Wednesday, February 24, 2021

Name-Friend

Bloody hands drip crimson
with ache and regret,
I broke the very thing
I tried so hard to protect

Flood after salty flood
cannot wash away
this guilt and all my shame,
these shards opening a vein

Dripping drops of love
that should be treasured,
yet now are spattered
about, given unmeasured

But whoever measured love?
Who taught it to go by rule?
Who said it wasn't messy?
No one—no one but a fool

A different fool am I,
who aches for doing right
and crushing joy
in the heart of a broken boy


Wednesday, February 17, 2021

Ash Wilderness












No ashes smudged my brow,
no fellow pilgrims gathered 'round,
no bread was pressed into my hand,
there was no wine for parchéd tongue
no taste of Christ's body or His blood

Instead, white flakes upon my crown
Ash-like, they blanketed the ground,
My empty home was filled
with candle glow and a beating heart
a chamber of blood for the body of Christ

Empty space became hallowed
my knees pressed in, head bowed;
Desolate darkness filled with little flames,
the silent void invaded by a chant
breaking forth from the Body of Christ

In this season of sadness bright
the valleys become hollows to catch light,
the negatives show up outlined clear—
Our Lent has been a year-long affair
sustained with only the Body of Christ

We who see the edges of dark
find the contrast stark 
between Advent's rising Sun and its setting,
where we befriend lament and night,
swallowing deep the body of Christ

'No ashes' leaves an empty space
where I learn to receive a crown of grace
for expectations unmet and things lost—
And a single heart is not alone
when it is part of the Body of Christ

Hollowed hands are a channel of
opportunity to be offered in love,
to be raised in repentance, 
and lifted in worship, open to be
the physical signs of Christ's body. . .