Oh let this sweet perfume be poured
Upon my Saviour’s head
Where I with thorn and spittle scored,
‘Despiséd Lamb of God!’
How many times will He forgive –
A thousand times a score?
A thousand times what you must have
And then ten thousand more!
Mark 14 v 4 and 15 v 17 – 19 (The Bible)
Oh England! England, may you be forgiven
By all the poor, the weak and the distressed.
You yielded to the blandishments of Mammon
And stoney-cold the heart within your breast.
Lord, you came,
Not as the lightening fills the skies
Nor with a warrior’s shout
But babies’ cries.
.
You claimed –
Not rights, not pomp, not majesty –
But just a pauper’s hovel
In humility.
.
For there,
Among the refuse, hopelessly,
Lay other vagrants – all humanity.
You chose our lot,
And through those long and wintry hours,
Lay down your head amid the hay
With ours.
B sharp, B flat,
It matters not a joteral.
Don’t be A prat,
B natural.
My boy Marcus
He got wed today.
I love him dear.
May they know
The gaze of faithfulness,
The embrace of tenderness,
Creativity and mutual admiration,
The enfolding of endless forgiveness,
The strength of patience and understanding,
That rare and mysterious oneness born of true love,
A content that frees to share with others,
Healthy bodies and babies.
Amen.
This poem was written on an early autumn walk, with hundreds of dewdropped spider webs festooning the briars
.
Dewdropped
Lace in space
Squadrons of magic carpets
Planing the tangled briars’
Lax galaxy
Daydawning
Sometimes I lean against a wall,
Weary with longing.
Closing my eyes, I go inside
Where thoughts are racing,
Slowly to elbow them all aside
Till you I’m facing.
Then, eye to eye, with hearts’ low call,
We smile, belonging.
Though the fig tree does not blossom
And no grapes adorn the vine
No olives gathered in their season
In the fields, no harvest time.
Though the sheepfold stands deserted
And no herds graze on the hill,
Yet with all my strength exerted
I will praise – and praise Him still!
Yet with all my strength exerted
I will praise – and praise Him still!
Habbakuk. ch3 v 17 and 18. (The Bible)
ABRAHAM
Oh Man!
Your every hope and joy
Rest in that boy!
How slay?
How give his life away?
Surely twill break
Your heart. Oh take
Him back again.
And yet he gave his only son to die
Drawing from that deep well of love
That gives nor questions why.
.
THE WIDOW
Woman,
You only have a mite –
Oh, hold it tight!
Why give?
How will you live?
So small to some,
So vast a sum
To you – your all.
She gave it – tiny, mean and small,
And with it the sweet store of love
Of one who gives her all.
.
THE CHRISTIAN
Dear Lord,
You have my treasure store.
Son – give me more.
No pain,
No sweat, no stain
Of blood hallows
Your gifts; shallows
The love you bring
Cheap gifts are thorns and nails, a dart
Thrust in my side. I gave my all.
My son, give me your heart!
The Fatalist speaks first, and cries:
Death is the final end!
All men to nothing tend.
There is no God to rend
Us from the grave. Depend
Upon it – death’s the end.
And so – why stop to think?
Just blue this tiny link
‘Twixt birth and death on drink
And drugs, fast cars – a mink
Or two. Blow up life’s pink
Balloon – why stop to think?
The Humanist, outraged replies:
There’s not a single seed
Of life in death – agreed.
And God is dead indeed!
But man is great! No need
Has he of pious creed –
Religion is the weak-kneed
Man’s escape. Be strong and lead
The good life. Go and plead
The cause of those who bleed
Beneath injustice. Heed
The cry of man! Then, freed
From pain and war, our breed
Will make its heaven. We’ll need
No dreamed-up God – the mead
And crown are ours! We’ll
Rule this cosmic bead.
Then, soft as when the west wind sighs:
There comes a sound that seems both far and near
At hand – now indistinct, now bell-like and clear.
So does the tide steal in unnoticed, till so near
That its bright sparkling splash alerts the ear,
And what we’ve always known, at last we hear.
So, shall we let the deadening night of fear
Snuff out the daystar? No! Let the dawn appear!
Its every ray proclaiming “I am here”.