A Friday fragment (posted on Saturday)

Out of Egypt I called my Son...

A vast train
--A man and a woman
stretching across the desert
--traveling alone
with cattle and herds
--with a small child
carrying the treasures of Egypt.
--carrying the Treasure of eternity.


Out of Egypt…

Sand, exotic wonders: a hard land, but beautiful too, with one wet ribbon of green
carrying life to all.

A hot sun to dry mud bricks; great idols rising to their Pharaoh’s self-worship; whips, swords,
and the slave-driver’s call.

A rich land, of leeks and garlic, cucumbers, pots of red animal flesh simmering
under stars of night fall.


Out of Egypt I called My Son.

Israel fled to Egypt, once, and, sheltered in lush delta land,
waited while famine’s bitter hand
passed over.

ISRAEL fled to Egypt, too, sheltered by the arm of the LORD,
and waited while the mad king’s sword
passed over.

Matthew in verse, pt 1

The Advent season coming again...

The birth of Jesus Christ as follows was.
His mother, Mary, had been betrothed then,
To Joseph, but now before they had come
Together she was found to be with child
The Holy Spirit by, and Joseph, as
A righteous man, did not want to disgrace
Her publicly, and so desired to put
Away her secretly. But when he had
Considered this, an angel of the Lord
Appeared to him in dream, and saying, “Son
Of David, do not fear to Mary take
As wife, for that which is conceived in her
Is of the Holy Spirit. She will bear
A Son, and you will call His name Jesus,
For it is He who’ll save His people from
Their sins.” Now all took place that what was said
By God through prophet be fulfilled, as such:
“Behold, the Virgin shall with child be, and
Shall bear a Son, and they shall call His Name
Immanuel;” that which means, God with Us.
And Joseph arose from sleep, and did as he
Had been commanded by the angel then,
And he took her as wife, though virgin still
Until was born a Son. He called His name
Jesus.

Midnight Comfort

My weeping child
I gather in my arms,
press his warm damp cheek with mine,
whisper to him of angels
that spread their breathless wings
over the shadows cast
by the green nightlight.
In the other bed, his twin
stirs, turns his sweet,
closed-lidded face up.
I soothe, shush,
stroke the beloved tousled head,
tuck the small curled body in,
and leave behind
my prayers to the God who watches
even while I sleep.

They Must

I'm back! For the two or three of you who actually read this, I apologize for the long absence. I have been working on some poetry, but none I'm ready to put up on the blog at this point. I don't know that this is ready either, but here it is anyway.

They must have a Savior.

We are all

children of darkness,
born weeping, snarling,
snapping at our Master’s hand.

Our souls they wail,
scratch the night,
dirt and hell’s fires glimmering
beneath our finger tips.

We are all lost.

We are all captive in our lusts,
cowed by our gods (not
least the golden self),

and let our own blood
from our veins to earth
to appease them—

and yet our libations
are never enough
for mercy.

We must have a Savior.
We must have Christ.
We must have His blood—

His blood
for ours
His blood on the altar.

While, savage, we slew Him
and thought ourselves clever, to
destroy goodness,
that our evil might live—

He, the ageless
Prince of the Light
slew us instead.

They must have a Savior.

The altar was God’s, of course,
not ours (or Satan’s).
That’s the secret He didn’t tell us
when He handed us the knife
and bared His breast.

The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness cannot overcome it.

And so, into
the Light, among the legions
with His name upon our breasts—
where, chosen and called
in liberation we kiss His hands—

and put our fingers through the holes
wherein we see
our names inscribed—
we stepped.

His blood
for ours,
His blood on the altar.

but….

They must have a Savior.

Others labor still
grovel by their idols,
scratch the dirt, slit their wrists,
watch the crimson sin
and pain run to the
barren earth.

They can not see His beauty,
can not hear the music
of His voice that whispers grace,
and beckons

still always beckons

to open their eyes,
and bind their wounds,
and gently sew up their hearts
scratched to tatters by
their own sharp fingernails.

They must have a Savior.

They must.