John 11:35

("Jesus Wept")

All the people whom
Jesus helped – the little people,
the poor, the outcasts,
the marginalized, almost all of
whom are unknown and
unreferenced in the Gospels, those
people, these people,
became like drops of moisture
in the quiet, sweet waters
of the 23^rd Psalm.
In their anonymity, they
assumed their place
in the community of saints,
and outward they
rippled over all of Palestine,
shouting hosannas in
the present tense of “I AM”
rhyme.

John 20:29

(“How Happy Are Those Who Believe Without Seeing Me!”)

And so tonight the dark
rolls over me, and my soul sighs,
and I let the effects
settle and stay upon me,
because there is
naught to do otherwise,
except to watch as
do sentinels for daybreak,^*
when God’s face over
my doubt rises.

Saving Mercy

O Lord, “create in me
a clean heart” and wash the soiled
memories and reasonings
from the murals to which I cling.^*
“Leadeth me beside the
still waters,” wherefrom Your Love can
bathe my soul in Beauty.^**
O Lord, “create in me
a clean heart,” and I, in surety, can in
Your sheepfold rest in peace,
dipping my gourd into
Your living spring, eternally
slaking what before
could not be relieved.^***

Creature

O Lord, You held me
cupped in Your hands, cradled
in Your arms. You made
me to tenderly lie against
Your bosom. You formed me and
shaped me until I was as
close to Your image and likeness
as a human creature could
become, and then You
looked into my face and
breathed my name, and like a
tiny mustard seed in
the womb You placed me –
into the innocent,
lush garden of an in utero,
warm enclave.^*

But for the Mercy of God

Matthew 7:1-3

(“And with the Measure You Use, It Will
Be Measured to You”)

As if by a lightning flash
across the sky, I am illuminated in
all my nakedness! As if by a
sword, I am eviscerated
and ripped asunder, my quarters
tossed to wild dogs fighting
neath this table of raging thunder!
I am to be measured by
how I measure?! I am to
be judged by how I judge?!
All is hopelessly lost!
My cup once full is now
carelessly spilled, the
oil for anointing wasted, and
all the finest, aromatic
perfumes egregiously misused.
It is too late to unbury all
the bodies I buried. It is too late
to do anything to assuage
the hurt. The battleground lies
scorched under a blazing-
hot sky, and all I can see
are reapers picking at bones
littered ‘cross this field of
hard-bitten, unforgiving desert,
where banshees screech
that my heart lacked the human
compassion of eyes, and
wolves and ravens now jostle for
any entrails remaining.

Leo Carroll
March 31, 2025
Westford, Massachusetts

Photo by Brandon Morgan (via Unsplash.com)