XXI

To watch the sun rise over the escarpment

invokes some primeval victory

of light over the shadowy depth of stone and gloom;

of beauty over the infernal forces of degradation and entropy.

Too easy it would be

to embrace the perpetual binding and rending

as all there is

or ever will be,

but hope, like earth, stirs,

outlasting the bitter construct of destruction and melee

promise beats still within the bosom of the earth

-a bastion of redemption birthed out of the bitter dregs of despair.

Long in coming, creeping

like the great glaciers that sculpted the land

-the fingertips of God,

ponderous yet unrelenting; unyielding,

weaving in providential array

a gorgeous tapestry into which suffering and wavering

are but mere strands of contrast among oceans of color.

We witness it now-

this divine topography

these peaks and valleys

bearing the scars of flame and flood

yet unfolding over the land a vast panorama 

made richer and fuller in the breaking

through which rivers course like veins

unseen, yielding verdant beauty.

So we dread not the moment but in its passing

welcome the persistent spark

-the coals unstoked yet simmering.

We stand boldly on the cusp of eternity

in hearty defiance of despair

fretting not the cacophony but in its chaos

recognizing the strains of sovereignty.

We bear harsh discipline

but lament not the whirlwind for its sake

but relish the fresh shoots in the absence, 

the fauna that graze,

and the cry of the hawk echoing above,

unburdened and unadulterated,

freely greeting the burgeoning dawn in joy. 

XX.

It was worth the trip to feel so close;
to bid farewell the dusk.
It was worth the fears to embrace the gloaming;
to watch the sky explode in blush.
The merest pittance paid to trace the moon's ascent
reflected in the river's gleam;
to revel in the tranquil hour
beneath the boisterous passing skein.
Not that I could earn or buy
the meanest hour of that inspiring scene
but I will bear burdens untold
to witness anew that sylvan dream.

Simple

Perhaps a simple word is required

before this long and lonely night expires.

I deserve nothing but wrath.

I claim nothing but Christ.

If I stand it is by your favor.

If I serve it is with my life.

Perhaps some theme in simple measure

will serve to divest of this world's treasure.

On A Clear Day

Hephestian tongues advance

licking the furrowed trunks of the jack-pine,

blistering in the scorching heat

---a caustic baptistery.

The thin column of smoke rising,

unhindered on a windless day.

Skyward, wings flit,

to and fro, obscured

by the shimmering haze, this inferior mirage.

Seen in part,

this flame deluge

but scores the earth a dreadful scar

yet from this consuming fire 

brings a loosening

of resinous bonds

and the flutter 

of a thousand anxious wings

bursting forth in flight

to greet the northern sky.

Born in new shoots

and tender stalks,

is the splendid alchemy

of eucatastrophic design

---boreal resurrection. 

Moriah

Moriah, O sweet Moriah

where grew the sacred terebinth

that bid aloft the holy king

whose grace issuing forth has since

fulfilled the hopes of patriarchs

who in Machpelah slumber still

beneath Mamre's towering oaks

darkness cannot their joy dispel.

Moriah, who bore twice the weight

of sacrifice; who saw in hand

the fire and the knife at Isaac's 

throat laid, before appeared the ram

and later felt the violent rain

fall from Abraham's precious seed

to light the watch-fires for every

distant nation who would believe.

Thrush's Refrain

The air roars with your thunder.

The sea boils with your waves.

The sky is shrouded.

The stars grow dim.

Your anger simmers

For your justice demands it

But still your hand is stayed.

Hear O people's the warning,

Heed O nation's the call,

You who believe falsely,

You who believe not at all,

For the day of the Lord approaches

For the daughter and enemy alike.

Think on your time and ponder,

Consider the works of your hands

And the secret whispers of your heart.

No deed has gone unnoticed,

No idle thought ignored,

Though they reek of sweat and acrid soot,

You sons of disobedience all.

Hear O deniers of diety,

Hear O 'people of grace',

Grievance soars like the bird on high.

It's stench rises from foul fen.

Pride! Pride! In haughty hearts

Which love everything but the Lord.

"Return to me you children, 

you lost nations and erring tribes.

For you and your children I have waited

Until the times is complete."

The mountain and field stand ready

They ache for consolation.

As dry canyons yearn for the raging floods

So the earth awaits return.

The cries of the afflicted ascend.

They are not unheard,

Those who suffer indignity

Through oppression or indifference.

Cry out pardon for arrogance.

Plead for mercy from sin

From hearts which have sought only pleasure,

From pride which innoculates from shame.

The song of the thrush rises-

Heed this late refrain

Dripping with finality.

Return for the day is waning

The forest thrashes in tumult

As the winds of reckoning blow

The reapers are at attention

The call of justice cannot be denied.

Joy

The sentiment of joy is

not the absence of sorrow

but the exertion of faith;

the rejection of despair;

born not of plenty but trial

and knowledge of the nature

and character of God, who

though we prove faithless, remains

unremittingly faithful.