Song link -- I look at You

I look at You

It was love

It was love

I'd painted myself into a corner --
I felt pure there and wise;

one hand tied behind my back;
watching the paint dry; no room

for a wrong move, the only unfinished part
now tucked firmly under my prayer mat.

Reverently, I pledged my life to You.
This is your life? You asked.

A corner where two walls meet?
It was love that lured me into the sunlight,

lifted me from the mat, escaping
precariously through an open window.

Love that enlivened me, made me more
(for better or worse) human.

Love God-sent, threaded through a heart
human like mine, but fearless, roaring like a lion.

Hold My hand, You said.
I'll give you a tour of My creation.

O child of God, offer no gesture
cheapened by fear and accommodation.

               

Due inheritance

Due inheritance                                                                             

Soon after birth, she was left beside a bridge.

They had not the heart like so many others

to throw her into the river.  It’s easy now –

and then – to trace the royalty of her blood,

the inherent beauty, the glow of her holiness.

In fact, it’s evident in all their faces –

everyone born into this realm is abandoned at birth. 

Who, then, dares implant such a longing

that each child should expect sheltering

and nourishment, indulgence and praise?

O fellow children of God, heirs to the kingdom,

when shall we accept the mantle of our nobility? 

When shall we demand with trembling voice

and shaking fist our due inheritance – and nothing less? 

The heart will hold its tongue for millenniums,

submissive to the senses, to circumstances,

ignorance and death, but it knows, it knows.

And once it begins to unfold, to strengthen and rise,

our demeanor and likeness to the King become

ever more transparent, self-evident and undeniable.

O children of God, assume the kingdom’s throne

by becoming who you already are.

The secret

The secret

I go around with a crushing desire
to talk about that which I do not know.

Something to do with a Lion
Who devours Its lover.

Love - the big cat
Who stole my Lord's tongue,

swallowed up Merwan
and began a silent prowling.

Love is a secret, my Lord said, to be kept.
All I'm saying, Lord -

let me in on the secret.
Let me keep it with You.

Let me keep it with You forever
until forever is no more.

O child of God, prove trustworthy;
He'll whisper it in your ear.

                    

Imaginary wristwatch

Imaginary wristwatch

I haven't much time, You gesture,
(turned up at my door for a visit)

wagging a finger, tapping
an imaginary wristwatch.  Stay present,

You say.  Fearlessly value each moment.
But, serving tea, I begin to worry --

my china set cheap and tarnished;
my tea of low quality, fingers trembling,

words awkward.  I get shaky
whenever You look my way.

I worry some imprudent word or gesture
might send You prematurely to the door.

Which prompts a vision of my house
even bleaker than before

with You gone from it.
After a time, You rise,

take Your leave.  Next time,
You gesture, next time,

(tapping the imaginary wristwatch) --
trust Me with your life!

O child of God, how foolish!  Afraid
of losing that which is eternally present.

                  

Sky blue coat

Sky blue coat

I followed a map of the world.  It led
down a narrow path to the ocean.

From there I could see - nothing matters
but the folding of myself into You.

Let love be my measure ... and my guide.
I've known love enough in this lifetime

to know it's not blind,
but wide-eyed and vigilant;

not intoxication but an unearthly sobriety
penetrating the chronic delirium of the false view.

How wondrous the heart - at the same time
an encrusted anchor and a fluttering bird;

bruised rose and captured hare;
a torch, a goblet;

an upraised fist and weathered valise.
The pages where my story is written -

fold and tuck them away - into the pocket
of my Beloved's sky blue coat.

O child of God, drop your bags and run
headlong into the Master's arms.

                    (from A Jewel in the Dust)

Crowded house

Crowded house

You often slip my mind
but are lodged ever firmly in my chest -

the best part of me now.  The real part.
Neglected at times in the crowded house -

guests milling about, unintended, uninvited.
Luminous in Your flowing white gown,

I inch toward You, working the crowd,
strangers tugging at my sleeve,

inserting themselves between us,
spinning me around by the shoulder.

Everyone has something important to tell me.
I reach You and fall at Your feet.

When I lift my head the house is empty
save for You and me.  I keep all sorts

of images like this in my head.
But, I want to know You in my chest -

aglow in the iron-ribbed furnace,
cheeks ruddy, neck flushed,

eyes green fire, tears unbidden.
I want You to leave me impaired -

sated, wondrous and bewildered,
mouth clamped shut so no smoke escapes.

O child of God, oneness begins with constancy
so complete it shatters the illusion of duality.

                       

Precious cargo

Precious cargo

Read it until it sings in your veins!
You said of God Speaks.

All remembrance should be like that --
vascular, in the marrow; a deep

and irresistible recognition; a light
dispelling the shadows

in which incredulity and indifference breeds,
reestablishing our ancient-most

connection with reality;
. . . until it sings in your veins!

On the practical side, it should be sturdy
and lightweight, wieldy -- a convenient apparatus

for exposing and relinquishing
the temporal and the illusory;

unable to grasp our intended
distractions and indulgences,

finding our hands (heads, throats)
ever full and otherwise occupied

by a pure and most precious cargo --
Your name, Your image, Your presence

O child of God, Remember Me is a question.
Search your innermost depths to find the answer.

                        

Truth be told

Truth be told

Truth be told, my Master was silent.
Truth be told, silence was the essence

of His message.  O, He promised
on numerous occasions to speak

the Word of words -- some forty-odd years 
but nary a word He left us -- no goodbye,

no parting wisdom, trading one silence for another.
Such is our dilemma, o lovers, in telling others

of His silence and His broken promises,
of our fascination with the One

Who refused to be glib, pedantic,
predictable in the Truth; Who spoke

somehow beyond throat and ear, beyond
forced and roughly shaped sounds.

I suggest we must, in the end, 
resort to our own brand of silence

and pray Truth be told, His Truth --
in all its palpable, wordless splendor --

be told, be told, be told within each
God-conscripted, fatefully chosen breast.

O child of God, your job is to love Him.
His job is everything else.