O Most Holy,
O Most Inspiring,
O Most Enlivening
Fount of Daily Renewal:

overflow abundantly upon our dust

that the stiff joints of our spirits
might leap
with joyful wonder,

that the bleary eyes of our hearts
might open
to recognize you,

that the dragging feet of our faith
might race
to your next revelation.

We drink you in with thirsty delight,
no longer numb to holiness,
no longer wary of life,
but renewed.

Clinging to Metaphors

We are underwater.
Let there be a Rock that is higher.

We are weary and worn.
Let there be a Peace beyond understanding.

We are frustrated, impatient.
Let there be a Seed in every season.

We are heartbroken.
Let there be a Fire to gather us together.

We are frantic, anxious, scattered.
Let there be a Plumb Line that remains steady.

For the sake of our salvation,
O Most Inscrutable God,
let there be metaphors.


Listen to the roar
of your people’s prayers,
O Holy Lamb,
as our spirits growl
with hunger for your healing.
Bend your woolly ear in sympathy
as these great egos of dust
mew for comfort.
We ask:
do not mind
our snarls or teeth,
for in deep pain and distress
we have become
in our woundedness,
we have stalked your grace
as though it’s the enemy.
O Lamb of God,
fold us
into your flock
in an answer to prayer.

Burial (Holy Saturday)

Let me wrap, and wrap, and wrap this pain.
Let me bind it tightly to stop the bleeding
that is no longer. Let me anoint this agony
with frankincense and myrrh. Let me wash
the grit from the wounds so that suffering
does not soil the interment, the goodbye,
the letting go, the walking away, the end.
Do not fault me extra linens or quiet space;
there is no return to the joy that once was.
Carry on and in a while I will follow, but
for now death has my time and attention.