All things by immortal power Near or far Hiddenly To each other linked are That thou canst not stir a flower Without troubling a star. Francis Thompson (1859-1907), The Mistress of Vision.
Humankind: Sinful, Rebellious and Faithless
D Day: Lest we Forget
Lest we forget—lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe— Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law— Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget—lest we forget! For heathen heart...
My heart unheedful has puffed up
Round me whirled a fiery zone And the recoil of my word’s airy ripple My heart unheedful has puffed up and blown. Therefore I cast myself before thee prone: Let cool hands on my burning brain and press From my weak heart the swelling emptiness. George MacDonald...
She lost the parable
It was sex, sex, sex and money, money, God’s mistake and the devil’s creation, that took the mind of the congregation on long journeys into the hills of a strange land, where sin was the honey bright as sunlight in death’s hives. They lost the parable and found the...
A staircase for waiting in silence
Moments of great calm kneeling before an altar of wood in a stone church in summer, waiting for the God to speak: the air is a staircase for silence; the sun’s light ringing me, as though I acted a great role. And the audiences still; all the close throng of spirits...
What I do is Me
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells; Selves - goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying What I do is me: for that I came. I say more: the just man justices; Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings...
Distracted from distraction by distraction
This twittering world Only a flicker Over the strained time-ridden faces Distracted from distraction by distraction Filled with fancies and empty of meaning Tumid apathy with no concentration Men and bits of paper, whirled by the cold wind That blows before and after...
Buy me a home in a perfect hell
I would buy me a perfect island home, Sweet set in a southern sea, And there I would build me a paradise For the heart o’ my Love and me. I would plant me a perfect garden there, The one that my dream soul knows, And the years would flow as the petals grow, That...
Lovely in eyes not His
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same: Deals out that being indoors each one dwells ; Selves - goes itself; myself it speaks and spells, Crying What I do is me: for that I came. I say more: the just man justices; Keeps grace: that keeps all his...
Not Waving but Drowning
Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning; I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he’s dead. It must have been too cold for him, his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was...
Traffickers in words
A brother came to Abba Theodore and spent three days begging him to say a word to him, but without getting a single reply. So, he went away aggrieved. Then the old man’s disciple asked him: ‘Abba, why did you not say a word to him? See how he has gone away aggrieved?’...
Little boxes on the hillside
Little boxes on the hillside… And they’re all made out of ticky tacky And they all look just the same. Malvina Reynolds (1900 – 78), Little Boxes, 1962 song about tract houses in San Francisco.