Category: Poetry

We praise thee, Lord, for saints unknown

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A Sunday-poem by Bishop R. Heber for this Feast of All Saints:

We praise thee, Lord, for all the martyred throng,
those who by fire and sword or suffering long
Laid down their lives, but would not yield to wrong:
                                                                Alleluia!

For those who fought to keep the faith secure,
For all those whose hearts were selfless, strong and pure,
For those whose courage taught us to endure:
                                                                 Alleluia!

For fiery spirits, held and God-controlled,
For gentle natures by his power made bold,
For all whose gracious lives God’s love retold:
                                                                 Alleluia!

Thanks be to thee, O Lord, for saints unknown,
Who by obedience to thy word have shown
That thou didst call and mark them for thine own.
                                                                  Alleluia!

The Doorkeeper

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To keep God’s door—
I am not fit.
I would not ask more
Than this–
    To stand or sit
Upon the threshold of God’s House
Out of the reach of sin,
To open wide His door
To those who come,
To welcome Home
His children and His poor:
To wait and watch
The gladness on the face of those
That are within:
Sometimes to catch
A glimpse or trace of those
That are within
That all I failed to be,
And all I failed to do,
Has not sufficed
To bar them from the Tree
Of Life, the Paradise of God,
The Face of Christ.

                        John W. Taylor

If It Were Not So.

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       If It Were Not So

I thought I heard my Savior say to me,
My love will never weary, child, of thee.
Then in me, whispering doubtfully and low,
     How can that be?
     He answered me,
But if it were not so
I would have told thee.

I thought I heard my Savior say to me,
My strength encamps on weakness–so on thee.
And when a wind of fear did through me blow,
     How can that be?
     He answered me,
But if it were not so
I would have told thee.

     O most fine Gold
     That naught in me can dim,
     Eternal Love
     that hath her home in Him
     Whom seeing not I love,
     I worship Thee.

                        ~Amy Carmichael

Humility

“[Humility] is to have a place to hide/when all is hurricane outside.” (Jessica Powers)

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Sr. Dorcee, beloved1 Comment

This Sunday’s poem is by Jessica Powers:

               Humility

Humility is to be still
under the weathers of God’s will.

It is to have no hurt surprise
when morning’s ruddy promise dies,

when wind and drought destroy, or sweet
spring rains apostatize in sleet,

or when the mind and month remark
a superfluity of dark.

It is to have no troubled care
for human weathers anywhere.

And yet it is to take the good
with the warm hands of gratitude.

Humility is to have place
deep in the secret of God’s face

where one can know, past all surmise,
that God’s great will alone is wise,

where one is loved, where one can trust
a strength not circumscribed by dust.

It is to have a place to hide
when all is hurricane outside.

                         Jessica Powers (1947; 1984)

Open

Sr. Dorcee, beloved1 Comment

This is a powerful Easter poem by Luci Shaw.  I know it’s not the Easter season, but I think it’s at times like these–as we’re moving into the physically darker seasons of fall and winter, and sometimes simultaneously darker emotional seasons for some of us–that we need to remember that we are always an Easter people.      

                  Open
             John 20:19, 26

Doubt padlocked one door and
Memory put her back to the other.
Still the damp draught seeped in, though
Fear chinked all the cracks and
Blindness boarded up the window.
In the darkness that was left
Defeat crouched, shivering,
In his cold corner.

Then Jesus came
(all the doors being shut)
and stood among them.

                              Luci Shaw

The Appearance of Christ at the Cenacle
The Appearance of Christ at the Cenacle (James Tissot)

Loving Love and Beauty seeing

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A beautiful poem on beauty by one of our sisters, Sr. Stacy Whitfield:

                       Beauty

I love your wild extravagance,
          mountain flower and autumn leaves
Endowed with lovely lavishness,
          making much of what none sees.

Yet surely you would not adorn
          with greater glory grassy hills
Than sons and daughters made for joy
           and destined for more beauty still.

Oh give me hope to lift my soul
           to beauties that yet lie unseen,
That wait beyond the shimm’ring veil,
           awaiting Dawn’s eternity.

The wondrous views of heaven’s scope
           from which earth’s grand reflection springs,
The beauty that is fairer still
           than all your earthly artistry.

Oh give me faith and love to long
           to see all beauty’s heavenly source,
From which all loveliness is flowing,
           river-like upon its course.

The fullness of all beauty there
          on which to gaze to soul’s delight,
A heart all pure, a form all fair,
          the fountainhead of love, of light.

I shall abide in blissful rest,
          loving Love and Beauty seeing,
Taking in your loveliness
          with opened eyes, with transformed being.

