Friday, January 20, 2006
There are chicken soup moments, Lord,
where I feel the need,
when I feel the aches,
when sick in my heart,
I cry out to thee,
and you send me
that comfort unexpected.
There are moments, Lord,
when you surprise me out of the blue,
unexpected gifts of love,
like the day I wanted to cry and instead,
you sent me a sunddog rainbow,
or let me see the sailing dance of a group of hawks
coasting across the sky,
or gave me the sudden urge to peek out the window
to discover a sunset so beautiful
I wanted to cry.
There are moments, Lord,
when I come to you in prayer,
and see,
with that inward sight you give me,
how, like the lover you are,
you walked that last hard walk,
impossibly hard,
bloody and bleeding
burdened with all the pain and sin
we could give you,
so that you could draw me
and all who love you close,
transform us
shower us
with chicken soup moments,
with lover's touches,
with all the strength,
with all the hope
with all that we need
to let you bring us home.
Deo gratias!
Susan E. Stone, 2006
where I feel the need,
when I feel the aches,
when sick in my heart,
I cry out to thee,
and you send me
that comfort unexpected.
There are moments, Lord,
when you surprise me out of the blue,
unexpected gifts of love,
like the day I wanted to cry and instead,
you sent me a sunddog rainbow,
or let me see the sailing dance of a group of hawks
coasting across the sky,
or gave me the sudden urge to peek out the window
to discover a sunset so beautiful
I wanted to cry.
There are moments, Lord,
when I come to you in prayer,
and see,
with that inward sight you give me,
how, like the lover you are,
you walked that last hard walk,
impossibly hard,
bloody and bleeding
burdened with all the pain and sin
we could give you,
so that you could draw me
and all who love you close,
transform us
shower us
with chicken soup moments,
with lover's touches,
with all the strength,
with all the hope
with all that we need
to let you bring us home.
Deo gratias!
Susan E. Stone, 2006
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
Prayer on the Death of a Young Man
There are times,
moments that have no words,
but the groaning of a heart
hurt too deep to say
anything
but to cry out the pain.
There are times,
like the day
when they found him lying in the snow,
in a pool of blood,
cold,
his backpack laying next to him,
the gun near his hand.
When the word came,
how unspeakable,
the fear in the heart
of sister, mother, father
crashing into reality
as the final word was spoken.
"I'm sorry," cannot convey
the power of those words,
the kick to the gut
the sudden, massive cry
that rips apart the heart.
O Mother of sorrows,
who can we turn to
when the grief falls down like rain,
like the dust running through your fingers
as you stood there on the hill,
watching him
your life
your heart
give up his life,
you powerless to stop it.
O Mother of Sorrows,
Reach out your hand
to the sister,
rocking with grief
as the memory of her childhood
and happier days
chase the dark realization
that they will never be again,
the brother she teased,
comforted,
worried about
has slipped beyond her reach.
O Mother of Consolation,
You who know the anguish
of being powerless to stop the death of a son,
stand by the father,
grace him with your prayers,
as he struggles with the anger,
of how he could not save his boy,
his hope,
from the thing in that son's head and heart
that was broken
curled around the darkness.
O Mary, Comforter of the Afflicted,
Watch over the mother
who rocks herself in her grief,
the wailing cry
of mothers
since the death of Abel,
crying over the loss,
the missing son,
the hand that is no longer there,
lost in the midnight
where she could not find him,
caught up in a place
where she could not hold him,
her boy,
frightened,
wild,
despairing,
gone.
Touch her heart,
O Lady of Consolation,
you who know how the dark night feels
when bereft,
there is only the darkness to stare into,
only the night,
only the hole that he could fill
ripping through the heart.
Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God,
when the night presses in,
for the son who despaired in his sickness,
and let the darkness in his mind take him away,
for the parents who could not save him
in spite of themselves,
for all who loved him.
Pray for them, O Mother of Sorrows
as the anger touches their heart,
and the loss of his touch
becomes an aching sore.
Bring them safely to the shelter
of your loving son's heart.
Amen.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
moments that have no words,
but the groaning of a heart
hurt too deep to say
anything
but to cry out the pain.
