God Knows

God Knows

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year:

“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”

And he replied:

“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God.

That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”

So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night.

And He led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.

So heart be still:

What need our little life

Our human life to know,

If God hath comprehension?

In all the dizzy strife

Of things both high and low,

God hideth His intention.

God knows. His will

Is best. The stretch of years

Which wind ahead, so dim

To our imperfect vision,

Are clear to God. Our fears

Are premature; In Him,

All time hath full provision.

Then rest: until

God moves to lift the veil

From our impatient eyes,

When, as the sweeter features

Of Life’s stern face we hail,

Fair beyond all surmise

God’s thought around His creatures

Our mind shall fill.

by Minnie Louise Haskins

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The Storm

The Storm

Reflections before Advent 2014

The storm crashed into a heart filled with pain,

tons of water flattening the dead and maimed,

waters that save will also destroy.

The eddy current in the heart causes consternation,

what to do, what to do, cries with aggravation,

clear clean water now murky and dark.

The storm smashes innocence and let in darkness,

tears mixes with salt water, colour into blackness,

on a face lined with despair.

Gale force wind chill into a soul’s grounds,

sputtering and gasping as one drowns,

watches in despair as the ship goes down.

The storm blows on, and the year wears on,

come month’s end and Advent’s dawn,

will the portal opens for homecoming?

Living waters from the wellspring of one’s core,

will you offers satiation to the thirsty once more?

and destroy the beast that ambles toward Jerusalem.

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The Unclean

The Unclean

There was a time when I was clean,

had family, friends, relatives and a man.

Sunshine, joy, happiness, life was serene,

vanished when my bleeding began but not end.

O God, Thou creator of worlds without end,

why do Thou decree that I suffer so?

By my body issue cause that my life rend,

did I offend Thee that Thou afflict such sorrow?

Thou decree that woman with menses be unclean,

temple ceremonially so but contaminable too.

But Thou did created woman to bleed in between,

weeping of a womb disappointment accrue.

My bleeding did not stop continually unclean I remain,

Social outcast fled family, friends, man I hold dear.

Seek physicians and priests my misfortune to unchain,

Not spared prayers, cash, effort that I become clear.

Twelve years of loneliness longing for a human touch,

O God, Thou compassionate merciful wherefore are Thou?

Twelve years of darkness only to Thee I clutch,

O Lord, Compassionate and Merciful One, heal Thou me now!

(Mark 5:24-34; Matthew 9:20-22; Luke 8:43-48)

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The False Shalom

Wandering monkey mind,

fleeting flighty thoughts,

rapid shallow breathing,

racing stressed heartbeats,

ever restless moving body,

the ‘shalom’ of stress.

Mindfulness of the moment,

reflection of consciousness,

deep breaths of life,

slower drumbeats of mortality,

body still, relaxed at rest,

the shalom of eternity.

Why do we live with the false shalom?

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Standing at the Gate of the Year

God Knows

And I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year: “Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.”
And he replied:
“Go out into the darkness and put your hand into the Hand of God. That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way.”
So I went forth, and finding the Hand of God, trod gladly into the night. And He led me towards the hills and the breaking of day in the lone East.

So heart be still:
What need our little life
Our human life to know,
If God hath comprehension?
In all the dizzy strife
Of things both high and low,
God hideth His intention.
God knows. His will
Is best. The stretch of years
Which wind ahead, so dim
To our imperfect vision,
Are clear to God. Our fears
Are premature; In Him,
All time hath full provision.
Then rest: until
God moves to lift the veil
From our impatient eyes,
When, as the sweeter features
Of Life’s stern face we hail,
Fair beyond all surmise
God’s thought around His creatures
Our mind shall fill.

"The Gate of the Year" is the popular name given to a poem by Minnie Louise Haskins. The title given to it by the author was "God Knows". She studied and then taught at the London School of Economics in the first half of the twentieth century.

The poem, published in 1908, was part of a collection titled The Desert. It caught the public attention and the popular imagination when then-Princess Elizabeth handed a copy to her father, King George VI, and he quoted it in his 1939 Christmas broadcast to the British Empire. (source: Wikimedia Commons)

Colourful is the Bird

Coloured feather light that flies,
majestically across the clear blue sky,
eyes that see from high and clear,
panorama of colours covering autumn air.

We who seek over the rainbow fly,

stand on twigs neither black or white,
daily struggle with feelings red and blue,
long for the stillness of the leafy green.

We perceive each other with jaundiced eyes,
one species divided by colours our blood common red,
when, oh, when, will we harmony be,
in one little bird sparkles coloured flume.

