Heed the colors...

Teacher by Ethel Barnett DeVito

Child, though I tell you in this sunlit cove
This cup of captive sea is ever blue,
For you it may be equally as true
That it is nacre, emerald, taupe or mauve.

Youth, though I say to you our days are scrolled
In hues allied to charcoal, chalk or steel,
For you it may be equally as real
To name them carmine, coral, or yet gold.

Experience and age have tossed a bone:
The right to paint life as it seems to me,
And you may heed the colors that I see,
But never let them blind you to your own.

HT: Dana

Something light for a Friday...

"Tense Times with Verbs" by Richard Lederer

The verbs in English are a fright.
How can we learn to read and write?
Today we speak, but first we spoke;
Some faucets leak, but never loke.
Today we write, but first we wrote;
We bite our tongues, but never bote.
Each day I teach, for years I taught,
And preachers preach, but never praught.
This tale I tell; This tale I told;
I smell the flowers, but never smold.
If knights still slay, as once they slew.
Then do we play, as once we plew?
If I still do as once I did,
Then do cows moo, as they once mid?

As nothing but Thy power doth cut...

The Altar by George Herbert

A broken ALTAR, Lord thy servant rears,
Made of a heart, and cemented with teares:
Whose parts are as thy hand did frame;
No workmans tool hath touch’d the same
A HEART alone
Is such a stone,
As nothing but
Thy pow’r doth cut.
Wherefore each part
Of my hard heart
Meets in this frame,
To praise thy Name:
That if I chance to hold my peace,
These stones to praise thee may not cease.
O let thy blessed SACRIFICE be mine,
And sanctifie this ALTAR to be thine.

(HT: KL)

At the start of the new year...

A child unborn, the coming year
Grows big within us, dangerous,
And yet we hunger as we fear
For its increase, the blunted bud

To free the leaf to have its day,
The unborn to be born. The ones
Who are to come are on their way,
And though we stand in mortal good

Among our dead, we turn in doom
In joy to welcome them, stirred by
That ghost who stirs in seed and tomb,
Who brings the stones to parenthood

Wendell Berry, The Sabbath Poems, 1982, Poem V

HT: AK

Something to meditate on in the coming year...

2010 is here, and as we enter it, we have been learning a new hymn to teach at church. It provides great ideas for carrying into the new year. May 2010 be a year when we recognize the extent of Christ's Lordship over us and our lives!

The Lord Is King by David Ward and Josiah Conder (1789-1851)

The Lord is King; lift up your voice
O earth, and all you heav’ns rejoice;
From world to world the joy will ring,
The Lord omnipotent is King.

Chorus:
Rejoice, the Lord is King,
Rejoice, His praises sing,
From earth and heav’n His glories ring
For He is our King!

The Lord is King; who then will dare
Resist His will, distrust His care,
Or murmur at His wise decrees,
Or doubt His royal promises.

The Lord is King, child of the dust,
The judge of all the earth is just;
His holiness crowns all His ways,
Let every creature shout His praise.

The Lord is King; the Three in One,
The Father, Spirit, and the Son.
We lift our voices now in song;
To Him alone all praise belongs.

Christmas Poem

G.K.Chesterton

There fared a mother driven forth
Out of an inn to roam;
In the place where she was homeless
All men are at home.
The crazy stable close at hand,
With shaking timber and shifting sand,
Grew a stronger thing to abide and stand
Than the square stones of Rome.

For men are homesick in their homes,
And strangers under the sun,
And they lay their heads in a foreign land
Whenever the day is done.

Here we have battle and blazing eyes,
And chance and honour and high surprise,
But our homes are under miraculous skies
Where the yule tale was begun.

A child in a foul stable,
Where the beasts feed and foam;
Only where He was homeless
Are you and I at home;
We have hands that fashion and heads that know,
But our hearts we lost---how long ago!
In a place no chart nor ship can show
Under the sky's dome.

This world is wild as an old wife's tale,
And strange the plain things are,
The earth is enough and the air is enough
For our wonder and our war;
But our rest is as far as the fire-drake swings
And our peace is put in impossible things
Where clashed and thundered unthinkable wings
Round an incredible star.

