Epiphany

'Lord Babe, if Thou art He We sought for patiently, 

Where is Thy court? 

Hither may prophecy and star resort; 

Men heed not their report.' – 

'Bow down and worship, righteous man: 

This Infant of a span 

Is He man sought for since the world began!' – 

'Then, Lord, accept my gold, too base a thing 

For Thee, of all kings King.' – 

'Lord Babe, despite Thy youth 

I hold Thee of a truth 

Both Good and Great: 

But wherefore dost Thou keep so mean a state, 

Low-lying desolate?' – 

'Bow down and worship, righteous seer: 

The Lord our God is here 

Approachable, Who bids us all draw near.' – 

'Wherefore to Thee I offer frankincense, 

Thou Sole Omnipotence.' – 

'But I have only brought Myrrh; no wise afterthought Instructed me 

To gather pearls or gems, or choice to see 

Coral or ivory.' – 

'Not least thine offering proves thee wise: 

For myrrh means sacrifice, 

And He that lives, this Same is He that dies.' – 

'Then here is myrrh: alas, yea woe is me 

That myrrh befitteth Thee.' – 

Myrrh, frankincense, and gold: 

And lo from wintry fold 

Good-will doth bring A Lamb, the innocent likeness of this King Whom stars and seraphs sing: 

And lo the bird of love, a Dove, 

Flutters and coos above: 

And Dove and Lamb and Babe agree in love: – 

Come all mankind, come all creation hither,

Come, worship Christ together. --Christina Rosetti; Before 1886

In the Bleak Midwinter

In the bleak midwinter 

Frosty 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 incarnate, 

Jesus Christ. 

Enough for him, whom Cherubim 

Worship night and day 

A breast full of milk 

And a manger full of hay. 

Enough for him, whom angels 

Fall down before, 

The ox and ass and camel which adore. 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. ---Christina Rossetti, circa 1872

Praise, Oh, Praise our God and King

A Paraphrase of Psalm 136
Praise, oh, praise, our God and King,
Hymns of adoration sing;
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.

Praise Him that He made the sun
Day by day his course to run;
And the silver moon by night,
Shining with her gentle light;
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.

Praise Him that He gave the rain
To mature the swelling grain;
And hath bid the fruitful field
Crops of precious increase yield;
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.

Glory to our bounteous King,
"Glory", let creation sing:
Glory to the Father, Son,
And the Spirit, Three in One!
For His mercies still endure,
Ever faithful, ever sure.
---Rev. Henry Baker, 1861; reformatted c.m.b. 2007

Who Am I?

Dietrich Bonhöffer, a young [Lutheran] theologian of great promise [from the German state church], was martyred by the Nazis for his participation in a plot against the life of Adolf Hitler. His writings have greatly influenced recent theological thought. This article appeared in the Journal Christianity and Crisis, March 4, 1946. [Some Lutherans question the depth or expression of his Lutheran theology, but this is a moving poem, regardless.]

Who am I? 

They often tell me
I stepped from my cell’s confinement
Calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
Like a squire from his country-house.
Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
Freely and friendly and clearly,
As though it were mine to command.
Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
Equally, smilingly, proudly,
Like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
Struggling for breath, as though hands were
compressing my throat,
Yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
Thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
Tossing in expectation of great events,
Powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
Weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
Faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
And before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
Fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, 0 God, I am Thine!* ----Dietrich Bonhoeffer; March 4,1945
*Because Jesus died on the cross for us

Sing to the Lord of Harvest

Sing to the Lord of harvest,
Sing songs of love and praise;
With joyful hearts and voices
Your alleluias raise.
By Him the rolling seasons
In fruitful order move;
Sing to the Lord of harvest,
A joyous song of love.

By Him the clouds drop fatness,
The deserts bloom and spring,
The hills leap up in gladness,
The valleys laugh and sing.
He fills them with His fullness
And all things will increase,
He crowns the year with goodness,
With plenty and with peace.

Bring to His sacred altar

The gifts His goodness gave,

The golden sheaves of harvest,

The souls He died to save.

Your hearts lay down before Him

When at His feet you fall,

And with your lives adore Him,

Who gave His life for all.

To God the gracious Father,
Who made us “very good,”
To Christ, who, when we wandered,
Restored us with His blood,

And to the Holy Spirit,
Who doth upon us pour
His blessèd dews and sunshine,
Be praise forevermore!
---John S.B. Monsell, 1866; adapted c.m.b., 2009

Indian Summer

These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look.

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries* of June ---
A blue and gold mistake.

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief,

Till ranks of seeds their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament** of summer days,
Oh, last communion** in the haze,
Permit a child to join,

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine!
---Emily Dickinson
*Sophistries: subtly deceiving reasoning or artifacts
**Emily was so taken with the natural experience that she equates it with the Lord's Supper (Communion). No, I don't put nature on that par (it doesn't give forgiveness of sins), but the fact that nature is less tinged by the effects of sin makes it sometimes seem almost "sacred."

Aaahhh...VivAHldi!

This isn't a poem, but it IS a lovely rendition of Vivaldi's "Autumn" with great video clips:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_tHgtzAJePo
BTW, you can read a translation of the poems Vivaldi wrote describing each of the Four Season Concertos by clicking the "Vivaldi" link below or to the left.