Sonnet

O!                                                      

Holy is the God of riven flesh

who gathered to His Name an hallowed tithe

ere setting in the felling of His scythe,

enfolding Adam’s severed get to thresh.

How faithful is the Lord of spattered blood –

the life thereof enduing oath with breath –

unto the purchased merit of His death,

on which the witness-stone is firmly stood.

And sovereign Wisdom makes the guarantee

of utt’rance from sincere and callow nerve;

consumes the curse of faithlessness deserved,

blows blessing o’er a child’s audacity.

So three unbreaking strands perform a cord.

So broken man is bound by living Word.

~

“I will tell you what I will do and what I will not do. I will not serve that in which I no longer believe, whether it calls itself my home, my fatherland, or my church: and I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use -- silence, exile, and cunning.” ― James Joyce

Sonnet

Bid me not: Speak! My blessings? Few remain,

though imprecations clamour at the hour.

One Word already answers rebels’ glower,

and I will not feed malcontent disdain.

No. I was made to speak, if not be heard.

What difference, then, to sermonize the sea?

Testify to a mountain? Teach a tree

to parse on its own tattooed skin a Word?

No. Ear and tongue alike for glory serve.

So, wants my grey betwixt surpassing wit –

an iron spur, a gleaming silver bit

to lead, by dint of deeds, where each deserve.

No. Horse and chariot prove a faithless tool.

As I must speak, I will do as Your fool.

~

On Grieving

Give Sorrow meat commensurate to all

the grace allowed by hospitality.

Her plate with Maror garnish liberally,

lest she devour your coffers in her gall.

And dance with her; one turn around the floor

to minor key and awkward step. Forfend

that she should name the song; hers does not end

ere tears are spent and hearts left mean and poor.

Pour her a measured glass of heady wine.

Come! Toast her misbegotten dreams and health!

I’ll buy the bottle, drink the rest myself;

Her visitation’s bill, in part, make mine.

Tomorrow let her speed her noisome way.

Content may have her room and, welcome, stay.

~

12.18.18

Written on the occasion of a pair of deaths close to friends.

sonnet

The worst of it is how you blithely flit

upon the moistened corner of my eye;

unbidden swing on lilt of thoughtless sigh,

jig windily from ghastly braided wit.

The worst of it is in the madd’ning itch –

red runnels ragged-torn mayn’t exhume

your disquiet from sallow, nerveless tomb.

False life makes jest of hope with every twitch.

The worst of it is startling from your breast

to echoes of my name; their pleading chains

encumb’ring day by haunted nights’ remains –

cold iron lies your lordly eyes attest.

The worst of it; the sweetness of your breath

would charm, but for the honest reek of death.

~

The Shepherd's Voice

 The sheep will know the Shepherd's voice,

be led to living brook and lea

in valleys green with all good things,

their hearts to know satiety.

They quench their thirst by shaded springs

and never fail for want, but blest

to enter His untroubled fold,

lay down their heads in easy rest.

The flock will know the Shepherd's voice

and through the vale of doubt and dread

no stone will turn beneath their hoof

nor chasm snare them, faithfully led.

Their wending, narrow way is proof

against the sucking bog and mire;

nor hungry darkness swallow those

who trace the Shepherd's lantern-fire.

A lamb will know his Shepherd's voice

and heed no stranger's thieving tongue.

He, taught his own peculiar name,

leaps joyfully to hear it sung.

Nor wanders far to guilt and shame -

a gentle staff corrects his head

to fields where lost and rescued lambs

before him have been safely led.

The wolves sure know the Shepherd's voice - 

they howl in trembling fear and rage. 

Their flanks have felt His staff and sling,

bear wounds no balm can e'er assuage.

He spoke to spoil their gnash and sting,

He sings and scatters wide their horde!

No precious lamb have they devoured;

Their teeth have shattered on His Word.

The Lamb did know His Shepherd's voice -

loved hearing it, loved to obey.

Silent, raised no complaining bleat,

nor from His holy side could stray

ere, found both flawless and complete,

The Shepherd gave Him to the Priest

who proffered, one and once for all,

a fragrant, flaming altar-feast.

~

AMDG

11.4.18

MOUNTAINS BOW

Stones of faithful testimony - 

by the Word of YHWH raised - 

faultless, witness Christ unchanging,

He by their unfailing praised.

Yet shall mountains fail and falter,

crumbling, fill the eye-dark sea

ere the Word of second advent

bids all realms to bend the knee.

Forth the prophets' cry is echoing:

"make ye straight the desert way!"

Valleys, rise to meet His footfall.

Heights, your crowns in fealty lay. 

Wastes and wilds make true your highways,

leave no stone to strike His toe.

You are cast to service glory;

every lesser task forego.

Christ shall ride in doom and triumph,

peaks shall pave His saints' parade.

'Neath the tread of True and Faithful

shall all soaring tor be laid.

Holy Zion bows her mantle;

shall be raised a lasting throne!

Humble sons of mercy's warrant

worship God in Christ alone.

~

A friend commissioned this one. He's been putting together a tune for it. Maybe when he gets something worked up I'll be able to link to it from here. 

AMDG