I Went to the Woods Angry...

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practise resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life…”1

—Henry David Thoreau

I went to the woods because I was angry. Hot tears threatened to spill over long-lashed rims and I did not quite know why. When I began throwing kitchen utensils, however, I knew one thing: it was time to hammer the ground with the soles of my feet in hopes of calming my soul. The two young men I passed in the Summer dusk of late-o’clock did not even attempt saying hello. I’m sure my face was stony, or at least, set like flint toward the direction I was steadily aiming.

My frustrations were many small things from recent days, weeks, and relationships that all came to roost after a particularly trying day at work. I came home looking for a relaxing long shower, only to find that without warning, my shower did not work. I snapped. I told myself that my anger was unwarranted—unreasonable, even. I spent some on-the-edge minutes at home thinking of all the good things about the day and week—and there were many good things. But no, the monster that changed all I could see into wave after wave of red tide swelled in my head, depleting oxygen from my brain and gratitude from my heart. On went my running shoes. Off I stalked in the late twilight.

Rain had beaten the tall, tender grasses into gentled submission, leaving plump droplets lying on those green beds. The rush and roar of the swift-racing stream pounded in my ears, faster than my feet could pound time on the earth. The pulse and throb of the world shifted as I stepped onto the dirt trail, smelling green summery smells, catching glints of fairy flickers along the path. Long I stood by a small stream laughing and chattering in the darkness, running to meet that swollen rush below. Long I listened to a solitary bird, echoing in the night. Ragged breath after breath was filled with the tang of the spicy firs. After some time of pouring out my heart to the Creator, those breaths came more slowly.

My feet found a rhythm in the evening dance. A slower, steadier pace, yet one often stopped. Once, by a host of white fairy-flowers, swaying with a gentle breeze. Again I was arrested by the change of smells as I rounded a bend or rose to a level mountain meadow. Scuffling and crunching on the hillside halted me—I caught three dim shapes, mule deer, putting a safe distance between us. The moon rose above the piney brow of the nearest foothill, shrouded in a veil of lingering clouds from an earlier storm. The diffused light rested on the clinging drops of rain, burnishing them to silver beads on grey-green strands. The Father of lights was arraying the world about me in all her glory and evening splendour.

Dark clouds engulfed the moon, the deer moved into further shade, the smells of the field sweetened and deepened. I turned back along the path, homeward bound, with a stillness inside that blossomed like those delicate, dancing flowerlets. I don’t know where I left my anger, but somewhere in that ramble it rushed away, like the stream after a storm. All that was left was Beauty and stillness, seeping into my senses through every pore. All along the path I was thankful for night flowers, fairy rings, the incense of the woods, and bird’s hymns.

I wanted to live deep and suck all the marrow out of life. I thought of that line as I padded home—having long loved the idea. But unlike Thoreau, the woods themselves are not my life-source sort of sustenance. My Light and Life lie in their Maker. He is the One who quiets my soul from things outside, his Spirit from within. He is the One who replaces anger with Shalom—perfect, peaceful well-being. He reminds me how small I am under the dome of stars or the great, dark boughs of the majestic pine. He shows me that just by doing bird things and signing bird-songs, the birds praise him because they are being what he made them. I am still learning to be human—a good and glorious thing—trying to know the uncracked, unfallen Son of Man in all of his glorious humanity.

I want to live deliberately, fully. I want to put away wrath. To do so, sometimes I have to  head for the woods; walking hard, breathing rough, and seeking the One who made both the forest and myself. He is in all places, of course, but I can’t always hear Him—my ears get deaf in the roaring whirlwind of everyday life-cares. I am thankful for the much needed evensong of wilderness and wet—let them live long, as Hopkins once said:

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.2

_________________

1. Thoreau, Henry David, Walden (New York: Penguin Group), 72

2. Hopkins, Gerard Manley, Poems and Prose "Inversnaid" (Middlesex, England: Penguin Books Ltd) 51

A Chalice Remade

Well-worn, chestnut-coloured floorboards creak beneath the many feet entering the hushed room. A reverent quiet is—mostly—kept, it is a time of preparation for the special yearly observance. My friend and I arrive early, a rarity for me, to settle our hearts and minds for the Ash Wednesday service. Yet my mind is awhirl, reflecting on the day's conversations, expectations, frustrations, and disappointments. In spite of outward tranquility, my thoughts are uneasy.

