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."

My Own Heart Let Me Have More Pity On

[originally untitled]
(Forgiveness in Christ brings joy; but sometimes a tender conscience is hard on a person for a period of time. Hopkins experienced a period of what appears to be depression in connection with this.)

My own heart let me have more pity on; let
Me live to see my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By going round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find*
Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.

Would, self; come, poor Jackself*, I do advise
You, jaded, let be;*** call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile****
's bit wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather---as skies
Betweenpie mountains---lights a lovely mile.
---Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1885


*The poet is "groping around" in the manner of a blind man, searching for comfort that eludes him
**Hopkins often used "Jack" as a stand in for "anyone", the "man on the street", himself
***"Let it go", in modern language; he's telling his soul this hanging on to jadedness & sad thougts needs to go
****No, the poet doesn't really believe that God (the Father) has a physical smile; it's figurative, and he's comparing it to the "dappled" bright "U" of sky in the saddle between two dark mountains

The Destruction of Sennacherib*

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride:
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances uplifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword*,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
---George Gordon, Lord Byron

*II Kings 18: 13-19; II Chronicles 32: 1-21; Isaiah chapters 36-37. Sennacherib was an Assyrian king. A previous Assyrian king, Slamaneser, had already carried away the northern kingdom of Israel. When Sennacherib threatened Judah, Isaiah and King Hezekiah prayed to Yahweh (the Lord), and the Angel of God killed Sennacherib's best fighting men in camp. Sennacherib withdrew home, and was later killed by some of his own sons in the temple of his god.

Music on the Wing*

Let me be to Thee as the circling bird,
Or bat with tender and air-crisping wings
That shapes in half-light his departing rings**,
From both of whom a changeless note is heard.

I have found my music in a common word,
Trying each pleasurable throat that sings
And every praised sequence of sweet strings,
And know infallibly which I preferred.

The authentic cadence was discovered late
Which ends those only strains that I approve,
and other science all gone out of date
And minor sweetness scarce made mention of;
I have found the dominant of my range*** and state--
Love, O my God, to call Thee Love and Love.
---Gerard Manley Hopkins, 1865
*Originally untitled
**The bats circling to depart at sunset ("half-light")
***The author found his "true singing voice" late, or so he says. His "range" (literally, how low & high one can sing) is all wrapped up in Love for God. (This love can come only as a response to knowing that Christ has died for our sins.)

Be Still, My Soul

[These are tough economic times for people. And, yet, the timeless wisdom and loving care of God never change.]

Be still, my soul*: the Lord is on your side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to your God to order and provide:
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: your best, your heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: your God will undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Your hope, your confidence let nothing shake:
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
Christ's voice, which ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
And all is darkened in the vale of tears.
Then you shall better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe your sorrow and your fears.
Be still, my soul: your Jesus can repay
From His own fullness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul: begin the song of praise;
While still on earth, sing to your Lord on high.
Acknowledge Him in all your words and ways**,
So shall He view you with a well-pleased eye.
Be still, my soul: the Sun of Life*** divine
Through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine.

Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord,
When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
All safe and blessèd we will meet at last.
---Katharina A. von Schlagel, 1752 (German); translated 1855 Jane L. Borthwick; adapted c.m.b., 2009
*Psalms 46: 10 & 42: 4-11
**Proverbs 3: 5-6
***Malachi 4:2; Jesus as the "Sun of Righteousness"