ash wednesday

Because I do not hope to turn again
Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
I no longer strive to strive towards such things
(Why should the aged eagle stretch its wings?)
Why should I mourn
The vanished power of the usual reign?

Because I do not hope to know again
The infirm glory of the positive hour
Because I do not think
Because I know I shall not know
The one veritable transitory power
Because I cannot drink
There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again

Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and
I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice

And pray to God to have mercy upon us
And pray that I may forget
These matters that with myself I too much discuss
Too much explain
Because I do not hope to turn again
Let these words answer
For what is done, not to be done again
May the judgement not be too heavy upon us

Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
But merely vans to beat the air
The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
Smaller and dryer than the will
Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still.

Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death
Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

-T S Eliot, "Ash-Wednesday"

well that turned into a rant rather quickly

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.


Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sovereign will.


Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.


Judge not the lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.


His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.


Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.

-William Cowper, “Light Shining out of Darkness”

The man who wrote these words lived a tragic life. His mother died when he was six. He was in love with his cousin at a young age but was barred from marrying her by her father. Neither ever married. He suffered from severe depression his entire life, attempting suicide multiple times. During some of his breakdowns, he was convinced that he was damned to hell for eternity and believed that God was asking him to take his own life as a sacrifice. He died as he lived, hopeless and despairing.

But out of this tragic figure flowed poetry which has lifted souls to soaring heights for centuries. This hymn has reduced me to tears on more than one occasion.  What a fascinating human being.  His writing is made all the more beautiful by knowing his background.  People are drawn to this kind of person.  One of his closest friends was pastor and reformed slave trader John Newton, who penned “Amazing Grace.”  John Piper, when preparing a lecture on him, wrote:

“I devoted about three days from waking till sleeping to William Cowper, besides leisurely reading of his poetry up till that time. Those three days I was almost entirely outside myself as it were. Now and then I "came to" and became aware that I had been absorbed wholly in the life of another. But most of the time I was not self-conscious. I was not thinking about me at all.”

So often are beautiful lives carved out of unfortunate circumstances. Out of struggle, and longsuffering, and pain. As Christians, there is often pressure to be cheerful and rejoicing at all times. “Smile, Jesus loves you!” Well, sometimes, I don’t freaking feel like it. Is that okay? Sometimes the futility of life and the weight of the world take its toll. Sometimes it is hard to feel the way we are "supposed" to feel. Sometimes what we know in our heads refuses to travel the twelve inches down to our hearts. Some people are able to ignore those doubts or, even better, bear them with some otherworldly display of grace. I am not one of those people.

Is it beneficial to hide how we feel? I mean, it is not realistic to respond to every "How are you?" with "Oh God the world is eating my face," but some people are so practiced at faking happiness that they convince even themselves of it. Maybe that is where happiness comes from to begin with. But how much weight does that brand of happiness carry?  The Jesus I picture is a burdened, heavy hearted individual, aware of the weight of his responsibility. I find that quality to greatly magnify the beauty of his existence.

I wonder if William Cowper or any number of artists would trade away their suffering if it meant the loss of their art. If it meant living carefree but trivial lives. Sometimes I wonder if I purposely dwell on the darker facets of existence in an attempt to imbue some kind of deeper meaning into what I do. So far I have only discovered that I cannot force myself to be an optimist, or an extrovert. What end will come from who I am I do not yet know.

seize

maybe God works in seasons
and this winter He has made
you a snowfall covering dead branches

even if spring must come to melt
you away, know that you have helped
make coldness bearable

may your voice

May your voice cry bodily out of my chest
May your tears fill my eyes for your children oppressed
May your feet carry me 'till I come to your rest
May your light illumine my inky darkness

I was led to the garden, I knelt there and wept
And I shook like a leaf in a rainstorm
And I heaved my sin up
Against your forgiveness
For who am I but a seed amongst thorns

It caught on the cross in whose shadow I crept
Come quickly, Lord Jesus, I long for your rest

-Isaac Watters

psalm 56

He counts the sorrows of his saints,
Our groans affect his ears;
He keeps a book for my complaints,
A bottle for my tears.
Sons of violence, sons of lies
Devour my life, O Lord
But as my hourly dangers rise,
My refuge is thy Word.

When to thy throne I raise my cry,
The wicked fear and flee
So swift is prayer to reach the sky,
So near is God to me.
O, most holy, just and true,
In thee I place my trust
Nor will I fear what man can do
The offspring of the dust.

Thy solemn vows are on me Lord,
Thou shalt receive my praise;
I sing, "How faithful is thy Word,
How righteous all thy ways!"
Thou hast saved my soul from death,
O set they prisoner free!
That heart and hand, and every breath,
May be employed for thee.

-Isaac Watts, 1719

words in motion

You feel what you feel.
You think what you think.
You do what you do.

What I feel is difficult to express.
What I think is not always what I feel.
What I do matters but does not define me.

lunch break

Need to retreat once in a while.
Wrapped in the roar of wind and wave, interrupted only by
Jet engines overhead.

Reminders of how to be still.
Pelican glides along sand, wing tip passing three feet from face.
Not quite a haiku.

Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they?
-Matt 6:26

the road not taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no feet had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

-Robert Frost, 1920

One of my favorite poems from high school.

degrees

The difference between
The Lukewarm and the
Cold is that the Cold
Know they are missing
What the Lukewarm assume
They have.

to be young again

to return to innocence...

when life was simpler...

and joy needed no excuse.

sonnet

From the far star points of his pinned extremities,
cold inched in—black ice and squid ink—
till the hung flesh was empty.
Lonely in that void even for pain,
he missed his splintered feet,
the human stare buried in his face.
He ached for two hands made of meat
he could reach to the end of.
In the corpse’s core, the stone fist
of his heart began to bang
on the stiff chest’s door, and breath spilled
back into that battered shape. Now

it’s your limbs he comes to fill, as warm water
shatters at birth, rivering every way.

-Mary Karr [via]

25 and counting...

Haha, I wrote this a year ago. Ah, sweet irony.

roses are red and violets are blue,
it's valentine's day and i'm thinking of you

for all of you staffers, no, friends I call you,
take heart and stand fast, Love, you have found true

Love, the kind with a capital "L,"
Love that binds to save us from hell

Love for things beyond life on this earth,
Love, divine, to wash off the dirt

for all of the candies in all of the world,
for all of the flowers for all of the girls,

does not, cannot, compare, you should say,
to being a staffer on valentine's day.

/////////////
happy single awareness day!
02.14.08