Fear of Death

December 20, 2006

For long, my fear was for nothing but death;
I looked my black end in the face.
To my disgrace,
I turned, ignored, and hid, or tried,
But could not hide
My beating pulse, and quick'ning of my breath.

Though the quiet He came to me
And offered kindly, godly hand:
"Ascend, my friend."
And to my soul, enslaved and weak,
Did he softly speak:
"Abide, abide, and I will make you free."

O death, will you approach? Immanuel
Is holding me, arms out-stretched wide,
As I abide
Upon his breast, hands, bloody, clasped...
Short, tortured gasps...
Then silence. "He descended into hell."

The cold, dark silence proves he is a fraud!
Leaving his sons, three days in fear,
He disappeared.
All but one did lie, or hid from men
And from their sin.
But one beloved stayed beside his God.

'O Death, thou wast once an uncouth hideous thing,'
But blood and dust have made thee fair!
Now who will fear
Thy sting? Where is thy victory?
No, thou, with me
Are on the cross, and raised again!

The nutshell dies; And, now alive, awakes
The tender, fresh-born center part;
Just so, my heart.
Bestirred and soft and newly-seeing,
A new-born being
Emerges, blinking, as light that early breaks.

Then I, his pupil, heard the truth, and Hark!
All times seen but go and die,
But seeing eyes
Remain to see each fresh-born time
Fall into line.
Ah! the school of life, like light, dispels the dark!

For I am I, my eye is I! I see
Therefore I am! And what am I?
His apple-eye --
He who lives and loves to revive
Our fleeting lives
'Till, dying, becoming, we come to be.

For he does not his precious pupils leave,
Those black and fresh-born center parts
Within his heart;
But plucks a plank out his own eye
Blood-tears to cry
To vivify and heal by blood and grief.

My breath becalms, as does my beating pulse,
And now my black end I may face,
Thanks to his grace!
For fear has been cast out by love.
A gentle dove
Descends to coo, and woo my fresh-washed soul.

And though his deepest brilliance is concealed
From my weak eyes, I climb each rung
Like those among
The cloud of seers beyond the grave
Who sing his praise
With me, 'till I'm in him revealed.

O Life, who made this dust alive with breath,
Please show me through, from black to black,
Not looking back
But facing you, who are so bright
That I am blind
'Till I, by grace, am joined with you in death.


Glory to God Alone.

Babel

Text erects a flexible tower, stretching to the heavens.
Ancient armies spread their shields and arms in lines.
Kings and queens gather greed like sheep-shorn bundles,
Make plans, stake out land, do what they can to win, but then:

Self-lies and pride wreck what's left of their pitiful tries,
And this leftover mess is the best men hope for;
For the less men hope for, the better,
For this fetter attacks the jugular,

And this treasure attracts only burglars and moths,
This crucible tacks nails into the faithful like a hateful Centurian within
This thorn in our side may be worn with pride, for pride's sake,
But the bride's safety depends on who wins, and who dies,
And for whose sake who dies when they die,

Words outstretched like arms,
That fly where the never expected the text to fly.

Elemental Songs

The man of earth, from dusty ground
Is body, filled with breath
In eighty years, or therearound
He'll lose his dust to death.
The man of God must learn from dirt
Which comes and goes to earth
His spirit must to God return
And, dying, find new birth

As water lifts from deep blue sea
To misty clouds, which rain
The selfsame drop eternally
Flies home and dies again.
Just so must he who loves his God
Being born of Spirit and Father
Float up, and be poured into, God
Becoming living water

Air flows with an easy grace
Back and forth and back
Torn throughout the West and East
It yet remains intact
Just so does he who loves his God
Wander without a care
Until he's called back unto God
Becoming purest air

Flame alights an arrow's head
Before it quickly flies
To flaming fields of burning dead
Where it, too, quickly dies.
Just so does he loves his God
Emerge and move the same,
Until he lands and lives in God,
Becoming burning flame

Quiet Star

A book in hand, a friend or three..
A quiet, undistracted place:
A recipe for quiet glee,
A meal of simple, common grace.

We ate this meal, one evening clear,
As she first shone, that Evening Star
who first in blue-black sky appears...
In fact, she joined us from, afar,

She sat down right there in between
My friends, as if 'twere no big deal,
And mused about philosophy
To us while we enjoyed our meal:

"Have you ever noticed, friends,
That, though it's quiet when you're alone,
When silent, and with several friends,
The silence is of a deeper tone?

Prayer for Interior Martyrdom

I want you, Christ, in me to raise anew
I do not want the holy God to spurn,
I want to be on fire with love for you,
But, Lord, I do not want my heart to burn!
Since servants are no better than their guide,
Young Stephen died upon a cross, like Christ.
For "greater things" does greater deaths imply,
Thus Christians do; thus, too, they sacrafice.
As Stephen did not only die of piercing nail
But burning flame that licked his flesh to coal,
So let me be a martyr, drawn and pale,
But caught with fire that rather kills the soul.
The burning bush was burned and not consumed
So let me burn and live, in You exhumed.