To an open house in the evening
Home shall all men come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all men are at home.

A Christmas poem

Nativity by John Donne

Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb,
Now leaves His well-belov'd imprisonment,
There He hath made Himself to His intent
Weak enough, now into the world to come;
But O, for thee, for Him, hath the inn no room?
Yet lay Him in this stall, and from the Orient,
Stars and wise men will travel to prevent
The effect of Herod's jealous general doom.
Seest thou, my soul, with thy faith's eyes, how He
Which fills all place, yet none holds Him, doth lie?
Was not His pity towards thee wondrous high,
That would have need to be pitied by thee?
Kiss Him, and with Him into Egypt go,
With His kind mother, who partakes thy woe.

Poem for a snowy night

Psalm 67 by Anthony Esolen (original post here)

May God cause His face to shine upon you

I am a passenger on a train,
Alone, in a full car at night,
And I feel the carriage's stress and strain,
And peer into the windowpane

And see there in the blanching light
The heads of other travelers.
No doubt they are doing what seems right,
Shading their eyes from anyone's sight,

And if they are laden with many years,
Or young, and full of a yearning heart,
Or blank, or idle, or welling with tears,
Or quick as a signal that disappears,

I cannot tell, from my world apart.
But I think if only I could say --
Or if someone else could make a start,
Or, what surpasses human art,

Lean to me in the simplest way
To whisper, "Friend, you are not alone,"
Ah, then the carriage would shine like day!
And emptiness would flee away.

For once in my travels a light shone,
A countenance I could not retain,
But he watches us as the wheels roll on,
The One I love, and the only One.

The Eclogues

I received a copy of this little book for my birthday from my dear husband. Now, he is not usually wont to buy me old Latin poetry for my birthday, but he had particular reasons for doing so in this case. Eldest ds (Ben, the Classicist) is likely writting about this very set of 8 poems by Virgil, and we feel we need to understand what he is writing about. Still, I find the thought a little intimidating.

There are only 8 short poems in this book. Why the pages and pages of introduction? Do I have to wade through that before I read the poems? Do I need a tutor to understand them? These are the questions I ask as I slide it to the bottom of my nightstand pile.

One of these days, I will be courageous, and just dig in to the first poem. And i can always call Ben and have him explain them to me.

Any other courageous souls out there want to read Virgil with me?

In memoriam, on Memorial Day

Dave's dad, George, was a decorated veteran of the Battle of the Bulge in World War II. When he returned from the war, he was changed forever. He spent the rest of his life refusing to call on God, though we pray the gospel grabbed his heart in the final hours when he was unable to communicate and alone with the Lord. He did amazing things during the war, and paid a significant price for them.

My poet son, Ben, caught much of the essence of the man when he wrote the following poem. Both the bitter and the sweet show through in a breath-taking way.

When the Purple Heart Stopped Beating

My grandfather never told
me, but I heard how
in’45 he was ordered to hold
an insignificant farm house
against an unlooked-for thousand,
and he did show me
the scars
once. But I always (wars
and all) admired the medals.
He left us, angry
because there wasn't a damn
thing left and he couldn't breathe;
asbestos got him in his bed
waiting for something that he could see.

Is it worth trying
where failure is certain?
Is there a single striving
moment of nobility,
somehow,
in the aiming, in the dying
fall of a dream pursued?
Is there something
in death-denied driving,
a poignant purpose
for the lost fought-for cause?

It took a machine-gun,
an entire division
to get Grandpa out of that house,
but when he lost hope
he laid down and stared
and wheezed.

A hope that is seen
is not a hope at all.

In honor of National Poetry Month

Holy Sonnet XIV: Batter My Heart by John Donne (1572- 1631)

Batter my heart, three-personed God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but Oh, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy:
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Outside my comfort zone

Next Sunday, on Easter, I am going to do something I have not done in over a year: sing a solo for special music at church. Now I have been leading music, and before last spring I was singing on a regular basis for more than 20 years. But in the last year I have not sung at all. And this time feels a bit outside of my comfort zone. Why? During the spring and summer, during two surgeries and radiation therapy, I didn't feel up to much singing or being in the spotlight. And since my third surgery last fall, the mediastinoscopy that meant a tube was inserted and run along my esophagus, my voice has been unpredictable and I can't count on it. Add to that the fact that the drug I take has some side-effects that are detrimental to the voice, and I felt pretty done in.