There are times,
like the day
when they found him lying in the snow,
in a pool of blood,
cold,
his backpack laying next to him,
the gun near his hand.
When the word came,
how unspeakable,
the fear in the heart
of sister, mother, father
crashing into reality
as the final word was spoken.
"I'm sorry," cannot convey
the power of those words,
the kick to the gut
the sudden, massive cry
that rips apart the heart.
O Mother of sorrows,
who can we turn to
when the grief falls down like rain,
like the dust running through your fingers
as you stood there on the hill,
watching him
your life
your heart
give up his life,
you powerless to stop it.
O Mother of Sorrows,
Reach out your hand
to the sister,
rocking with grief
as the memory of her childhood
and happier days
chase the dark realization
that they will never be again,
the brother she teased,
comforted,
worried about
has slipped beyond her reach.
O Mother of Consolation,
You who know the anguish
of being powerless to stop the death of a son,
stand by the father,
grace him with your prayers,
as he struggles with the anger,
of how he could not save his boy,
his hope,
from the thing in that son's head and heart
that was broken
curled around the darkness.
O Mary, Comforter of the Afflicted,
Watch over the mother
who rocks herself in her grief,
the wailing cry
of mothers
since the death of Abel,
crying over the loss,
the missing son,
the hand that is no longer there,
lost in the midnight
where she could not find him,
caught up in a place
where she could not hold him,
her boy,
frightened,
wild,
despairing,
gone.
Touch her heart,
O Lady of Consolation,
you who know how the dark night feels
when bereft,
there is only the darkness to stare into,
only the night,
only the hole that he could fill
ripping through the heart.
Pray for us, O Holy Mother of God,
when the night presses in,
for the son who despaired in his sickness,
and let the darkness in his mind take him away,
for the parents who could not save him
in spite of themselves,
for all who loved him.
Pray for them, O Mother of Sorrows
as the anger touches their heart,
and the loss of his touch
becomes an aching sore.
Bring them safely to the shelter
of your loving son's heart.
Amen.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
Song about Gethsemane
Standing in the garden,
beneath the olive tree,
Look at him praying,
alone as he could be
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
Standing in the garden,
He fell down to his knees,
"Abba, Father, Abba,"
He cried beneath the trees.
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
"Take this cup away from me,
I do not want its wine,"
He prayed in the midnight,
"Not my will, but thine."
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
Then standing in the garden,
He knew just what to do,
and woke the sleeping men up
So they would know it too.
No time left to watch with him,
no time left to pray.
The soldiers take him to the priest,
now time to run away,
Forgive us Lord for standing there
when we should be with thee,
forgive us Lord for failing to
come with you and see.
Help us to follow you,
help us to pray
And keep us always close to you
lest we should draw away.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
beneath the olive tree,
Look at him praying,
alone as he could be
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
Standing in the garden,
He fell down to his knees,
"Abba, Father, Abba,"
He cried beneath the trees.
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
"Take this cup away from me,
I do not want its wine,"
He prayed in the midnight,
"Not my will, but thine."
He asked them to watch with him,
He asked them to pray
But the sleep stole over them
As he drew away,
Then standing in the garden,
He knew just what to do,
and woke the sleeping men up
So they would know it too.
No time left to watch with him,
no time left to pray.
The soldiers take him to the priest,
now time to run away,
Forgive us Lord for standing there
when we should be with thee,
forgive us Lord for failing to
come with you and see.
Help us to follow you,
help us to pray
And keep us always close to you
lest we should draw away.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
Labels: Passion of Christ, Song
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Hear Us, O Lord
Hear us, O Lord,
we your children,
who feel confused,
afraid,
sometimes lost
as the world pulls around us
saying black is white
and bad is good,
and impurity is purer
than the path you have shown us.
O how clear it is
that this world is not our home,
with its love of the darkness,
and its hate of the light,
and its joy in the things
that bring misery
after a moment's pleasure,
and the things that destroy hope
after having a moment of power.
O Lord,
breathe on us
with your Spirit of Love
as you did on the waters
at the begining of time,
touch us with the fire
that comes from your lover's heart,
blow away our doubts
by the wind that comes rushing
with the promise of a new hope,
Strengthen us with the small still voice
that whispers your care.
