Morning

The morning sun
just rising over the eastern mountains
cutting slices of reality
with its sharp shafts of rose-red light
claiming its share of the white stucco walls
of old Portland row houses,

and the birds strangely silent,
perhaps watching with stunned anticipation
the arrival of another cloudless day,

and I, sitting quietly looking beyond
mere computer screens into the world’s utter west,
populated by trees upon trees,
greens now slowly awakening
to the gold-washed waves pouring over them,
and wondering what the day will bring.

My morning tasks still unformed
in the empty future ahead of me,
one unpleasant task,
the return of a broken-glassed picture frame
that would not yield to assembly.

What treasures will arrive on my doorstep today?
Already they have been piling up
against my unopened front door,
waiting for me to discover them.

Joy, joy, amidst suffering,
blending what cannot be with what is,
and all held in fragile friendship in the hands of God,

who for the love of His suffering siblings
joined them to prove on the battlefield of His body
that victory is at the bottom of defeat,
and that redemption can be purchased
only at a price beyond our paying,

and that of all worlds this one is the best and only,
because our Beloved has pierced our defenses
and shown us the way out,
to perfect freedom,
fearless, radiant, unfleshly
and immortal.

He is glorified by the piping of a solitary bird
that now sings, again and again, the threefold call,
‘Holy, Holy, Holy,’
out of the wooded depths.

Your day, O Lord,
Your day that You have bestowed on us,
grant us to behold Your face in every moment,
and feel Your touch.

Savior, come, and do not delay.
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