A Prayer
A Prayer
My God (oh, let me call Thee mine,
Weak, wretched sinner though I be),
My trembling soul would fain be Thine;
My feeble faith still clings to Thee.
Not only for the past I grieve,
The future fills me with dismay;
Unless Thou hasten to relieve,
Thy suppliant is a castaway.
I cannot say my faith is strong,
I dare not hope my love is great;
But strength and love to Thee belong;
Oh, do not leave me desolate!
I know I owe my all to Thee;
Oh, take the heart I cannot give!
Do Thou my Strength, my Saviour be,
And make me to Thy glory live.
–Anne Bronte (1820-1849)
Forgetfulness
Video: Forgetfulness by Billy Collins, 1:49
Untitled
O Lord, on Whom we gaze and dare not gaze,
Increase our faith that gazing we may see,
And seeing love, and loving worship Thee
Thro’ all our days, our long and lengthening days.
O Lord, accessible to prayer and praise,
Kind Lord, Companion of the two or three,
Good Lord, be gracious to all men and me,
Lighten our darkness and amend our ways.
Call up our hearts to Thee, that where Thou art
Our treasure and our heart may dwell at one:
Then let the pallid moon pursue her sun,
So long as it shall please Thee, far apart, –
Yet art Thou with us, Thou to Whom we run,
We hand in hand with Thee and heart in heart.
– Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Angels of Death
“. . . I might dream of climbing forever the tall dark trees above me. They are so tall that I feel as if I should find at their tops the nests of the angels; but in this mind they would be dark and dreadful angels; angels of death.” – G.K. Chesterton
Cast out, they wait at the tops of tall trees
In nests wound round with wisps of clouds and ivory feathers,
Reinforced with snow that glitters, gleams, and glows,
Reflecting the icy, piercing light of a moonlit winter night.
They do not sleep.
They do not age or weep or rage.
They have no unearthly children at their feet,
no dust or dung to taint their pristine keep.
They do not die, and they do not live.
Full of promise, they never give.
They shine and shimmer, awe and blind.
They seek to seduce.
They seek to bind.
They seek to eat that part of us
that lives, or dies, forever,
as it must.
They come to us from high above,
Our desolation certain but for Love.
–A.M. Otwell, Advent 2008
To My God
To My God
Oh how oft I wake and find
I have been forgetting thee!
I am never from thy mind:
Thou it is that wakest me.
–George MacDonald (1824-1905)
Voices in My Head
Voices in My Head
I suppose we each have some voice
rising and falling in our heads,
a blood-dimmed tide loosed
as the center fails to hold.
Yeats of course,
yet not Yeats’ voice.
I hear an old and weary woman of letters,
voice revitalized in the widening gyre,
the fluorescent lights’ disquieting hum
as something slouched toward Bethlehem.
“To be or not to be, that is the question.”
“I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.”
The first chapter of the Gospel according to St. John
forever in King James in chorus.
Sixth grade class in chapel,
youthful unison producing half gospel,
half Dr. Seuss.
On discovering that some words echo,
I decided to learn how to use them.
I honed my skill at spoken word
took home with me the verse Wurl hurled,
Rochelle’s measured devastation,
eerie voices that
echoed my pain,
my shame.
Made it real.
Made me reel.
Made me feel.
Made me real.
Later, once taught to thirst,
I looked up laureates.
Frost has made all the difference.
Collins and I have our last cigarettes.
Kooser’s reader cleans her raincoat, and I am somehow comforted.
Recently, the liturgy,
the Word made Flesh in small bright flashes
of various priestly voices throughout each day.
I also hear a still small voice, but I often do not listen.
One would think that I would have something to say,
but somewhere, sometime, somehow,
someone already said it better.
The voices tell me to sing a new song,
but there is nothing new under the sun.
At least I am never alone.
–A.M. Otwell, 2008
(Minor changes made on Tuesday, December 9.)
Remember, Love
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
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
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