I Am Small and But a Man

I am small, and but a man, my heart in twain
A house divided cannot stand, nor vice
Win the pearly circle: white-virtue's crown;
That vast, spectacular seat, with Christ.

But small although, though small I go, I go,
Down the middle, down the spiral deep'ning
Where all specks, electrons, and young mites grow
Hidden, all in invisible light circl'ing

Glory-fire flashes in the recess!
And from that single spout the black surge flows
And bubbling up, draws me back to vastness
He, shrinking, grows; unknowing, finally knows.

Stirring From a Dreary Sleep, and Dreaming

Stirring from a dreary sleep, and dreaming,
I rolled from comfort into chilly air.
The cold did not dispel my mental slumb'ring,
Nor remove sleep's lazy tendrils, unclear,
But braided in mind with divine half-truths.

In this state I saw a statue of my being,
(So to speak...) An image, cloudy in the mental eye...
Armoured and naked, large and small... My seeing
Flitted 'round and changed like Northern skies,
Taunting me, an eager and curious youth.

I believe it was a picture of my self;
A picture-prophet... Or rather, prophetess,
A servant of God, like those at Delphi
Who whirled and sang and showed their inward breast,
To Greece, like mothers who love, but stay aloof.

Wisps and shoots of falsehood still remaining,
She spoke and built a statue with her words;
Enigmas, jokes, and falsehoods intertwining
With chirps and melodies, like that of birds,
Her twinkling eye a mirror and a spoof.

I lent my ear to catch new sounds, or tried,
For I heard little, understood less...
From somewhere utterances arose and died,
Vivid yet obscure, like a roaring lioness,
Her self and source her only proof.

Of a sudden, resonance replaced desire to know
And sounds unwrapped themselves. Contingencies
Became in mind the branches of the tree unknown,
Which, seen as such, are, too, necessities,
Whole, beholden, beheld by holy truth.

I saw my weal in woman's eyes:
She said: "I am ground and statue crumbling;
I am peaceful, loving, Christ-like and kind,
Humble, I am to my brethren humbling;
One with source and seething ground of sooth.

"Rooted and grounded in love, I am that tree,
And each branch, grafted in, drenched in love,
With this unknowing trunk, vibrant, happy,
Receiving life below and life above,
Riches in blooming ground, and pouring roof.

"The virtues four increase a hundredfold!
For man is man when he is purified
From sin; not pleased and rich or wise and old:
Yes, man is man when man has died!
This dying life, my ruin and my ruth."

And more, she told me, "Wait." That word rang clear.
Projecting stillness, she became a song
Of patience, without bustle, noise, or fear,
Like lying still in bed, or righted wrongs,
Like a warhorse, resting powerful hoof.

As dawn-light broke on day, and on my brain
She left me, with a whisp'ring echo of her tune
Still resounding 'tween my ears. To know again
What then I knew beyond unknowing
I, waking, now am searching like a slueth.

But so it is! Praise the Lord of souls!
The ever-living Father, Son and Ghost!
So be it, God! So be it! Spirit, pull
Into grace this soul and her body-host,
and burn from me all that which is uncouth!

A Paraphrasis

"Forgive the ponderousness of these ponderings
('Are you used to it now' I am wondering?)
Poor communicative skills in the face
Of important realities takes so much space
To approach even approximately
That which I only imperfectly see. "

Ends and Means - a Silly Poem

Along the hoary timeline
Of poet-gods and kings,
Those singers of the song and rhyme,
All ringing, jingling things,
There comes a one (or two)
Of such who use archaic speech
In silly ways, like "pard" or "froo"
Their somber truth to teach.
Immortal souls, in mortal bod's?
It cannot be denied!
These men were more like manly-gods
Who see and sing with pride!
For from their dusty spirit-box,
Behind their earthy-eyes,
The holy hand of Spirit knocks
And shines the heav'nly cries!
But some times, roaring, in a rage
Their words resound and shout! --
And sometimes, silly, in a word,
They merely peepeth out.

Poverty

Poor man am I, Lord, in all things good,
Barefoot and covered by dirt and daily grime.
I've walked by houses where riches abound,
Felt phantom silk cushions under my head at night,
Gaped at wild strawberries, nuts, and lamb roast,
Tinkling glasses, lovely bowls and spoons,
Fine cabernet, fresh bread lightly toasted,
In large, ornate, well-adorned, softly-lit rooms.
I've dug through trash to find my next meal,
Spent freezing evenings in autumn air,
Worn tired-out wool shirts, rough to the feel,
And wandered about, too tired and lost to care...
I saw, dimly, a well-lit house in the night.
You brought me in, killed the calf, bathed, clothed, and fed me with light.