But this week, the pastor sent out a request for some help with music for Easter. And the thing that occurred to me is that not to offer would make me a hypocrite. For years, I have preached at others regarding the fact that music in worship is an offering, not a performance. One needn't be perfect, just obedient and willing. And here I was, saying "Oh, my voice is not what it used to be: it can crack without warning, so I guess God doesn't want me helping out any more." I felt very convicted of my own double standard: one when it makes other people uncomfortable, and another when it makes me uncomfortable!

So, I will be singing during the prelude time, as we prepare to begin worship. I will be offering an amazing song arranged by Bob Kauflin, with original text by John Newton, called The Look. The words are reprinted below. Off I will go into the space outside my comfort zone, Lord willing, seeking to be obedient and use the gifts God has given me. Please pray for me, Gentle Readers!

The Look By John Newton (original lyrics), Bob Kauflin (alternate and new lyrics and Music)

I saw one hanging on a tree
In agony and blood
Who fixed his loving eyes on me
As near his cross I stood
And never till my dying breath
Will I forget that look
It seemed to charge me with his death
Though not a word he spoke

My conscience felt and owned the guilt
And plunged me in despair
I saw my sins his blood had spilt
And helped to nail him there
But with a second look he said
“I freely all forgive
This blood is for your ransom paid
I died that you might live”

Forever etched upon my mind
Is the look of Him who died
The Lamb I crucified
And now my life will sing the praise
Of pure atoning grace
That looked on me and
Gladly took my place

Thus while his death my sin displays
For all the world to view
Such is the mystery of grace
It seals my pardon too
With pleasing grief and mournful joy
My spirit now is filled
That I should such a life destroy
Yet live by Him I killed

© 2001 Sovereign Grace Praise (BMI).

On poetry

Without the balm and armor of Poetry, no man or woman is entitled to be called educated.
~Tracy lee Simmons, Climbing Parnassus

In the Bleak Midwinter

In the Bleak Midwinter by Christina Rosetti

In the bleak midwinter, frost wind made moan,
earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;
snow had fallen, snow on snow, snow on snow,
in the bleak midwinter, long ago.

Our God, heaven cannot hold him, nor earth sustain;
heaven and earth shall flee away when he comes to reign.
In the bleak midwinter a stable place sufficed
the Lord God Almighty, Jesus Christ.

Angels and archangels may have gathered there,
cherubim and seraphim thronged the air;
but his mother only, in her maiden bliss,
worshiped the beloved with a kiss.

What can I give him, poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd, I would bring a lamb;
if I were a Wise Man, I would do my part;
yet what I can I give him: give my heart.

Happy anniversary, Dave!

This was Dave and myself 28 years ago tomorrow. We were babies then, with so much to learn!

On our first wedding anniversary, Dave wrote a sweet "Marriage Alphabet" poem for me, and on our 25th anniversary, I wrote one back to him. So at 49 or 50 years, it will be his turn again: and every 25 years or so is plenty! Mine isn't very good poetry-- and I have some excellent poets in the family-- so you will have to be generous with me! But Happy Anniversary, Dave! I'd marry you all over again!

A Marriage Alphabet (after 24.5 years)

Always together, from where we began.

Boys, we’ve watched grow from a child to a man.

Care is the way we look after each other,

Dying to self for the love of another.

Every day cuddling when the day is done.

Father and Friend, you’re a wonderful one!

G is for Grace, on which we depend,
and

Hope which will carry us through to the end.

“I” is for each of us, forming a “we”.

Jesus, is making a “one” of us three.

K is for kitchen, where we make a great pair,

Laughing and Loving and cooking out there.

Your Mom now has joined us as part of our home.


Never is when I will leave you alone.

One and Only: for me that is you!

