Another night falls

              O, for a moment of tenderness,
              of sweet conversation
              with my friend,
              for the battle rages
              unremittingly,
              as storm clouds pile up against the sky,
              hiding the sun
              and weighing down the earth
              with threats, not rain.

              Sullen silence not blessed repose
              suffocates not revives
              the soul of waiting,
              while faithfulness fingers
              the knotted rope of prayers,
              and hope tries to remember
              to feed itself,
              and sleep forgets what night is
              and what is day.

              Time never rolls backwards
              but always marches on,
              never waits, nor slows nor runs,
              and always opens
              to dangerous, unknown lands,
              where we rise or fall, live or die,
              when we find our friend waiting,
              or else no one,
              only cold, stony soil.

Good seed, bad soil

The Sower goes forth to sow.
In the Church we are thinking,
“We have the good seed, we are the good soil.”

The preacher preaches mightily, eloquently.
His youthful vigor alarms us.
We think, “My! How well he preaches!
He is the tallest priest in the diocese too, 
and so handsome.
What a good witness he is.”
Then we settle in to be entertained.
Though bread of the Word is offered,
our eyes ice it, and we eat cake.

Does he realize what field he is dropping the good seed into?
Does he sense that his footprints will leave their mark
only for a moment?
Does his heart really believe what he is saying?
Has he been traduced, reviled, led out to be stoned
for his testimony?
Does he love it, to see the people smile?

The earth has brought forth her harvest,
but there are none to reap.
The crops gathered into the barn
have been sated.
The wedding feast has already begun,
and the doors have been sealed.
Poor unwise unvirgins, tattooed and pierced,
bad soil infertile of the good seed,
abandoned outside.

The Bridegroom come and knocking is told,
“No room here at the inn.”
But for those inside the banquet hall,
frolic and feast, without Him.
Where in the world can He go now?

“Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled: 
for my head is filled with dew, 
and my locks with the drops of the night.”

Children

Weep, my people, weep, for your land,
Once a city set on a hill
that could not be hid,
Is now a byword for the nations,
who toss their heads and say,
“If Yahweh is their God,
Let Him help them!”

Land of riches, now despoiled,
Land of sons and daughters,
now defiled,
Land of promise, now defamed,
Land of free men, now reviled,
“If Yahweh is their God,
Let Him help them!”

To the bitter end of your revelry,
To the bitter end, take your pleasures,
No matter your children charred,
Passed through the fire of Molech,
Cry out to you,
“If Yahweh is your God…”

Now is the time of redemption
From the sickening tree.
Now the acceptable day
Of the Lord’s visitation.
He comes in the clouds
Despite the doubt of His people,
“If Yahweh is His God,
Let Him help Him.”

Living ikons of the Son of Man,
Weeping saltwater instead of myrrh,
Tears gushing more plentifully
Than miraculous, healing springs,
Crying out with one inaudible voice,
To lure pilgrimages to their tombs,
Waiting for the venerating kiss,
That dry bones may take on life,
“If Yahweh is your God,
Help us!”
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