Hymn of Praise

Within the hidden silence of the womb
the foetus quietly grows,
cells dividing to variously become
eyes, ears, fingers, nails, toes,
soft bone, beating heart, brain and lung,
one of many miracles on earth-
the bringing of sentient life to birth.

From the flower comes the seed
that drops upon the forest floor:
humble, small, dull of colour
but carrying in its tiny core
tales of roots, trunk, flowers and leaves
from which even the sequoia can soar.

The fresh rain that waters the earth
in storm, drizzle or gentle shower
the sun has lifted from the sea
and suspended by its mighty power
in vaporous air or condensing cloud
until, in ceaseless, cyclical motion,
in rivers it returns to the great salt ocean.

I sense a power behind the rain,
a hand drawing plants from the ground,
a mind behind the light of the womb
forming this earth where miracles abound,
and before this greatness I bow my knees
in gratitude for life, beauty and love
and in awed and silent wonder
lifting my eyes to the sky above,
request that this life of mine can raise
in acts of learning, love and thankfulness
my own small humble hymn of praise.

Faces of Faith

There are many ugly faces of faith
for all the world to see-
black garbed murderers with hearts of hate,
cruel minds carrying faggots to the fire,
complacently unlovely self-elected ones,
the self congratulatory proud,
those quick to judge, scorn and condemn
whilst turning their backs on those in need,
abusive shepherds feasting on their flocks,
the sourly ascetic,
the argumentative and blindly ignorant
claiming the keys to truth-
too many with hearts obdurately hard
hiding behind a self-righteous facade.

Yet I have read of faces of faith
with a strange, unique beauty-

the harlot who dared invade
a Pharisee's rich feast
to sob at the feet of the Nazarene
in helpless flood of tears
so abundant they washed his feet;
who kissed them, loosed her hair to wipe them dry
and poured upon them precious perfume,
asking nothing but to give these tokens of love
whilst all around her in tight-lipped silence
uglier faces internally grumbled and condemned-

or the sad old woman
unable to straighten herself,
bent double for eighteen long years,
who one day in amazement
heard his voice bid her to come
and in simple trust shuffled her slow way
around the dividing partition,
across the gender barrier,
through the crowd of men
to stand before him in humble obedience
in the synagogue's scandalised hush-

or that man of little stature,
an ostracised, much hated tax collector,
denied what he so desired
by the elbowing, shoving, blocking crowd
and who in desperation rushed ahead
to climb a sycamore tree,
requiring for himself nothing more
than a momentary glimpse through the leaves
of the humble glory passing by.

Three outcasts,
who in simple faith each only desired
to love, to heed, to glimpse,
feeling that this was as much as they could expect
from a world that held them in contempt.
Yet it was to them recognition came.
They heard thrilling words
and their hearts surely surged.
Tenderly, to the sobbing harlot:
"Go in peace. Your faith has saved you"
Clearly, placing both hands on the bent back:
"Woman, you are loosed from your infirmity."
Looking up at the little, despised man in the tree:
"Come down. I will stay with you.
Salvation has come to your house."

Then, amid much ugliness,
there are true faces of faith
that grow as years progress,
perhaps, like those three from old,
beginning in recognition and humility,
developing in gentleness of mind,
compassion, understanding and mercy,
always desiring to be patient and kind
and putting on love, like a cloak,
in lives of simple praise,
not entirely motivated by the great reward,
but in purity of heart and adoration
and as an inadequate response for glimpsing,
momentarily through the leaves from a tree's branch,
the incandescent glory and wonder of the Lord.

dance with me

come, dance with me
and let your palm lightly meet with mine
dance with me to this music
which plays in urgent time
dance with me in pastel dawn
and through the morning dew
look, the world is dancing
and surely we must too.

come, dance with me
and let our brimming hearts rejoice
as we surrender to the beauty
of music, colour and voice
oh listen carefully now
to how the music grows
and new melody upon melody
inevitably swells and flows

come dance with me
when change of key the hint of sorrow brings
when timpani resounds and tuba laments
to discordant plucking from strings
for fields of lament must surely come
but keep your hand in mine
and we will dance past sorrow and grief
in our own three four time.