Without sound or ceremony, the clergy and chalice bearers file down the centre aisle. We stand until the vicar invites us to pray the Lenten collect. Then, kneeling before the King of all things, we seek to know that our sin is costly. Only the life-blood of God's own Son could buy us back from death, the paycheck of our sin. My heart sought to stay focussed, prodding my mind to read along, if listening alone was not enough.

The Epistle reading proclaimed that unfathomable paradox, that God "made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him"1, a text that baffles both my mind and heart most days. This evening, though, I read the familiar words wanting to be moved, expecting life, yet being disappointed in my expectation. God's word is not something I can use to contrive an emotional experience, thankfully. Only His Spirit at work in my heart and mind can bring truth alive. As I rose with my row to receive the imposition of ashes, I knew that I needed to be emptied of myself and my own chaotic thoughts.

Sweet-smelling charred palm dust smudged thumb and forehead. A cross marked upon my brow, as I knelt and heard the familiar words, "Remember that thou art but dust, and to dust thou shalt return." The service continued, but I found my mind coming back to my frailty. I am but dust? How can this be, when my body is the hale and healthy flesh of one just entering their thirties? Yet, I am not deceived by my feelings of immortality. Hiking in dangerous places and sliding on ice have both punctured my security at times. The recent, unexpected loss of a family friend in her early twenties reminds me that the breath in my lungs is always a gift.

I am fragile. This realisation makes me both afraid and angry. I don't want to be frail. I rebel at being made of clay, the "poor potsherd, patch, matchwood"2 that I am. I am the thing formed irritably asking my Maker, "Why have you made me like this?"3 God fashioned me to need things—from food and sleep, to intimate relationships and love. I wonder if my needs make me frail. No, sin makes me breakable—my needs make me vulnerable, open to depending on God and others, rather than only myself.

My fears of the unknown, the uncertainties haunting my thoughts, the turmoil of my whole day led me to cry out from my knees, "I am flying to pieces, God! Hold me together." The tiny sting of communion wine on my tongue turned my heart to God's reply, "I have fashioned you to be a chalice to bear me." Here I was asking God to hold me together—that my fragments would not turn to wounding shrapnel—and His response was to tell me, the thing formed, that I was to hold Him! This is the mystery, that the Maker inhabits the made—or maid, in the case of Mary. The Potter clothed Himself in clay. The ones who need to be held together by God will be made to hold God.

I walked out into the darkness of evening unafraid, because the Light Himself dwelt in me. My foaming thoughts were not immediately quelled, the questions inside were not somehow answered. Still, I wrestle with my flesh, with distractions and restlessness, with fear and uncertainty, with a complaining tongue and a heart of stone. Daily, I must ask to be emptied of myself and to be held together by God, that I might be filled—like a chalice of Eucharistic wine—with the Holy Spirit. This is the purpose the Maker has for the thing made—whether I am a clay pot or a silver chalice—to hold Him as He holds us together.

____________________

1. II Corinthians 5:21 (NKJV)

2. Hopkins, Gerard Manley, “That Nature is a Heraclitean Fire” Selected Poems and Prose (Harmondsworth, England: Penguin Books Ltd, 1982) 66

3. Romans 9:20b (NKJV)

All Scripture taken from the New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson.

When the Cards All Fold

Imagine Dragons begins their song "Demons" by painting the scene of a hopeless man in the cold, watching the cards fold. The only saints he can see are made of gold rather than flesh and bone. All that is good is extinguished from his life and he can turn nowhere for help because the problem lies with the demons inside... 

But what if the saints were clothed in sinews and skin? What if they had eyes of gold, or even brown, blue, green and every hue between? What if the saints reached out their hands to this flailing man, lost in the sea of deepest darkness? 

What if you were that saint?

Perhaps you think being a saint sounds farfetched, or too Catholic (or Orthodox), or more holy than you could be. You might be thinking of that egregious line bandied about in many Christians circles, "I'm just a sinner, saved by grace!" Let us set the record straight here and now: if you have been  "saved by grace"—redeemed by Christ—you are no longer a sinner, but a saint. 

The Apostle Paul makes this clear: "We know that our old self was crucified with Him in order that the body of sin might be brought to nothing, so that we would no longer be enslaved to sin. For one who has died has been set free from sin."* We are no longer enslaved by sin, no longer defined by sin. We cannot be both sinners and saints, for those are mutually exclusive natures. Not that saints cannot sin, we all live under the curse of the Fall and often allow it to come in to our lives. However, this means we are changed into a new creature now, in this life. We are transformed into hagios—a most holy thing, a saint—because the Spirit of God has made us His dwelling place. Like the Holy of Holies in the temple, our frail flesh is made the house of God.

