"Shout Joy"
By Madeline L’Engle
O sing unto God
and sing praises unto his Name
magnify him that rideth upon the heavens
praise him in his Name
Jah!
shout it
cry it aloud upon the wind
take the tail of his steed
and fling across the sky
in his wild wake
Jah!
he cannot be caught
he cannot be fled
he cannot be known
nor his knowledge escaped
the light of his Name
blinds the brilliance of stars
Jah!
catch the falling dragon
ride between his flailing wings
leap between the jaws of the lion
grasp the horn of the unicorn
calling with mighty voice
Jah!
caught in star flame
whipped by comet lash
rejoice before him
cry above the voices of the cherubim
shout alongside the seraphim
Jah!
bellow joy behind kings
scattered by the quaking of his hills
fleeing before his fire
rush like snow through his thunderous flame
crying with gladness
adoration of his Name
God is Lord
Jah!
“Lines Scribbled on an Envelope While Riding the 104 Broadway Bus”
by Madeleine L’Engle
“There is too much pain.
I cannot understand.
I cannot pray.
I cannot pray for all the little ones with bellies bloated by
starvation in India;
for all the angry Africans striving to be separate in a world
struggling for wholeness;
for all the young Chinese men and women taught that hatred
and killing are good and compassion evil;
or even all the frightened people in my own city looking for
truth in pot or acid.
Here I am
and the ugly man with beery breath beside me reminds me that
it is not my prayers that waken your concern, my Lord;
my prayers, my intercession are not to ask for your love
for all your lost and lonely ones,
your sick and sinning souls,
but mine, my love, my acceptance of your love.
Your love for the woman sticking her umbrella and her expensive
parcels int omy ribs and snarling, “Why don’t you watch where
you’re going?”
Your love for the long-haired, gum-chewing boy who shoves the
old lady aside to grab a seat.
Your love for me, too, too tired to look with love,
too tired to look at Love, at You, in every person on the bus.
Expand my love, Lord, So I can help to bear the pain,
help Your love move my love into the tired prostitute with false
eyelashes and bunioned feet,
the corrupt policeman with his hand open for graft,
the addict, the derelict, the woman in the mink coat and
discontented mouth,
the high school girl with heavy books and frightened eyes.
Help me through these scandalous particulars
to understand
Your love.
Help me to pray.”
"The Birth of Love"
By Madeleine L'Engle
To learn to love
is to be stripped of all love
until you are wholly without love
because
until you have gone
naked and afraid
into this cold dark place
where all love is taken from you
you will not know
that you are wholly within love.
is to be stripped of all love
until you are wholly without love
because
until you have gone
naked and afraid
into this cold dark place
where all love is taken from you
you will not know
that you are wholly within love.
“Seeking Perspective in a Hate-Torn World”
By Madeleine L’Engle
Seeking perspective in a hate-torn world,
Leaving, for respite brief, the choking city,
I turn to trees, new leaves not quite unfurled,
A windswept blue-pure sky for pity.
Across a pasture, over a stone wall,
Past berry brambles and an unused field,
Listening for leaf sound and the brook’s clear call,
Turning down path by bush and tree concealed,
Forgetting human sin and nature’s fall
I seek perfection in the cool green still.
Small trees with new spring growth are tall.
Here is no sign of human hate or ill.
Unexpecting any pain or shock
I turn to climb upon my thinking rock.
The rock stands high above the snow-full brook.
Behind the rock an old tree breaks the sky,
And on the tree where bird and beast may look
An icon and a cross are hanging high.
So strong are they, placed lovingly together,
I need have little fear for their protection
Through wind and snow and bitter wintry weather.
They speak to me of joy and Resurrection
And here my self-will stills, my heart beats slow.
God’s presence in his world is bright and strong.
Upon the rock I climb, and then—No! No!
The sky is dark and here is hate and wrong.
O God! make it not be! Oh, make it not!
The icon: target for a rifle’s shot.
A wave of dark blasts cold across my face.
My stomach heaves with nausea at the dirt
Of hate in this pure green and loving place.
The trees pull back and cower in their hurt.
Rooted, they could not stop the vicious gun
Fired straight at God’s birth-giver and her child.
There’s only death in this. It’s no one’s fun
To blaspheme love. A shot has made a wild
Distortion of the young and ancient face.
I give the broken fragments to the brook
And let the water lap them with its grace.
And then I sit upon the rock and look
At the great gouge in the tree’s wood.
Evil obscures all peace and love and good.
As I sit looking at the shot-at tree
The rough wound opens and grows strange and deep
Within the wood, till suddenly I see
A galaxy aswirl with flame. I do not sleep
And yet I see a trillion stars speed light
In ever-singing dance within the hole
Surrounded by the tree. Each leaf’s alight
With flame. And then a burning living coal
Drops hissing in the brook, and all the suns
Burst outward in their joy, and the shot child,
Like the great and flaming tree, runs
With fire and water, and alive and wild
Gentle and strong, becomes the wounded tree.
Lord God! The icon’s here, alive and free.
By Madeleine L’Engle
Seeking perspective in a hate-torn world,
Leaving, for respite brief, the choking city,
I turn to trees, new leaves not quite unfurled,
A windswept blue-pure sky for pity.
Across a pasture, over a stone wall,
Past berry brambles and an unused field,
Listening for leaf sound and the brook’s clear call,
Turning down path by bush and tree concealed,
Forgetting human sin and nature’s fall
I seek perfection in the cool green still.
Small trees with new spring growth are tall.
Here is no sign of human hate or ill.
Unexpecting any pain or shock
I turn to climb upon my thinking rock.
The rock stands high above the snow-full brook.
Behind the rock an old tree breaks the sky,
And on the tree where bird and beast may look
An icon and a cross are hanging high.
So strong are they, placed lovingly together,
I need have little fear for their protection
Through wind and snow and bitter wintry weather.
They speak to me of joy and Resurrection
And here my self-will stills, my heart beats slow.
God’s presence in his world is bright and strong.
Upon the rock I climb, and then—No! No!
The sky is dark and here is hate and wrong.
O God! make it not be! Oh, make it not!
The icon: target for a rifle’s shot.
A wave of dark blasts cold across my face.
My stomach heaves with nausea at the dirt
Of hate in this pure green and loving place.
The trees pull back and cower in their hurt.
Rooted, they could not stop the vicious gun
Fired straight at God’s birth-giver and her child.
There’s only death in this. It’s no one’s fun
To blaspheme love. A shot has made a wild
Distortion of the young and ancient face.
I give the broken fragments to the brook
And let the water lap them with its grace.
And then I sit upon the rock and look
At the great gouge in the tree’s wood.
Evil obscures all peace and love and good.
As I sit looking at the shot-at tree
The rough wound opens and grows strange and deep
Within the wood, till suddenly I see
A galaxy aswirl with flame. I do not sleep
And yet I see a trillion stars speed light
In ever-singing dance within the hole
Surrounded by the tree. Each leaf’s alight
With flame. And then a burning living coal
Drops hissing in the brook, and all the suns
Burst outward in their joy, and the shot child,
Like the great and flaming tree, runs
With fire and water, and alive and wild
Gentle and strong, becomes the wounded tree.
Lord God! The icon’s here, alive and free.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~~~~
2 Corinthians 4:16–18
"So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal."
"So we do not lose heart. Though our outer self is wasting away, our inner self is being renewed day by day. For this light momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal."