I praise God's holy name
For the little girl in church
Who simply couldn't wait for the
Breaking of bread and her big moment:
It was her turn to hold the basket,
To look every one of us in the eye,
And to offer us the Body of Christ.
She couldn't sit still,
But why should she?
Why should anyone sit still
When Grace is on the table?
The hands of Jesus are restless,
Maybe even fidgety and eager to work;
The hands of Jesus pull the loaf to pieces
When seekers in the circle are curious,
When friends of God are hungry and lost.
from the wise and the intelligent;
and you have revaled them to infants;
yes, Abba, for such was your precious will.
I praise God's holy name
For the baby who wailed at the funeral--
As the priest spoke of Jesus and sacred things:
It was in his piercing cry that we heard
The Breath of God shattered in shards,
Refusing to be consoled, insisting on its own truth.
A voice crying in the wilderness,
A gospel of grief on lips without words.
Littlle one, you draw from God's own wildness
To preach of things unseen, unknown and real.
This voice of mercy is creased with pain,
God's own Son buckles beneath despair;
Only his weeping makes any sense now,
Only his mother's bloodied knees.
The earth is awash in their runaway tears.
Come to me, all you that are weary,
all you that are carrying heavy burdens,
and I will give you rest;
take my yoke upon you, and learn from me.
So might we come to you, weary as we are--
A church not of smug answers, but broken hearts.
We carry huge and heavy burdens,
Neither can we imagine putting them down.
How we long for your presence.
How we hunger for your guidance.
How we hope to see you--
In every broken loaf, and in every swollen face,
And in the brightening light of Jerusalem's morning.
A poem for Holy Week, Monday,
April 3, 2023
DGJ
(One of my simple Holy Week practices is to write a poem each day--a way for me to connect with the Spirit through my own experience and questions.)