Our Lord in creating this little bird,
let’s have a dash of this and a dash of that,
in diversity is unity, in unity this colorful beauty,
a glimpse this bird evoke awesome adoration.


Photo by Wong Ling Hong

When You are Old

WHEN YOU ARE OLD
by: William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

HEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

 

How many loved your moments of glad grace,

And loved your beauty with love false or true,

But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

 

And bending down beside the glowing bars,

Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled

And paced upon the mountains overhead

And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

"When You Are Old" is reprinted from The Rose. W.B. Yeats. 1893.

A Leaky Pipe

Drip, drip

The house pipe is leaking again, my dear.

The cold hard winter is coming.

Drip, drip

leaking precious water,

precious love.

A wounded creature seeking refuge,

seeking a safe place to hide,

away from others.

Needing time to heal, to balm,

life numbing desiccating ravages,

hidden soul abscesses,

open festering hurts,

and water.

Drip, drip

precious water,

love,

dries

on a hot pavement.

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The Unclean

The Unclean

There was a time when I was clean,

had family, friends, relatives and a man.

Sunshine, joy, happiness, life was serene,

vanished when my bleeding began but not end.

O God, Thou creator of worlds without end,

why do Thou decree that I suffer so?

By my body issue cause that my life rend,

did I offend Thee that Thou afflict such sorrow?

Thou decree that woman with menses be unclean,

temple ceremonially so but contaminable too.

But Thou did created woman to bleed in between,

weeping of a womb disappointment accrue.

My bleeding did not stop continually unclean I remain,

Social outcast fled family, friends, man I hold dear.

Seek physicians and priests my misfortune to unchain,

Not spared prayers, cash, effort that I become clear.

Twelve years of loneliness longing for a human touch,

O God, Thou compassionate merciful wherefore are Thou?

Twelve years of darkness only to Thee I clutch,

O Lord, Compassionate and Merciful One, heal Thou me now!

(Mark 5:24-34; Matthew 9:20-22; Luke 8:43-48)

Thomas Merton The Serene Disciple

When in the Soul of the Serene Disciple

When in the soul of the serene disciple
With no more Fathers to imitate
Poverty is a success,
It is a small thing to say the roof is gone:
He has not even a house.

Stars, as well as friends,
Are angry with the noble ruin.
Saints depart in several directions.

Be still:
There is no longer any need of comment.
It was a lucky wind
That blew away his halo with his cares,
A lucky sea that drowned his reputation.

Here you will find
Neither a proverb nor a memorandum.
There are no ways,
No methods to admire
Where poverty is no achievement.
His God lives in his emptiness like an affliction.

What choice remains?
Well, to be ordinary is not a choice:
It is the usual freedom
Of men without visions

                                                                           Thomas Merton

Rumi’s "The Guest House"

This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.

—translated by Coleman Barks

A House of Worship

I sat in the dust,

sores and boils on my skin,

organs malfunctioning, synapses misfiring,

deep wounds festering in my soul,

outside a house of worship.

Come to me,

said the owner of the house of worship,

and I offer you,

balms for your sores and boils,

healing for your organs and mind,

salvation for your soul.

I sat in the dust,

and peer into the dim interior,

of the house of worship,

at the workers whom the owner has engaged

to run his house of worship.

Come to me,

but I recoil at what I have seen within,

self-righteousness that coat like a second skin,

false smile that hide the mind of ambition,

starvation for my soul.

I sat in the dust,

and wait and wait and wait,

come home, oh owner of the house,

come home to fulfil your promises

maranatha, come home.

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Hey You!

This wonderful poem is from Heart to Heart with Holley blog.

Hey, you...

...the one who's had a hard week,
or who's dreaming that dream,
or who's somewhere in-between.
I'm praying for you today...
asking God to come into
the middle of your circumstances,
the middle of your road,
the middle of your life,
and do what only He can do.
I'm asking Him to wrap
His arms around your heart,
fill you up with love from deep inside,
give you peace that passes understanding,
and set your heart free in new ways.
I'm praying He gives you
everything you ask...
and more than you can imagine
because I believe He's got good plans for you
and I know He's going to see you through.
So know you're loved...
and keep holding on to the One who will never let go of you.

HT: Anna

You are my child

Reposting a poetry I posted on this blog on 17 August 2006

You are my child,
I give you a great palace to live in, nice tiled floors and sheltered courtyards,
yet you love to play in the mud and prefer a house built of sand.
I give you great gifts and talents to enrich the world,
yet you would rather use them to entertain yourself and impress your friends.
I give you a great Counsellor to guide you in a path straight and true,
yet you prefer the counsel of idolaters and mediocrity.
Yet you are my child.