                                          ©Sr. Stacy Whitfield (revised February 3, 1991)

We praise Thee, O God

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This Sunday’s poem is by T.S. Eliot:

We praise Thee, O God, for Thy glory displayed in all the creatures of the earth,
In the snow, in the rain, in the wind, in the storm; in all of Thy creatures, both the hunters and the hunted.
For all things exist only as seen by Thee, only as known by Thee, all things exist
Only in Thy light, and Thy glory is declared even in that which denies Thee; the darkness declares the glory of light.
Those who deny Thee could not deny, if Thou didst not exist; and their denial is never complete, for if it were so, they would not exist.
They affirm Thee in living; all things affirm Thee in living; the bird in the air, both the hawk and the finch: the beast on the earth, both the wolf and the lamb; the worm in the soil and the worm in the belly.
Therefore, man, whom THou hast made to be conscious of Thee, must consciously praise Thee, in thought and in word, and in deed.
Even with the hand to the broom, the back bent in laying the fire, the knee bent in cleaning the hearth, we, the scrubbers and sweepers of Canterbury,
The back bent under toil, the knee bent under sin, the hands to the face under fear, the head bent under grief,
Even in us the voices of seasons, the snuffle of winter, the song of spring, the drone of summer, the voices of beasts and of birds, praise Thee.
We thank Thee for the mercies of blood, for Thy redemption by blood.  For the blood of Thy martyrs and saings
Shall enrich the earth, shall create holy places.
For wherever a saint has dwelt, wherever a martyr has given his blood for the blood of Christ,
There is holy ground, and the sanctity shall not depart from it
Though armies trample over it, though sightseers come with guidebooks looking over it;
From where the western seas gnaw at the coast of Iona,
To the death in the desert, the prayer in forgotten places, by the broken imperial column,
From such ground springs that which forever renews the earth
Though it is forever denied.  Therefore, O God, we thank Thee
Who has given such blessing in Canterbury.

                                                      – T.S. Eliot

Invitatory for a Wedding Anniversary

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Yesterday one of our sisters, Sr. Katie, made her Final Profession of Vows.  It was a wonderful day for all of us.  Today another sister, Sr. Christina, is celebrating her first anniversary of Final Vows, and tomorrow on one of our major feasts, the Triumph of the Cross, three other sisters are celebrating anniversaries.  This poem, by Mother Mary Francis, seems so appropriate:

Invitatory for a Wedding Anniversary

“We recount your marvelous deeds” (Psalm 75)

Come, let us marvel at God confecting dawn
Out of a pastelled fluff of fancy, then
Unbfolding night from velvet bolt of mystery, arranging
Moons halved, then quartered, then plumped full
To serve our recreation.

          But marvel more that He has brided me.

Here is tall marvel: twirled by hand Divine
All birds’ propellers dancing circled grace
Down boulevarded space and all trees waving
For such performance, fans of jubilation.
Sun stoked and skies spread and clouds lit
With virgin light or pregnant with the rain
Are marvels that demand high recounting.

          But marvel more that He has brided me.

Come, let us kneel before th Lord devising
Day from the night and marshalling the stars,
Flattering peaches pink, and then gone off surprising
Carrots to gold with glance Divine
And us to exaltation.

          But marvel more that He has brided me.

All the long aeons God has lightly laid
Across our history call: Marvel! and
We gladly tell it, call for cosmic chorus to proclaim it:
God great, God mighty, God beyond
Our power small to marvel.

          But marvel more that He has brided me. 

DSC_2001

The Little Black Sheep

Sr. Dorcee, beloved6 Comments

A wonderful poem by Paul Lawrence Dunbar (best read aloud . . .):

     The Little Black Sheep

Po’ lil’ brack sheep dat strayed away,
     Done los’ in de win’ an’ de rain–
An’ de Shepherd He say, “O, hirelin’,
     Go fin’ my sheep again.”
An’ de hirelin’ say, “O, Shepherd,
     Dat sheep am brack an’ bad.”
But de Shepherd He smile, like dat lil’ brack sheep
     Wuz de onliest lamb He had.

An’ de Shepherd go out in de darkness
     Where de night wuz col’ and’ bleak,
An’ dat lil’ brack sheep, He fin’ it
     An’ lay it agains’ His cheek.
An’ de hirelin frown, “O, Shepherd,
     Don’ bring dat sheep to me!”
But de Shepherd He smile, an’ He hol’ it close.
     An’–dat lil’ brack sheep–wuz–me!

 

Will not the end explain

“Will not the end explain the crossed endeavor?” (Amy Carmichael)

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Sr. Dorcee, beloved2 Comments

Will not the end explain
The crossed endeavor, earnest purpose foiled,
The strange bewilderment of good work spoiled,
The clinging weariness, the inward strain,
Will not the end explain?

Meanwhile He comforteth
Them that are losing patience. ‘Tis His way:
But none can write the words they hear Him say
For men to read, only they know He saith
Sweet words and comforteth.

Not that He doth explain
The mystery that baffleth; but a sense
Husheth the quiet heart, that far, far hence
Lieth a field set thick with golden grain,
Wetted in seedling days by many a rain:
The end–it will explain.

                   ~Amy Carmichael