Clouds touch down
through the gravity.
The field, self assured,
lies as a carpet
under the cream mist.
Bare feet on tufts
impress the humus.
Humility bends
like kneeling fog.
White Noise On The Morning
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Tag Archives: meditation
Once and Again. Boundless.
One more book,
one more song,
one more walk
in the spirit to see
One who swallows me.
The search continues for
Someone I have already found.
This quest of authenticity
resurrects dead poets,
theologians, and sages.
“The heavens’ embroidered cloths”
lie as dreams under Your feet.
I will tread softly on Your dreams.
You said it was all straw
yet I will gather the stalks
you left lie.
I will see the invisible fecundity
in the visible things
set in the dimmed light.
I shadow
contemporary
searchers of light.
Neil Diamond was lost
between two shores
to find out who he was.
Bruce Cockburn’s dance
with the everywhere truth
and the grace to lay it bare.
Michael W. Smith points to
the flesh and blood
of the I Am Love.
Then the great Author
names the lead
the Word.
A book,
a song,
a walk
in the cool of the day
and You show up.
Oh Hymnal, Where Art Thou? Isaac Watts, I love your hair, but your words lay me out.
The Heavens Declare Thy Glory, Lord
The heavens declare Thy glory, Lord;
In every star Thy wisdom shines;
But when our eyes behold Thy Word,
We read Thy name in fairer lines.
The rolling sun, the changing light,
And nights and days, Thy power confess;
But the blest Volume Thou hast writ
Reveals Thy justice and Thy grace.
Sun, moon, and stars convey Thy praise
Round the whole earth, and never stand;
So when Thy truth began its race,
It touched and glanced on every land.
Nor shall Thy spreading gospel rest
Till through the world Thy truth has run;
Till Christ has all the nations blest
That see the light, or feel the sun. Amen.
From Psalm 19
Isaac Watts, 1719
Taken from The Hymnbook
1719? Really? That is almost 300 years ago. If one would search for the old hymnbooks, Isaac Watts lyrics would be found in every one.
Isaac Watts (17 July 1674 – 25 November 1748) was an English hymnwriter, theologian and logician. A prolific and popular hymnwriter, he was recognized as the “Father of English Hymnody“, credited with some 650 hymns. Many of his hymns remain in use today, and have been translated into many languages. Wikipedia.
The hymnbooks seem to be a thing of the past. You will still find them in some churches tucked underneath the pews. You will find a copy on my desk leaning against a few Bibles. The hymnal is where there is to be found modern poetic psalms. Honestly, what else could Christians be up to back then but to think, read, pray, meditate, and work the land?
Like David of old out in the field, the hymn writers were those who studied the biblical text and chewed on it and likely were under compulsion to reiterate God’s intent in creative ways. We are the better for it.
It gives me pause. I wonder if my meditative capabilities atrophy in direct proportion to the distractions I allow. I need not wonder about that rhetorical statement!
Psalm 1:2 says: But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in His law he meditates day and night.
Go and read all of Psalm 1 and see what meditation on the law produces. I wouldn’t think that meditating on “the Law” would be that appealing in my limited understanding of the word “law”. Law equals boring. Nay, not so, says the psalmist.
Look at all of Psalm 19. You know, the Psalm that Isaac Watts reiterated so richly. (By the way, Psalm 19 is in the top five favorite psalms of mine.) Look at 19:7 to the end. Now the hymn makes so much more sense!
I confess it was my A.D.D. which aided me in reaching for the hymnbook. I reminisce way back to the little Baptist Church when I was a teen. “Stand with me please and turn in your hymnal to 259, The Heavens Declare Thy Glory, Lord. We will sing all four stanzas.”
Mother Mary. A Mother’s Day Reflection
She pondered these things in her heart.
Mothers do that quite often.
She kept all these things.
My mother did too.
An angel told Mary.
The power of the Highest will.
An overshadowing of foreshadows.
“For with God nothing will be impossible.”
All mothers are infused with possibilities.
They lay down their self dreams
and rest folded hands upon
their distended bellies.
Mary carried wonder
full term and delivered hope.
There was blood and water and child.
All mothers hold pasty skin to chest with awe.
My mother held each of us close for a moment.
A snip of the umbilical and the separation
began a journey of contemplation.
What will? What if? Life.
Mary’s path was set.
From empty womb to empty tomb
the realities of motherhood were multiplied.
The gestation in her heart left stretch marks of spirit.
Near the end Mary drank of the cup no mother should.
She wept just like Jesus and red drops fell
as sweat on her brow as she prayed.
Blood fell on her and for her.
No mother should lose a child.
My mother was ten for ten when she died.
She was spared Mary’s anguish under a broken sky.
Jesus spoke living words. “Woman, behold you son! Behold your mother.”
Even in death he loved her so and knew hers was an acquainted grief.
I wonder if Mary was one who anointed his body.
Those things she held in her heart poured
on and massaged in his skin.
Then came the first Mother’s Day.
Sunday he was birthed again to Mary’s arms.
The Rose of Sharon was given from her loving Father.
She then held him close and smelled the fragrance of redemption.
Saddle Light
It was riding the trail of early morning glow.
Hanging ‘round, low and quiet-like
with just enough belly light east.
A crescent pulling on a sunrise
as if it was one of the earthly tides.
It’s a nighttime circuit rider
preaching to the dark side of our circle.
It will pull on the thought waves
and push them onto the shore
like grains of stardust.
It reminded me that humility
is a slow steady moon walk.
“Walk on.”
Gerald the Writer 