Pain is for changing and growing anew.

Q is for Quicken, which helps with my math.

Running is always a part of your path.

Saving and dreaming and planning together,

Tenderness, Trust increasing in measure.

Useless are Satan’s attempts to defeat us,

Verily going where Jesus may lead us.

Wanting you still after all of these years, after

X-rays and chemo and trials and tears.

You are God’s perfect plan for me.

Zealous for you I forever shall be.

Paradise Lost at last

At last, I have completed Paradise Lost by John Milton. I have been listening to the audio recording of it (which I received as a free download from christianaudio.com), and finished this morning as I hiked along the rim trail overlooking White Rock Canyon and the Rio Grande. The sun was hot, the breeze was cool, and everything was fresh from yesterday's rain. What a beautiful morning!

I really enjoyed the beauty of Milton's language, and admire the scope of the project he undertook. Let me share some words, put into Adam's mouth after Michael, the archangel, explains the mystery of salvation to Adam. It's from the last book, and gives the feel of Milton's summary and purpose...

...Enlightner of my darkness, gracious things
Thou hast reveald, those chiefly which concerne
Just ABRAHAM and his Seed: now first I finde
Mine eyes true op'ning, and my heart much eas'd,
Erwhile perplext with thoughts what would becom
Of mee and all Mankind; but now I see
His day, in whom all Nations shall be blest,
Favour unmerited by me, who sought
Forbidd'n knowledge by forbidd'n means. ...

...O goodness infinite, goodness immense!
That all this good of evil shall produce,
And evil turn to good; more wonderful
Then that which by creation first brought forth
Light out of darkness! full of doubt I stand,
Whether I should repent me now of sin
By mee done and occasiond, or rejoyce
Much more, that much more good thereof shall spring,
To God more glory, more good will to Men
From God, and over wrauth grace shall abound...

It is interesting to think that perhaps Milton himself fell into Adam's trap of seeking forbidden knowledge in trying to imagine the things not revealed to us in Scripture. Indeed, perhaps that is why he understood that temptation so well! I find myself sympathetic with Milton, at least in this work, and willing to enjoy the beauty of his language and the loftiness of his goals, without being too critical of his theology.

Sabbath Sentiments

He giveth more grace as our burdens grow greater,

He sendeth more strength as our labors increase;

To added afflictions He addeth His mercy,

To multiplied trials He multiplies peace.

When we have exhausted our store of endurance,

When our strength has failed ere the day is half done,

When we reach the end of our hoarded resources

Our Father’s full giving is only begun.

His love has no limits, His grace has no measure,

His power no boundary known unto men;

For out of His infinite riches in Jesus

He giveth, and giveth, and giveth again.

Ah, Holy Jesus

Ah, Holy Jesus by Johann Heerman, tr. by Robert S. Bridges

Ah, holy Jesus, how hast Thou offended,
That man to judge Thee hath in hate pretended?
By foes derided, by Thine own rejected,
O most afflicted.

Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon Thee?
Alas, my treason, Jesus, hath undone Thee.
’Twas I, Lord, Jesus, I it was denied Thee!
I crucified Thee.

Lo, the Good Shepherd for the sheep is offered;
The slave hath sinned, and the Son hath suffered;
For man’s atonement, while he nothing heedeth,
God intercedeth.

For me, kind Jesus, was Thy incarnation,
Thy mortal sorrow, and Thy life’s oblation;
Thy death of anguish and Thy bitter passion,
For my salvation.

Therefore, kind Jesus, since I cannot pay Thee,
I do adore Thee, and will ever pray Thee,
Think on Thy pity and Thy love unswerving,
Not my deserving.

Good Friday

Alas and Did My Savior Bleed by Isaac Watts

1. Alas! and did my Savior bleed,
and did my Sovereign die!
Would he devote that sacred head
for sinners such as I?

2. Was it for crimes that I have done,
he groaned upon the tree?
Amazing pity! Grace unknown!
And love beyond degree!

3. Well might the sun in darkness hide,
and shut its glories in,
when God, the mighty maker, died
for his own creature's sin.

