True disciple

True disciple                                                                                     

They didn’t know You from Adam –

those who hanged You from a cross,

but Thomas fingered Your wounds,

made sure You were

Who You said You were.

I would touch Your wounds, Lord ... if I might,

to know the depths of Your sacrifice,

thrust my hand into Your side –

to explore the nature

of Your compassion and surrender,

but I haven’t the heart of a true disciple.   

I garland Your stone, praise You

to high heaven, endure

the small prices You ask me to pay ...

You, knowing and forgiving the fragility

                                                           

and cowardice of a heart so shallowly pledged.  

That’s why we call You Father of Mercy.

O child of God, ... whosoever will, let him come

and take freely the water of Life.

                             (from A Jewel in the Dust)

Garment of leaves

Garment of leaves                                                                    

Heart like an apple core –

that’s where the seeds are. 

People take you for a lunatic

but it’s just the inner thunder

giving you that far away look,

(as Adam must have looked,

gazing back across the garden pale),

impeding nimble strides and coherent speech.

What’s a man’s gait anyway,  

but a limping away from his destiny?

Or smooth talk if his seeds are stone?

The crooked path he follows

can only lead back to where he began –

the garden in the chest.    

It’s all there in the core – root, leaf, bark, fruit;

soil, water, sky.  Time makes us think

the apple in our hand is ripe and ready

to sink our teeth into.

O child of God, shed that garment of leaves.

Venture naked into the new world.

                           (from A Jewel in the Dust)

'Til spring

‘Til spring                                                                                        

I thought wine was the gift, so I complained

when the intoxication wore off.

Now I find seedlings of Your mercy

scattered everywhere –

roses along the spine, their scent,

years later, reaching my nostrils

and the still, quiet pool beneath my ribs,

the grassy meadows, the web of rills.

I’d packed for a long journey.  You motioned

for me to set down my bags

and share one last cup. 

Becoming inconsolable, drunk and unruly,

the taxi left without me.

You led me back inside.

There’s a garden in my chest

and You’ve invited me to stick around ‘til spring.

O child of God, whatever the Beloved has planned for you,

be sure it’s nothing like what you imagine.

                           (from A Jewel in the Dust)