonged to a family not known by her people
To a girl named Mary.
And all creation waited in hushed silence for the girl’s answer.
And Mary spoke her yes.
And Love watched over Mary.
And so there came a time when Love breathed again
When Love breathed new life into Mary’s yes.
And a new day dawned for the World
A day when light returned to darkness, when life returned to dispel death
And so a day came when Love became man–a mother bore a child.
And Love watched over Love–a Father watched His Son.
And, lastly, there came a time when you and I became a part of time.
Now is the time that you and I wait.
Now we wait to celebrate what the world waited for.
And as we wait to celebrate what was at one time, we become a part of that time
A time when a new dawn and a new dream and a new creation began for man.
And as a part of time, Love waits and Love watches over us.
Fr. Joseph Breighner
All bright and clear, the starry vault
With golden lights and crisp, clean air,
Allures the soul to rise, nor halt
Till she shall float exultant there.
Earth folds her form in ermine cloak,
Whose glist’ning sheen reflects the stars;
Clear rings the skaters’ rhythmic stroke
From stream held fast in icy bars.
Uprears the sun at morning’s birth,
In glory bathes the wood and plain;
Day’s busy hum awakes the earth
To view the scene of Winter’s reign.
We love the smile of youthful Spring,
There’s gladness in the Summer’s glow,
And rich in Autumn’s harvesting,–
Yet, greater gifts can Winter show,–
Rare gifts, surpassing pearls and gold;
God’s Mother-Maid, Immaculate,
And Christ the King–these, Winter old
Brings down to bless man’s poor estate.
J.A.M.
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.
An Advent Sunday-poem from Luci Shaw:
Advent visitation
Even from the cabin window I sensed the wind’s
contagion begin to infect the rags of leaves.
Then the alders gilded to it, obeisant, the wayangels are said to bow, covering their faces with
their wings, not solemn, as we suppose, but
possessed of a sudden, surreptitious hilarity.When the little satin wind arrived,
I felt it slide through the cracked-open door
(A wisp of prescience? A change in the weather?),and after the small push of breath–You
entering with your sir of radiant surprise,
I the astonished one.These still December mornings
I fancy I live in a clear envelope of angels
like a cellophane womb. Or a soap bubble,the colors drifting, curling. Outside
everything’s tinted rose, grape, turquoise,
silver–the stones by the path, the skin of sunon the pond ice, at night the aureola of
a pregnant moon, like me, irridescent,
almost full-term with light.
Witnesses to Hope 