4. Thus might I hide my blushing face
while his dear cross appears;
dissolve my heart in thankfulness,
and melt mine eyes to tears.

5. But drops of tears can ne'er repay
the debt of love I owe.
Here, Lord, I give myself away;
'tis all that I can do. 

Milton on Monday...

I am making it well into Book 6, and still pondering the character of Satan, and the discussion previously about whether he is the hero of Milton's work. Carolyn suggested I look up Lewis' Preface to Paradise Lost which turns out not to be a preface, but a series of lectures in their own book, which I must now see if I can track down through he library system. However, thanks to my friend Kevin, I now at least have a few quotes from Lewis' book, and share them below ( thanks, Kevin and Colleen!)

For it is a very old critical discovery that the imitation in art of unpleasing objects may be a pleasing imitation. In the same way, the proposition that Milton's Satan is a magnificent character may bear two senses. It may mean that Milton's presentation of him is a magnificent poetical achievement which engages the attention and excites the admiration of the reader. On the other hand, it may mean that the real being (if any) whom Milton is depicting [...] is or ought to be an object of admiration and sympathy, conscious or unconscious, on the part of the poet or his readers or both. The first, so far as I know has never till modern times been denied; the second, never affirmed before the times of Blake and Shelley--for when Dryden said that Satan was Milton's "hero" he meant something quite different. It is, in my opinion, wholly erroneous.

It remains, of course, true that Satan is the best drawn of Milton's characters. The reason is not hard to find. Of the major characters whom Milton attempted he is incomparably the easiest to draw. Set a hundred poets to tell the same story and in ninety of the resulting poems Satan will be the best character. [...] To make a character worse than oneself it is only necessary to release imaginatively from control some of the bad passions which, in real life, are always straining at the leash; the Satan, the Iago, the Becky Sharp [...] But if you try to draw a character better than yourself, all you can do is to take the best moments you have had and to imagine them prolonged and more consistently embodied in action. [...] We do not really know what it feels like to be a man much better than ourselves. [...] Heaven understands Hell and Hell does not understand Heaven, and all of us, in our measure, share the Satanic, or at least the Napoleonic, blindness. [...] Hence all that is said about Milton's "sympathy" with Satan, his expression in Satan of his own pride, malice, folly, misery, and lust, is true in a sense, but not in a sense peculiar to Milton. The Satan in Milton enables him to draw the character well just as the Satan in us enables us to receive it.

To admire Satan, then, is to give one's vote not only for a world of misery, but also for a world of lies and propaganda, of wishful thinking, of incessant autobiography. Yet the choice is possible. [...] Satan wants to go on being Satan. That is the real meaning of his choice "Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heav'n." Some, to the very end, will think this a fine thing to say; others will think that it fails to be roaring farce only because it spells agony.

~C. S. Lewis, introduction to Paradise Lost

My thoughts, being only in the angelic battle and not yet finished with the poem, are that Satan is well drawn. We definitely feel sorry for him in his arrogance and his determination to fight and ruin even when he can't win. As an angel created by God he is admirable in many ways, but he is a grasper, always envious, always hating. We feel sympathy for him, perhaps because we are similar. We can definitely relate to him, as could Milton, and hence, he is a fully- and well-drawn character. He is "tragic" in the sense that he cannot escape his doom, and that elicits our sympathy. However, that does not make him the hero. Contrast him with the pre-fall humans and the distant Godhead, and Satan stands out in brilliant relief. But how can a man paint perfection? Much easier to paint sin, which we can comprehend. So, perhaps part of this problems lies in the task Milton set for himself to imagine the details we can't know nor really imagine.

I wonder if this view of Satan as the hero who "sticks it to the man" (or God, in this case) isn't really a reading from our context, rather than Milton's. As Lewis said, this idea doesn't show up until "after Shelley and Blake". Is it our modern notion of the autonomous individual as noble in the casting off of all restraint at all cost what makes people look at Satan as the hero here? I think that is reading too much modern context into the text, and ignoring the authorial intent as well as context. But I am likely in over my head here, and will be content to keep listening to see how Milton's story plays out, and try to locate more of Lewis for guidance...