Another Funereal Hymn

Abide with Me, My son. The yield

of heav'n's twelve-bearing tree - 

whose boughs will see the nations healed - 

is yours in guarantee.

Your virgin love is precious gold

for which, by which, are you taken hold!

Rise up, My saint, to overcome -

a crown awaits your brow.

Though pain and suffering did come,

and death did I allow,

the second death you will not see.

Put on your immortality!

Eat of the hidden bread, My child

who passed 'neath Satan's throne,

your name by pagan priests reviled.

A new name, grav'n in stone,

bears witness that you never quailed,

and your reward will never fail!

Stand, little priest. On ev'ry side
My zealous wrath must fall;

no whoredom should bestain My bride,

nor sorc'ries gain My hall.

The Morning Star has lit your way;

your iron rod will shatter clay!

Lay down the yoke, slave for My sake

who strengthened what remained,

whose hopeful spirit watched, awake -

white garments you have gained.

Your blood-writ name, by Me confessed,

is sworn by YHWH ever-blest!

My witness, through the open door

no pow'r may bar your way,

nor steal your crown, nor trial you more.

Our Names you will display.

Who spurned the synagogue of Hell - 

Come! Ceaseless in My temple dwell!

Sit down, O man, with Christ your King

upon that throne I earned.

Your words refreshed - a living spring;

your deeds with fervor burned.

Your ears heard, now your eyes will see.

Well done. I AM yours eternally!

~

AMDG

Written on the occasion of the death of a Saint.

Congregation

Arrayed in aether, cloaked in weighty void

the heavens declare Your righteousness. These stars

attend allotted lines, appointed hours,

by purpose anchored; yea, by splendor buoyed.

Bedecked in bulb and blade and blossom sweet

this garden, sown below, her bounty bears;

her generations stars and sand. They, heirs

of first command, fill all her spheres replete.

Concealed from chastening light and cleft from breath,

from grave-quiet lips Your Name receives due fear;

a trembling toward the day You will appear

to reconcile all faithless debt in death.

So,    

                                           Adam, son divine and grace-attired:

what worship by your order is required?

~

AMDG

5.2.20

Praise Jesus Christ the hallowed bread

who, daily, shows Himself enough;

who, broken, feeds the hung'ring host

and wholly sates their uttermost.

Not "what," but "Whom?" - High heav'nly stuff

to resurrect the starven dead.

Praise Jesus Christ, true worship's light

whom darkenss has not overcome - 

Proceeding from His thund'ring throne,

consuming ox and wood and stone.

Where He proceeds must night succumb,

blind men receive unclouded sight.

Praise Jesus Christ the certain gate.

Foundations set in faultless rock

hold fast against presumptive claim.

His own pass through, each called by name -

Obediently, in faith they knock

to enter YHWH's vast estate.

Praise Jesus Christ who guards His sheep

from precipice, or lion's teeth.

He leads to lea and living spring

and casts the shadow of His wing

to comfort we who rest beneath,

entrusting Him our peace to keep.

Praise Jesus Christ who conquered death,

the doom of dust. Grave Sheol's deep 

He stirred to praise with lordly cries,

for joy bid faithful sons "Arise!

Forsake Gehenna's smould'ring heap!

Ascend, imbued with Spirit-breath!"

Praise Jesus Christ, unerring way - 

by lantern lit, by star known true - 

whose uncut stones a hope foretold,

a giving way from clay to gold.

Saint's silenced steps will ring anew

on YHWH's great and terrible day.

Praise Jesus Christ the laden vine,

well-dressed, so bearing heavy fruit.

Pruned deadwood stokes an earnest fire

whose incense rises ever high'r

while branches grafted in the Root

avail a lavish yield of wine.

Praise Jesus Christ, the great I AM,

slain from the world's foundation! He

who was, and is, and is to come,

subjecting all, has overcome!

Heav'n, earth, and grave give trembling knee

to Jesus Christ the risen lamb!

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.

~