"So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus himself being the cornerstone, in whom the whole structure, being joined together, grows into a holy temple in the Lord."**  We are being made into that holy temple, brick by brick, believer by believer, with Christ as our foundation and cornerstone—by Christ in us.

Christ in us is a now-and-not-yet reality. We are saints now—but we are still being sanctified, refined into the perfected likeness of Jesus. Put another way, "God came down and lived in this world as a man. He showed us how to live in this world, subject to its vicissitudes and necessities, that we might be changed, not into angels or storybook princesses, not wafted into another world, but changed into saints in this world."*** 

Do you realise the implications of this? It means that we are in the company of saints—those in history past to the ones yet to come. Those who have come before inspire—breathe life into—us to be like Christ. They were ordinary men and women who had struggles, thorns in the flesh, selfishness to overcome, sorrow, and loss, yet they kept their eyes on the LORD. They chose to lay not only all their sins but also their good works at the foot of the Cross to be sacrificed. 

We have been made saints, holy ones, with the great company of witnesses. We are not gilded and in the grave, we are able to reach out a corporeal hand to those in need, sorrow, or despair. As the dwelling place of God we carry Christ to the world, to one person at a time. Gerard Manley Hopkins eloquently penned it thus:

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces.****

___________________

* Romans 6:6-7 (ESVUK)

** Ephesians 2:19-21 (ESVUK)

*** Elliot, Elisabeth Be Still My Soul (Grand Rapids, Michigan: Baker Publishing Group, 2003) 57 (emphasis mine)

**** Hopkins, Gerard Manley As Kingfishers Catch Fire Poems and Prose (Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England: Penguin Books Ltd, 1982) 51

Photo Courtesy of Pintrest

Man's Smudge and Smell

[Advent: Week 2]

No, there was no Advent: Week 1 post. I think I was a walking dream the first week of Advent, due to lack of sleep. This week I have not caught up much on sleep, but I think I am winding my way back to the cadence of the season. I have been watching the dance from the sidelines and am trying to join in on the right step.

One of my favourite lines from poetry reminds me very much of what Jesus came to do through the Incarnation - to share man's smudge and wear man's smell. God, in Jesus, wore the flesh and bone, the smell of a man. He who knew no sin became the smudge of sin for us. It is these things that the Incarnation reminds my heart. He knows my temptations, trials, hopes, fears, sorrows, and joys, because He, too, is a man.

I have probably posted this poem ad nauseam, but it is worth reading and re-reading. It is worth hearing the soul and spirit of the poem; the soul and spirit of the Holy Ghost breathing life at our brink, into our lungs and into our lives.  

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

~ God's Grandeur, Gerard Manley Hopkins

In Ten Thousand Places

As today has been a lovely rainy day, I decided to record Hopkins's poem, "As Kingfishers Catch Fire" for fun. Many of the photos I took in England, a few I found on-line.

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his

To the Father through the features of men's faces.

The Discipline of Beauty

We must hunger after the Beautiful and good.
~ George Eliot

My friend, Sarah, has the above quotation emblazoned across her blog. As I am want to ponder Beauty often, it is no surprise that it is the centre of my current thoughts.

Shall I be bold? Yes. I will assert that Beauty is a tutor, leading us to think higher thoughts. She compels us to ponder that which is above, beyond, outside of our selves. When Scripture counsels us to 'worship the LORD in the Beauty of Holiness' what is it saying? I am persuaded that the Psalmist believes Beauty is a discipline that leads us to Holiness. In fact, Beauty is the Discipler whose being delights her students, imbuing them with God's Holiness. (Alluding to Sir Philip Sidney's idea that poetry teaches [truth] by delighting.)

Sometimes it is the Beauty of nature that raises our thoughts: a snow capped mountain range, a blazing sunset, the seaside cry of gulls, savoury woodsmoke on a crisp afternoon, or the sight and scent of rich earth, freshly ploughed. Nature's Beauty kindles our inner being, imparting to us the depth and riches of God's own Beauty and creativity.

What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and of wilderness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.

