In the Spirit

It hasn’t come
And I’ve been praying.
Yes you know I poured
My heart out, night and day
And the sweating
And the crying
Were distraction;
As if I had no clue
Just how to pray.
And I thought
This must be time
For spirit’s groanings
Could I just abase myself
And let it go?
Yes the scripture said
If I knew not
The real solution
I might pray in tongues
The mind of God to show.
And no sooner
Had I yielded
To the urging
As some words emerged
From quite beyond my ken
That I sensed
A power larger
Than my problem
And a discourse
High above the forms of men.
Now the answer didn’t
Come quick for the asking
But a peace
Beyond all hoping
Surely did.
You were there
Aware and full of consolation
And your child
Beneath your caring hand
You hid.
(painting by Ron DiCianni)

From the Crucible

When I think upon you, Lord

Leave the rush of cark and care

Set my troubles clear aside

Resolute to find you there.

You will never disappoint

You address each hurting soul

Draw the heart to Gospel tales

Bring it back to vigour, whole.

Nothing but your Word brings life

Nothing but your touch brings joy

Nothing but your alchemy

Yields the gold from sin’s alloy.


“Oh Jesus
Oh Jesus
My Jesus”
Fit words now
And all I can say
For all that is painful
And all giving hope
I need you
To usher the way.
Oh Jesus I hurt
Oh Jesus alone
I wonder where
All of them went.
Oh Jesus I fall
And Jesus I rage
Sore wavering
Unsure and all spent.
But Jesus you know
My passage
And Jesus you
Once suffered shame
And carry me up
On your shoulders
And smile when
You think on my name.
A turn in the road
You say is coming
And challenge
And rich purpose yet.
And oh, best of all,
We are partners
This surely, I’ll never forget.


Relocation: Help Needed

Image result for morning sky snow falling

Saw a man at a snowy bus stop

Tall and lean

Black as black can be

Probably in his Sunday best

This Monday morning.

My guess Sudanese.

Here on compassionate grounds

Home country ripped apart

Tribal and religious strife.

What might he have seen Lord?

What atrocities and robbery?

What loved ones abandoned?

With no other apparent choice?

Does he have English

Can he handle this

Awful Waterloo cold

This awful Western smugness

To the new and misunderstood?

Help him Father

If it is a search

In faltering words

For a job

For some needed training

For a place to bed down.

In Jesus’ name.

And I drive by

These careful words and images

My only coins

In the stranger’s cup.

Until perhaps next time…