Psalm 121:2

("My Help Comes from the Lord")

A carpet of golden
yellow, a spiritual journey sown by the
breath of the Creator’s
hand Himself, and there
I behold the faintest outlines of
a path, and ginkgo
petals beckon to cushion
the soles of my feet – and to assuage
any underlying fears and
autumnal doubts of where
I am, and where
righteousness leads.

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.^***

Sisters

(“Lord, Don’t You Care That My Sister
Has Left Me to Do All the Work by Myself?”) *

O’, bumblebee,
engrossed and enveloped
as you are,
captured in this
split-second beatific
vision of the core
of Beauty, are
you like Martha,
busy and bustling,
or rather like Mary – seated
rapt in listening at
the font and foot of the
Teacher’s lips, His
words pouring forth,
pollinating and
bathing, Martha the
moments missing, Mary
them in her heart
saving…?

Grace

O my Lord,
You so easily peer into
my heart, winding Your way
deftly and knowingly through the darkened
corridors and staircases
and recesses of my soul –
and alas You find
me, on a slab in a drab
burial cloth, hidden
behind a hewn rock hitherto
unrolled – but just as in
the Garden of Eden when
You found Adam and Eve in leaves
aft their fall clothed, and
just as for Lazarus in
Bethany four-days aft his
death be told, You mercifully
summoned me forth,
and grace’s white raiment You
chose I wore.

Luke 8: 43-48

"Who Touched Me?"

Lord, there You are — the
Only-Begotten Son of God,
the Word, the Word Made Flesh,
the Word Incarnate,
the Lamb of God … And
You are veiled behind this small,
metallic, tabernacle door, and
I am alone with You, and
all I have to do is to open the
tabernacle door, not
with a key but with
my heart, or to just lightly
touch the exterior metal, like
the woman with the
chronic bleed once did with
the hem of Your garment — from
whence You felt an
indescribable rush of
Your power into her flesh,
stoppering her bleed
forever, while around You the
crowd continued its
seemingly inexhaustible,
irrepressible press.