O Lord,
you who walked the hard path
from Gethsemane to Golgotha,
to fill us with your light,
whisper to us
in the darkness of our doubts,
and in the end,
may we come at last
to be home with you.
Amen.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
Hear us, O Lord,
we your children,
who feel confused,
afraid,
sometimes lost
as the world pulls around us
saying black is white
and bad is good,
and impurity is purer
than the path you have shown us.
O how clear it is
that this world is not our home,
with its love of the darkness,
and its hate of the light,
and its joy in the things
that bring misery
after a moment's pleasure,
and the things that destroy hope
after having a moment of power.
O Lord,
breathe on us
with your Spirit of Love
as you did on the waters
at the begining of time,
touch us with the fire
that comes from your lover's heart,
blow away our doubts
by the wind that comes rushing
with the promise of a new hope,
Strengthen us with the small still voice
that whispers your care.
O Lord,
you who walked the hard path
from Gethsemane to Golgotha,
to fill us with your light,
whisper to us
in the darkness of our doubts,
and in the end,
may we come at last
to be home with you.
Amen.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
Monday, January 16, 2006
The Exile's Song (based on Psalm 137)
How can I sing to thee
the old songs of home,
songs of a happy time
before I did roam,
I'll hang up my harp
upon yonder tree,
break all the harp strings
before I'll sing to thee
the sweet songs of home.
How bright the waters here
beyond the trees
how cool the willow looks
in evening breeze,
but this is not my home
fair though it may be,
I long to see the hills
long known to me,
the sweet hills of home.
How can I sing the songs
long known to me
that I once learned at home
at mother's knee
In this strange place I'm in,
grieving for thee,
the home I always loved,
and long to be,
the sweet streets of home.
They ripped us from your side,
home of my heart,
and brought us many miles,
to keep us apart.
O Zion city fair,
I weep for thee
Far from my father's house,
lost now to me,
the sweet memory that's home.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
the old songs of home,
songs of a happy time
before I did roam,
I'll hang up my harp
upon yonder tree,
break all the harp strings
before I'll sing to thee
the sweet songs of home.
How bright the waters here
beyond the trees
how cool the willow looks
in evening breeze,
but this is not my home
fair though it may be,
I long to see the hills
long known to me,
the sweet hills of home.
How can I sing the songs
long known to me
that I once learned at home
at mother's knee
In this strange place I'm in,
grieving for thee,
the home I always loved,
and long to be,
the sweet streets of home.
They ripped us from your side,
home of my heart,
and brought us many miles,
to keep us apart.
O Zion city fair,
I weep for thee
Far from my father's house,
lost now to me,
the sweet memory that's home.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
Labels: scripture
Sunday, January 15, 2006
Meditation on the Holy Spirit
I feel your touch on the wind, Lord,
I feel you burning as a fire.
Breathe in me, Holy Spirit,
Breathe in me, Spirit who guides,
Set me aflame, Fire from on high.
Like a rushing wind
Ruah,
Spirit that danced upon the face of the waters,
Breath of God,
breathing life into man,
Spirit,
coming with tongues of fire,
God,
speaking in the softest of whispers.
Paraclete,
Comforter,
Spirit of the Living God,
Spirit of Christ,
Speak for me,
finding the words where I cannot say them,
Purify me,
that I may be a fitting temple,
Use me
that I may be the tool in God's hand.
Amen.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
I feel your touch on the wind, Lord,
I feel you burning as a fire.
Breathe in me, Holy Spirit,
Breathe in me, Spirit who guides,
Set me aflame, Fire from on high.
Like a rushing wind
Ruah,
Spirit that danced upon the face of the waters,
Breath of God,
breathing life into man,
Spirit,
coming with tongues of fire,
God,
speaking in the softest of whispers.
Paraclete,
Comforter,
Spirit of the Living God,
Spirit of Christ,
Speak for me,
finding the words where I cannot say them,
Purify me,
that I may be a fitting temple,
Use me
that I may be the tool in God's hand.
Amen.
Susan E. Stone, 2006
