hands befouled, his feet two mounds of mud,
who stands before the door and thinks himself
too filthy for clean floor and fragrant table,
I come to You with desecrated phrase
made foul by those who think their lies a skill,
and timid creatures who think lies are kind.
What honest words are left to speak to You?
But with Your guidance I have found a well
to wash my hands and rinse my smelly mouth,
and then, before I pray, take off my boots.
Only fools defile a holy place.
The Present
Small as I was, possessing like a king,
I knew my property came from my dad,
and not just some of mine, but everything.
What could I give him that he had not had?
The possibilities became a list
with statues first, then windows, then
his picture that I daily blessed and kissed.
But these were feeble objects made by men.
With Christmas drawing near, my next thought flew
to duties, proper acts of charity,
to hordes converted (to my rivals’ few).
Yet which of these could I say came from me?
At last I found the box my gift would fill
and put inside the best I had, my will.
Better than Best
This little church
that lives by slip and lurch
will sing off-key
and seldom will agree.
But these are yours and work for You,
and though their tones may be somewhat askew,
as amateurs, they love You so
that all their songs may not impress with polished show.
We howl and growl to serenade our artful God.
You do not think it odd
that those You made should be so artless in their hymns,
for they must use their limbs
to till the social fields of sullen earth
and bring to birth
a fair facsimile of heaven’s town
and your renown.
Like men who dig, and wives who press,
who love their children nonetheless,
and touch their faces with a hand
abrasive but as soft as sand,
they honor You with secondary gifts,
which, better than the best, may patch all rifts.
The Benefits of Pain
Now comes my pain that sweeps away the world.
The cluttered workday, all the social weights,
the habit that compels on mindless day—
all gone, or hid, like minor creatures when
a monarch makes approach. The pinpoint distant
star, confronted so immense, becomes the sun,
and I am intimate with You, and dead,
for no one lives this close to all that is.
My gratitude to You who send such pain,
who melt our eyes to let us see the real,
who break our legs so we will sit and think,
who scorch our tongues so we may speak alone
of You, think none but You, see who we are
by seeing we are not the God of all.
Distractions at Prayer
Hear me, Lord, secluded here
in this closed and quiet place.
Surely You attend our prayers
anywhere we call to You.
Still, the human mind, it seems,
wavers like a candle flame,
moved aside by every hiss,
upward and intent on You
only when the air is still.
Pain and anguish forge their own
upright highway to your home,
but our daily talk desires
isolation and the calm
of a pair who sit and talk,
all their children now asleep.
Hear me, Lord, my nagging chores
set aside to be performed
when You’ve filled my lungs with life.
Needs of family and friends
will not draw my thoughts from You
if I hold them to your eyes.
Now the thick, diurnal dust
of a thousand minor aches,
with a hundred pinprick jabs,
umbrage taken, nurtured close—
now I ask You clear away.
Either