So dance with me
through fields where flowers bloom in spring
dance with me
beyond the canyons that bitterness and envy bring
dance with me
past arid land of war and lust and hate
dance with me
past the blind and thoughtless ravages of fate
dance with me
to keep away the darkness of the night
dance with me
to bathe me in your beauty and your light
dance with me
as close and tightly fitted as a glove
dance with me and hold me
in this enfolding dance of love.

Pockets Stuffed with Hope

I'm walking, pockets stuffed with hope,
along this undulating track,
littering the trail behind
with weights unwanted from my pack.

I'm following that distant star.
I've got it clearly in my sight.
I hear its music and its dreams.
I'm guided by its light.

I hear the darkened river,
I feel its surging tide
and then I hear the music floating
from the unknown other side.

I well know that its great flow
must float all flesh away,
yet I dream as I lie down
of rising on the coming day.

and in my pockets that weight of hope
grows each day a little stronger
and I look both forward and behind
in awe and love and wonder,

filled with hope for the road ahead
which steadily rises as it winds,
enriched and strengthened for each day
by the long road stretching behind.

Is It Not Enough

flare of colour in the clouds
sun rising from behind the sea
restless rippling breeze gently
touching water, sand and tree

fragile freshness of sparkling dew
distant rumble from purple cloud
hint of heavy afternoon heat
night's silent dark shroud

moonlight lying on the swell
velvet wonder of the night
silent mystery of the deep
studded diamond points of light

I raise my eyes in wonder
towards evening's vast solemnity,
toward those distant fading stars,
great symbols of eternity

sensing that there is something
invisible, veiled from sight
that if I could but reach and tear
I could glimpse a realm of light

and revelations
words can never convey,
unutterable visions of life's
secret mystery of breath and clay

into such dimensions
only few have ever seen,
holy men in ages past
in prophecy, vision and dream

but all have the colour of cloud
the sparkle of the dew
the moon upon the water
the sky's ethereal blue

and is it not enough to gaze
in wonder and in awe
at the phosphorescence lapping
so close upon the shore.

This Passing Day.

It seems to me that the brittle-bright morning
when we first loved
was the glistening shimmer of dew drop
when momentarily all the world's wealth was ours
and time seemed held in fragile crystal stop.

Now, in this late afternoon,
the sky is still clear and the sinking sun
more intensely beautiful than it was long ago.
Who can know if night will suddenly fall
or day stretch on past midnight
in muted, dimming, surreal twilight.

No matter. Each transient moment is rich with joy
and passing time has been our strange friend,
gifting us a plaited golden cord that twists and entwines,
tying us richly to each other
and to the present, past and unknowable future.

Its threads are love tested and tempered by fire;
children's laughter and tears;
shared faith, a vision of hope of a new day
dawning and dispelling the dark;
entanglement of other lives with ours;
ten thousand thousand little moments
unbreakably wound, twisted and plaited together.

So come, take my hand.
That fragile morning is long gone.
Evening must fall but the stars promise light,
an awakening from the darkness of night.
We have lived and loved together,
shared in glory throughout the long passing day.
Is this not enough? It must be enough.
It is much more than enough.

Love is a Torch.

Joseph's brothers threw him down a well
then sold him as a slave,
yet when he held them in his power
he hugged, he blessed and he forgave.
"I am Joseph, your brother!"
was his heart-felt, sobbing cry.

Love is a torch
to lead you through the dark,
a high and sunlit place,
a clear and cloudless sky.

Stalin sat up late at night
marking victim's names off a list.
Was it really twenty million who fell
beneath his ruthless, crushing fist?
"Lest one of them threatens me," he thought,
"they all must surely die."

The merry-go-round slowly turns
with its choice of horses to ride,
cankerous beasts of revenge, resentment,
folly, heartache and murderous pride.

The Pilgrim Fathers fled to a new world
in search of religious liberty.
There they tried and hanged their brethren
for the "crime" of blasphemy.
"Such abomination," they declared,
"can in no way ever be spared."

The merry-go-round slowly turns
with its choice of horses to ride,
cankerous beasts of jealousy, bigotry,
hypocrisy, greed and murderous pride.

The Son of Man healed, taught and blessed,
freely giving, never counting the cost.
He was betrayed, ridiculed and flogged
and then cruelly nailed to a cross.
"Father, forgive them" were His words
before he bowed His head and died.

Love is a torch
to lead you through the dark,
a high and sunlit place,
a clear and cloudless sky.