You are my child,
I say to you, “I am your Father”, all that I have is yours,
yet you cling to your few copper coins with clenched fists.
I say to you, “Be like your Brother”, with whom you have lived with all these years,
yet you chose to be your own self-centred being.
I say to you, “Drink deep the waters of life”, for I have provided rain-bearing clouds for your arid soul,
yet you prefer to dig your own wells and find your own water.
Yet you are my child.

You are self-centred, stubborn, weak willed and proud,
yet you are capable of great acts of love, worship, thanksgiving and sacrifice.
You tried too hard, worked too hard, loved too hard and prayed too hard,
yet all that you need, you already have.
Yes, you are my child.

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Yeats' The Second Coming

The Second Coming William Butler Yeats (1920) Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? note: The "spiritus mundi" (Latin "spirit of the world")

some comment read here

Silence...

silence...
pen in hand, reading, writing
river flow to sea

A Book Too Far

Sometimes one can become so immersed in a literary/academic project for so long that one comes to suffer what the Early Church Fathers called apatheia. At times like this, my old friend Wordsworth has a few words to say about it.


The Table Turned by William Wordsworth

Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books;
Or surely you'll grow double:
Up! up! my Friend, and clear your looks;
Why all this toil and trouble?

The sun, above the mountain's head,
A freshening lustre mellow
Through all the long green fields has spread,
His first sweet evening yellow.
'tis a dull and endless strife:
Come, hear the woodland linnet,
How sweet his on my life,
There's more of wisdom in it.

And hark! how blithe the throstle sings!
He, too, is no mean preacher:
Come forth into the light of things,
Let Nature be your teacher.

She has a world of ready wealth,
Our minds and hearts to bless--
Spontaneous wisdom breathed by health,
Truth breathed by cheerfulness.

One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.

Sweet is the lore which Nature brings;
Our meddling intellect
Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things:--
We murder to dissect.

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

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A Morning Meditation

A dear sister recited this during the church service yesterday:

Which shall I choose today,
The hard or easy way;

To seek some soul to bless,
Or stay in idleness;

For some cause sacrifice,
Or simply close my eyes;

Work out God’s thought in me,
Or set my passions free;

Seek from my foe his peace,
Or let my wrath increase;

Give till I feel it hurt,
Or hoard the yellow dirt;

Walk where martyrs trod,
Or scorn the claims of God?

Would I make Christianity pleasant and acceptable
When my Saviour did not find it so

Would I would make it comfortable and accommodating to my own schedule
Jesus knew nothing of such a false religion.

Lonely nights He wrestled in prayer
Nor spared himself physical discomfort

Father, would I not hear when you say,
Give me in your heart right of way

For you have no reason to hold back,
Unless …your love for Me is too small.

Yes it may cost you,
It will cost everything in you which is not of Me

But O My Child,
You cannot fathom……what I have in store, for you.

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Ash Wednesday 2009

Today I wear the mark of the cross on my forehead,
visible black cross reminder of righteousness aforesaid.
stained mark from last year's burnt palm leaves
black on white, opportunity for repentance gives

Repentance done for repentance needed in words and deeds,
unconfessed sins unconfessed, sin and more sins will breed.
Repentance for grace undeserved, begins the season of Lent,
undeserved, unbidden, unexpected salvation was sent.

Darkness is my heart where selfishness sings evermore,
ego and pride above goodness and holiness soar.
Come, Holy Spirit, come breath of God, to my sorry plight,
Cleanse me, mould me, straighten me, to make me right.



Soli Deo Gloria

Lamentations in Gaza

Sirs, the gunfire are getting closer,

the screams are getting louder.

Sirs, my sisters and I are cowering,

under our dining table we are shivering.

Sirs, our playground and school are smashed,

as your tanks through them have crashed.

Sirs, you said we fired missiles at your homes,

actually we are too young to tie our shoelaces alone.

Sirs, we at night often hear our mother crying,

no food, no education, no hope she is sighing.

Sirs, we are scared when papa arrives home insulted,

working your factories; at your roadblocks humiliated.

Sirs, you say our God is terrorism and fanaticism,

that our family and our life is all one fatalism.

Sirs, you said your God is love, hope and light,

but so far we see Him teaching might is right.

Sirs, we are the victims not the aggressors,

do not punish us for the actions of our oppressors,

Sirs, have you no mercy as your bombers dive,

no threat to you I will die before I am five.

picture source