~ Gerard Manley Hopkins

Various facets of God are glimpsed by other Beauties. A piece of music can transport our souls to the very courts of Heaven. Evensong in the gloaming settles our hearts and minds. Birdsong commences the morning with verve. A scrap of writing, or a whole book, moves our very selves closer to God. Story and truth lift us out of ourselves, making us more than we were. A journey to a new country awakens our imaginations. Returning to a belovéd place rekindles joy-filled memories.

Recently I have come to delight in one particular Beauty. Rarely did I consider it when making mental lists of Beautiful things. It is the most exquisite of all Beauties, and extremely precious. It is what I have termed the Beautiful Soul. Such Beautiful Souls serve God faithfully without announcing themselves. They are eager beings. They long for more of God. They do not rush stillness and Beauty. They worship God with a depth that only sorrow and loss can cultivate. Their passions stem from an eagerness for God. The things that break their hearts are due to the Fall of man. They nourish their inner self, without neglecting the world of souls (in various states) around them. They are attended by an air of grace and humility.

Just writing about these Beautiful Souls brings joy to my heart. I have been extremely privileged to not only meet some of these persons, but they are some of my closest friends.

Blesséd, blesséd, blesséd be He!

~ Johanna

If you seek Beauty and goodness, read Sarah's blog: Thoroughly Alive. You will see that your soul is impoverished, but it shall be enriched by her thoughts, both fun and reflective.

Reading some of Sarah's reflections upon Beauty, painted in a tranquil, watercolour wash, my own musings soared up to meet the stars dappling the heavens - the above post is the result.

Nunc Dimittis: Simeon's Prayer

LORD, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace according to Thy word. For mine eyes have seen Thy salvation, Which Thou hast prepared before the face of all people; To be a light to lighten the Gentiles and to be the glory of Thy people Israel.

Glory be to the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now and ever shall be, world without end - amen.

The mystery is revealed before St. Paul pens it. The shocking offer is given before the Messiah can even speak. Simeon declares that the Christ child is God's salvation to all people. He will be a light to lighten even the darkness of the Gentiles. This is a stunning announcement to the Jews, God's 'chosen people' throughout the Old Testament.

Yet, looking back to Genesis 12 one sees this promise given to Abraham: "And I will make of you a great nation [Israel], and I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing. I will bless those who bless you, and him who dishonours you I will curse, and in you all the families [nations] of the earth shall be blessed." (vv 2-3, ESV UK, Crossway)

The Messiah who comes through Abraham's seed is so great that He will not only redeem His people, Israel, but He will gather all nations to Himself. He shines His light in the darkness and it must flee.

I find this proclamation of Simeon's to be an overwhelming kindness from God. The Jews do not deserve to be God's specially chosen people. The rest of the world (the Gentiles) certainly do not deserve the offer of salvation. In fact, no one does. It is remarkable - no, sensational - that God would offer salvation to anyone. We all like sheep have gone astray, says Isaiah, each of us has turned to his own way. There is none who does righteous, declares Paul. Even our motives behind doing good are often (perhaps always) tainted.

Even so, God the Father chooses to love those who spit in His face, who stomp on His grace, He loves us enough to send His Son to 'wear man's smudge and shares man's smell' and take the punishment that we deserve. By His wounds we are healed, cries Isaiah. And so we are. Yes, even we Gentiles who sat in darkness have seen a Great Light.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

~ God's Grandeur, Gerard Manley Hopkins

Buy or borrow this book:

~ Johanna

And We Are Filled With Joy...

The LORD has done great things for us,
and we are filled with joy.

~ Psalm 126:3 (NiV)

What has the LORD done for you today that has filled you with joy?

Here is my list from the weekend:

• Good Summit friends from across the country converging in Colorado
• Sunset in Estes Park over jagged, snow-capped peaks across a still lake
• Bouldering with awesome friends
• Photo shoots
• RED maple trees at Celestial Seasonings factory, and all around Boulder in general
• Extreme yellow cottonwood-type trees along the river
  
• Good chilli at Snarf's sammich shop
• Fantastic conversations
• Fun and hoopla @ the Stonestreet's
  
• Laughing so hard that we cried @ Savannah's awesome stories
• Really, really good food - especially avocados
• Reading/Finishing Perelandra
• Good hymns and service at St. George's this morning + Middle School FUSE ;)
  
• Phone calls from good friends needing a listening ear and advice (and the same friends giving good advice and exhibiting humility)
• Amazing cups of tea with cream and sugar
  
• Liverwurst sammiches w/avocados
• John Michael Talbot and Michael Card music to chill out with in the evening
• Time to write letters
  
• A heated blanket on my comfy bed, and just having a bed!
  
