For the Forgiveness of Sins

“You do not know what you are asking. Can you drink the chalice that I am going to drink?”
"We can.”
“My chalice indeed you will drink."

****

My chalice – held out to you,
A servant's offering.
My chalice – the wine of Cana,
Abundance of life's joy.
My chalice – of living water,
Flowing for you always.
My chalice – gift of the Father,
For the Son to accept.
My chalice – covenant in my blood,
A ransom for many.
My chalice – soured vinegar,
Strange tasting victory.
My chalice – for you also to drink,
A share in my Kingdom.

*********
A sidetrack I took in the Lenten booklet I'm writing. Call it a preview.

Confessional Silence

No fun, being Zech'rias is
My larynx gripped by an iron band.
'Twas priest and penitent, pen in hand
Bound by our diff'rent silences.

Face of Christ for we poor fools
Father waits, his newspaper a loss
Till I, writing slowly, slide across
My ruled list of willfully, knowingly broken rules.

Contrition - mute, easily missed;
Penance and absolution given
In older terms, I've just been shriven.
Then Ador---I still have the list!

Pieces sift down amidst old trash
To be cast aside, unregarded
My sins - listed, torn up, discarded
Unrecycled scraps of the past.

Revelation 4:11

A young girl, tugged along by Mother
Drags her umbrella to catch the rain
Skips over a mosaic of sodden leaves.
A cyclist coasts past, looking ahead
Where a couple strolls through the mist.

The story unfolds around them,
In the trees lining this woodspath -
Now straight, now bent in homage,
Casting down crowns of copper and gold.
Stripped of glory, yet still stretching high.
Their rustle, caught up on the wind,
Sounds a groaning past all words.
Here is what Francis loved:
Not nature, but Creation.
Here a world dying to self
Here a world set afire.

-Margaret Catherine
10-27-09

Sketches

This traitor's last reward
This executioner's fee
These bloodied pieces of silver
This Iscariot, never free.

This Garden of Olives
This scene of desolation
These branches bent to hear
This cry of supplication.

This Simon renamed Rock
This bold strength crumbled
These tears of sorrow
This rashness humbled.

This place of the Skull
This tree good for food
These words of salvation
This Garden now renewed.

This Christ, Son of God
This man pierced by a spear
These waters to cleanse us
This love casting out fear.

This Friday we call Good
This time of heaven on earth
These hours of dark
This day of man's rebirth.

Margaret Catherine
4-10-2009

The Beauty of Words

Throw words at the surface of the problem
Send shallow answers skipping across
To lose their purpose and sink into the muck
Trite solutions swallowed by the question.
Fish them out again - sullied, betraying
Stained and worthless – still, scrub them off.
Pocket the lot, polished for another time.
Wipe your hands clean of the contact.
Never bend to taste those waters yourself,
Nor seek to fathom their bitter depths.

Stroll 'round the edge, chatting easily
-Every word spoken but One-
Admire your reflected perfection.
Wander away, picking comforting phrases
Inhale your bouquet of soothing cliches
Scatter bright petals, delicate and obscuring.
Thank your friend for suggesting the walk
Meander on, retracing long-trod paths.

Come back in winter, when ice has sealed all
And you can figure-skate across life's worries.
But promise to come back. It'll all be there.

Microcosm

Every day from death awaken,
Taste of wine and bitter gall.
For every morn's another Eden,
Every sin another Fall.
Every shame another hiding,
Every grace another call.

Every breath our answer giving,
Salvation writ in moments small.
If Christ be not the Lord of these,
He is Lord of naught at all.

A Traveler's Lament

O little town of Ambler,
How aptly named thou art!
'Twas in thy dark and silent streets
My car* refused to start.

'Closed for Thanksgiving',
Read every sign in town
Outside the hardware store I sat,
Alone and broken down.

Tho' the Acme was still open,
The Giant on Main St. too
Of one thing only had I need
A spark plug sparkling new.

On Chestnut St. I found shelter
A floor on which to sleep
Turkey to roast, stuffing to eat
A brother comp'ny to keep.

O little town of Ambler,
How trains do pass you by!
For your TruValue my thanks I give
An offering to on high.

*Poetic license, E.S. Just poetic license.

Venite Adoramus

Crucified shadow, cast on the wall -
Come behold this, work of our hands!
Stand below, hear His cry to all lands:
'I thirst still - for you and for all.'

In saried ranks before Christ kneel
Then rise, go in haste, by vows set apart -
Silence of heaven, silence of heart -
Handmaids of God, marked with His seal.

In grace and truth, not myth or story
The Word took flesh: we see His glory.

From my two week Come-and-See at the Missionaries of Charity.

Si Non Servias

Roll your heart's stone back into place
Shake the dust from your feet and move on.
Say, "Christ is not here"; seek not His face.
(Life fades to gray in the desert predawn.)
Lightless sky, endless sand; rock, thorn, weed.
Yours to wander: you are free indeed!

Between the Cracks

No good ground this, nor yet rocky:
Soil of urban concrete,
Neglected and left to harden.

Here and there an imprint lingers
A shoe perhaps, or bold hand.
Silent mem'ry - once, this was soft.

Seeds find small purchase here; rather
Scatter trampled and futile
Amidst glass shards and strewn refuse.

Now and again, slight gaps grant hope
Chance sowings take tenous root
In earth now, always hid from sight.

Straggling weeds, trod-upon grass
A tree to break the pavement
The random flower, blooming once.

Never shall be a lush garden, this:
Nor a harvest abundant.
Still life takes hold - between the cracks.

Tidings of Change

Arrow-path, water laps out
Ripples in time's wake wash us
Sunlit sparks hide the depths
Dazzle us, who are drifting
Blind, clinging to our wreckage.
Nowhere to go, we tread in place
Years pass - it is endless.

Spear-path, water flows new
Ripples from eternity cleanse us
Sunlit spark in our depths
Guides us, no longer adrift
Blind still - but to sin's wreckage.
Harbor in sight, we at last swim
Years after it is finished.

-Margaret Catherine