amo

Oh, would you have me linger here
  To dally, Love, with you,
While Duty’s voice is calling clear
  Across the waters blue?
                    Remember, Love,
’Tis Duty’s hand that brings to you
  Honor’s brightest bloom;
’Tis Duty’s voice that sings to you
  To banish fear and gloom.
’Tis Duty’s heart that cares for you,
’Tis Duty’s arm that bares for you,
And do or die it dares for you.
                    Remember, Love.

Oh, look not so reproachful, Love,
  From tender eyes and true;
I hold not Duty’s voice above
  The call of heart, of home, of you.
                    Remember, Love.
To me you’ll ever be the same,
  And nearest when I’m far;
For Duty’s but your other name
  Amid the smoke of war.
Thus Love and Duty cry to me,
And all mankind they tie to me;
Nor faith in God can die to me.
                    Remember, Love.

If you should ever call me, Love,
  Across the distant blue;
If you should ever call, and I
  Should fail to answer you,
                    Remember, Love.
I am the star that glows for you
  Beyond the realm of night.
I’m the flag I waved for you,
And with my life-blood laved for you.
I’m all things Duty saved for you.
                    Remember, Love.

—Ernest Neal
from Yonah and Other Poems

Rock of Ages

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee;
Let the water and the blood,
From Thy riven side which flowed,
Be of sin the double cure;
Save from wrath and make me pure.

Not the labour of my hands
Can fulfil Thy law’s demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears for ever flow,
All for sin could not atone;
Thou must save, and Thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring,
Simply to the cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Saviour, else I die.

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eyelids close in death,
When I soar to worlds unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgement throne,
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee.

-Augustus Montague Toplady (1740-1778)

Eating Crow

Lord, of course it is wisdom that I seek.
Of course I seek to grow.
I want my heart to grow more meek.
– But I always end up eating crow.

I want to conform to Your will,
but that row is tough to hoe.
I always end up eating my fill
Of that awful black bird, crow.

I’ve had it boiled and chicken fried;
I’ve had crow fricassee;
I’ve had my crow in black crow pie;
I’ve had roasted crow with brie.

Lord, if you would be so kind,
give me a new crow recipe;
my tongue is faster than my mind,
faster than my eyes can see.

I’ve had it at the church potluck
I’ve had it at family dinners, too.
Oh, Lord, for once could I please have duck
and avoid my tongue-fashioned stew?

My fingers also fly too fast
Immortalizing my flaws in cyberspace
Canned crow, frozen — it’s preserved to last.
– I’ll be eating it all my earthly days.

Only You can save me from my fate,
my life as an avivore.
Purge my wrongness, my pride and my hate,
let me show it is You I adore.

I’ve had my crow boiled and chicken fried;
I’ve had it with a side of greed;
I’ve had my crow in black crow pie.
I’m stuffed to bursting with need.

Only You can save me from my fate,
Only You, the One I adore.
Purge my wrongness, my pride and my hate,
Make me holy evermore.

– A.M. Otwell, 2008

The Reluctant Christian Mourns

When I, each time anew,
shed tears as bread and wine are blessed.
Am I sad for You
or for my gnawing emptiness?

Do I cry because You suffer
You perfect Lamb, unblemished life,
or do I cry from self importance,
too self aware and full of strife?

I thirst!
I hunger for Your love.
I am too well versed in my need.

I cry for my lonely destitution
– I also cry because you bleed.

Inseparable, my joy and grief,
my love embedded in my need.
O Lord, please make whole my belief,
purify thought, word, and deed.

– A.M. Otwell, 2008

The Reluctant Christian Reflects

Must it all be to your glory?
Is there not one part of this story
I can call my own
if I’m to claim my wretchedness
and confess
your glory?

Can’t I have but one bright spot,
supply one tiny beam of my own,
a flashlight to illumine the sun?

Ah,
I see.

But I still am not content
to be some silver serving tray
reflecting that which quenches.

I am afraid of that which wrenches
self from self, me from mine
. . . that which refines.

– A.M. Otwell, 2008

The Reluctant Christian at Table

Please take this back to the kitchen.
It is too rare.
Warm, yes,
but raw.

Unsuspecting, I pierced it with my fork;
red spread over my plate,
bathing everything in blood.
Please replace it all,
the side of faith,
the helping of hope.
You can leave out the gratitude garnish
– I never eat it, anyway.

Yes, I know
some think the blood enriches the flavor.

It does not tempt
my palate.

Please take it back.
Bring me something neater, if less divine,
to go with my wine.

I ordered my love well done.

– A.M. Otwell, 2008

A Prayer

Father in Heaven! from whom the simplest flower
On the high Alps or fiery desert thrown,
Draws not sweet odour or young life alone,
But the deep virtue of an inborn power
To cheer the wanderer in his fainting hour,
With thoughts of Thee; to strengthen, to infuse
Faith, love, and courage, by the tender hues
That speak Thy prescence; oh! with such a dower
Grace Thou my song!—the precious gift bestow
From Thy pure Spirit’s treasury divine,
To wake one tear of purifying flow,
To soften one wrung heart for Thee and thine;
So shall the life breathed through the lowly strain,
Be as the meek wild-flower’s—if transient, yet not vain.

–Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793-1835)

If There Had Anywhere

If there had anywhere appeared in space
Another place of refuge, where to flee,
Our hearts had taken refuge in that place,
And not with Thee.

For we against creation’s bars had beat
Like prisoned eagles, through great worlds had sought
Though but a foot of ground to plant our feet,
Where Thou wert not.

And only when we found in earth and air,
In heaven or hell, that such might nowhere be—
That we could not flee from Thee anywhere,
We fled to Thee.

–Richard Chenevix Trench (1807-1886)

His Prayer for Absolution

For Those my unbaptized Rhimes,
Writ in my wild unhallowed Times;
For every sentence, clause and word,
That’s not inlaid with Thee, (my Lord)
Forgive me God, and blot each Line
Out of my Book, that is not Thine.
But if, ‘mongst all, thou find’st here one
Worthy thy Benediction;
That One of all the rest, shall be
The Glory of my Work, and Me.

–Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

I wandered lonely as a Cloud
That floats on high o’er Vales and Hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd
A host of dancing Daffodills;
Along the Lake, beneath the trees,
Ten thousand dancing in the breeze.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Outdid the sparkling waves in glee:–
A Poet could not but be gay
In such a laughing company:
I gaz’d–and gaz’d–but little thought
What wealth the shew to me had brought:

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

–William Wordsworth (1770-1850)