• My car running like a champion through the Mountains and the Beautiful drive to/through Estes Park (and the moosen we saw in the woodsen!)
  
• Fun hikes and lovely walks
  
• Cold nights with clear skies and no moon; perfect for viewing the stars
• My friends Joseph and Edna who always bless me with good conversation and sweet, unlooked-for gifts
• Considering and mulling over the fact that at a literal point in history, God wasn't a man and that at one specific time He set aside His rightful glory and splendour to be clothed in flesh to share man's smudge and smell
• Psalm 126 (check out the end after the above verse... Soooo good!)

Ah! And there is a new week ahead to gather more realisations that God has done great things for us...

...And I am filled with joy!



~ Johanna

Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places

"You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts and civilisations–these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit–immortal horrors or everlasting splendours."
~ C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

It is fitting that I open this entry with a quotation by C. S. Lewis. You see, it was because of Lewis that I was out tonight. Do not panic, I am not seeing dead people. Tuesday nights are when the C. S. Lewis Society meets here in Oxford. I officially joined the society for the term this evening. That is beside the point. What matters is that neither you nor I have ever talked to a mere mortal.

The streets of Oxford offer plenty of mortal woes. They are often cloaked in flesh, have a dog at their feet, and are trying to sell you a British tabloid (the Big Issue). I do not know how to act when walking past a homeless person. My self partitions into two camps. One feels true pity or compassion for those in need, the other cynically wonders how that man will spend the change tossed in his coffee cup. Is he financially better off than the average tax-paying college student?

Dusk had come and gone, the stars could be seen from Christ Church courtyard, and I was on my way to the Lewis meeting. Granted, the time between Evensong and the meeting would put me there 45 minutes early - the only thing I would be early, or on time, for this whole day. Then I walked passed Christ.

No, really, I did. The man was sitting on the ground by Trinity College, asking for change. Unsure of my joining the Lewis Society or just paying the 2 quid fee for the evening, I knew that my pocket change added up to 2 quid 36p. So I smiled and said no. I stopped, thinking I had food with me, but I had the wrong bag. Offering my apologies I told the young man I didn’t even have food (meaning, to share). I doubt that even in my rain-splattered or windblown states I look homeless. Never-the-less the fellow misunderstood me, thinking I had no food at all. Out of his poverty (legitimate or self-imposed) he offered me his pack of biscuits. I tried to dispel the confusion, explaining that I had no food to give. I wished him a good evening and slowly walked away.

"And our charity must be a real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinner–no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment."
~ C. S. Lewis, The Weight of Glory

I had been offered true charity in the young man's gesture. My steps slowed even more as I recalled to mind the Scripture I read yesterday in Matthew 25, “Whenever you have done it to the least of these, my brethren, you have done it unto me.” At the corner I stopped, internally arguing that I still had 45 minutes. I could turn around and at least go talk to the fellow for a while. The words, “the face of love” played in my mind. I almost turned around. Instead, I darted across St. Giles to avoid the bus, the shadowed face by Blackwell’s imprinted on my mind.

Jake found me on a park bench trying to read Money, Greed, and God for Friday’s Summit class. I was sitting 20 feet away from a panhandler who had walked up less than five minutes after I sat upon that bench. I watched people ignore him as he called out to their shoes, “spare change for the homeless?”. Jake and I walked passed, not truly acknowledging him. In part this was due to his very different attitude from the young man I had seen a few minutes before. But the other reason was because I was still struggling with knowing how to show love the homeless. Do I take the time to talk with them and hear their stories? Do I offer them food? Do I pray for them as I walk by? How do I discern between the con and the man who, in spite of his best efforts, can’t get a job? Who are the homeless? Aren't they my neighbours, the ones I snub?

“Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —Christ
—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not His
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.”
~ Gerard Manley Hopkins ~

Where else do I see Christ and walk away? I know a few people I have done this with lately. I was looking for something else and missed those right in front of my eyes. How often am I missing the very face of Christ in the features of men’s faces?

“You have never talked to a mere mortal... [Only] immortal horrors or everlasting splendours.”

~ Johanna

Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places

As Kingfishers Catch Fire

by Gerard Manley Hopkins

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;

As tumbled over rim in roundy wells

Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's

Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;

Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:

Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;

Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,

Crying What I do is me: for that I came.

I say more: the just man justices;

Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;

Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —

Christ — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,

Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not His

To the Father through the features of men's faces.