Showing posts with label Psalm 107. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Psalm 107. Show all posts

Sunday, May 11, 2025

This steadfast love


After Psalm 107
 

What is this steadfast

love, for which we are

to give thanks? It is

a love of redemption,

redemption from trouble.

 

What is this redemption,

for which we are to give

thanks? It is a redemption

from trouble, from sin,

the sin we bring upon

ourselves and others.

 

Who are the redeemed?

They are the ones gathered

together from the lands,

gathered from the east

and the west, gathered

from the north and south.

 

They come from desert wastes.

They come from darkness

and from death. They come

from foolishness and sinful

ways.

 

Some went down to the sea

in ships, rescued from storm.

Some were oppressed.

Some were afflicted.

All were hungry.

All were thirsty.

 

Give thanks to the Lord.

 

Photograph by Josh Eckstein via Unsplash. Used with permission.


Some Sunday Readings

 

The Mystical Prayer of the Early Christians – David Torkington at The Imaginative Conservative. 

 

The Woman Who Saved Capitol Hill Baptist Church – Caleb Morrell at Crossway.

 

Mary and Eve – poem by Michael Stalcup at Rabbit Room Poetry.

 

Finding Christ in Isolation: A Sonnet for St. Julian of Norwich – Malcolm Guite.

 

How faith built the best of our nation (Britain) – book review by Esme Partridge at The Critic Magazine.

Friday, October 12, 2018

At the gates of death


After Psalm 107

Wait a minute, we’re all supposed to be
good, right, I mean, it’s not like
we’re Hitler, right, we make mistakes,
we misspeak, we’re boxed in by what
happened 50 years ago, or 100, or 157,
whatever, and because we’re good
it’s never our fault (I blame Trump),
we can all play our victim’s card,
earned and honorary membership, 
don’t tell me otherwise as I careen toward,
approach, stagger, stumble toward
the gates of death. I look around to see 
(blame) someone for shoving me here,
and all I see are mirrors, reflections 
that would embarrass Dorian Gray,
it’s all there staring at me really ugly
and the only thing I can do is cry
out.

Somehow, through the roaring
and the noise, all the screams around me
and the screams from me,
the cry is heard.

Photograph by Dil Assi via Unsplash. Used with permission.