On Writing

O Merciful and man loving Creator of all

All things are in Your hand and the truth of all things is written by You.
My hand of flesh trembles, then, as I take up the pen.
How can I, foul and corrupt through my many sins, ephemeral and dead by birth, write of things unseen?
How dare I write Of Your Divine Majesty, of Your Incarnation, of Your Life-creating death and most Holy Resurrection?

What can I do of myself but compound old errors and make new ones?
Yet You command and so I obey.

I obey with the hope that Your Mercy may yet lead me in the way of repentance.

I obey with the hope that because You are Just, none might be lost through my many sins, my errors and the weakness of my explanations.

I pray You, Divine Master that my hardened heart which cries out against You as “a hard master, reaping where you did not sow”, might at least relinquish my hand to You that somehow repentance might work in me.

That by Your grace my fist be unclenched and my hand begin to write.
That by writing the truths I do not yet believe, I might begin to believe,
to repent and to be saved.

Cold

Bright autumn light
Sparkling frost
Skittering brown leaves
Whispering of summer lost
In a voice from Bradbury’s Mars

Pentecost

O sweet eternal Light

Your descent has raised us up to heaven

O Flame which cools the passions, Sword which heals all wounds

O Most Holy Spirit

In Your Silence begins all true speech

In Your Stillness is the root of all life

O Spirit of the Living God
Descend upon us
as you did upon the Apostles

That our deeds might bring your living stillness
That our words might carry your healing silence

Just enough...

There is just enough light
The stars glimmer and fade
The sun rises and sets
The moon waxes and wanes
All in season and rhythm

Not enough truth?
Not enough answers?
As well complain the moon wanes too soon,
the sun sets too early and the stars are lost in cloud.
Why complain when you can trust?