count my bones


I hunger
For a rightness
I find nowhere in my fallow furrows,
For a justice
I find absent in our global grave,
For a freedom
I will not find, so I cease to look.
Apart from Him, we are utterly empty,
And scraping the sand for manna
Will only fill us with the dust we’re made of.
This stone is not a well.


And tell me, can you cover them with sinew and with flesh?
Long dead shards of burnt-out tries
And truth-like-lies,
And malnutrition of my eyes,
This is not nourishment!
Feed me, or I die.

I am child, who knows nothing but empty tummy and the cold.
Warm my body in the folds
Of your love, of your life,
Of your rightness.
For this place is not right, and
We are distended.

Roll away this stone
From the well of your resurrection,
Discard the scorpions,
And the fools who insist that they are eggs.
We beg,
Give us bread, not stones,
Give us flesh, not bones,
For you are Father,
Bread, and wine.
May we feed on You,
Intoxicated by your fullness.

Chew on this:
We are not empty.
For He is ours and
We are His.

“Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.”
Matthew 5:6

(Liturgical poetry for the Sundays between Epiphany and Ash Wednesday is inspired by the Beatitudes, Matthew 5:3-12)

inherit the wind
let me be
careful of the cut

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s