soundofmanywaters

  Meditation on the body of Christ Lord, at your feet I fall, that holy place where lepers and harlots lie, and parents plead life for a dying child; so, grasping grace, I touch your wounded feet, and tell my need. Your arms reach out to hold my grief and shame, to lift me up, and heal, and set me free; Your broken hands roll back the stone of blame to bring new life, and now take hold of me. But how shall I look up into your face, Your eyes consuming with their unmade light? For love unbounded burns me in your gaze And I must die to live within your sight. Your feet, your hands, your shining face, these three Are mercy, power and endless love to me. This poem forms the concluding part of a spiritual exercise in which I invite people to spend time at the feet of Jesus: when they feel the have received, to be held in the hands of Jesus: and when they are ready, to gaze into the face of Jesus. The feet of Jesus form the place of the Cross, the hands of Jesus are the place of Resurrection

 Living Water Little bottle at my elbow, can it be that you have shared in the world-encircling surf and surge, that you threw yourself on the shore to break cliffs and drown cities that you danced with the moon your lover and beat with the steady breathing of the earth, that you were home to shark and sponge and Beryl in a bikini? O can it be that the sun your father warmed you and called you higher, that your brother the wind chased you rapturously round the skies to make diamonds together, swifter than Superman and more gaudy? Did you invent a billion new shapes as you drifted over the mountains and hardened into the monsters that grind them away? Or did you fall as swift rain that quickens the earth and spurns it as you spurted through its valleys  to surge in the seas again? How can it be that we caught you and moulded you to our plastic will? That you wait, servant-like, in the shape we assigned you until the time comes to pour forth again? If it be that I may taste of so holy a

  Ashburnham Woods Nothing hurts the eye's peace But a leaf's small trembling: Only the tree-dew dropping Plops in the ear's stillness: Here in this small pause Life's million wars upon the heart Let lapse away, release The grip kept tight about the soul, That she too may enter on peace. Now is the pure moment Of my unquiet residence In this two yards of clay, You and I as all: I in my swamp of hope, Memory and desire, You In the pure circle of eternity And Your circle touches me And the word of Your touch is love.

Pause Sixth Day - almost done. Are we sure we’re ready? Light? Good one! Check. Firmament? Still firm. Check. Land? Alps and orchards, heaths and beaches. Check. Stars? Sun, Moon, Saturn, oceans of galaxies. Check. Birds? Fish and wiggly things? Check. Animals? Hooting, howling, squeaking, squealing. Check. All set then. But are we sure? Can they bear the burden of the Image? Will they speak the lyric of the Word? Eternity paused. And in that pause God dreamed, and in that dream Were burning forests, air unbreathable, Rivers and seas were slicked with liquid filth, Machines for mincing people into mud Rattled and shuddered, while a billion tongues Cursed and lamented, insults, taunts and lies… And drowning in that tide of hate, Himself, Naked and pierced to the marrow, giving all. Time woke again, with a sigh that shivers Trembling through every made thing. And God said, “Let us make man…”