More on "Take Time to Be Holy"

This text comes from the final draft of the devotion I shared during choir rehearsal in October 2003.

Come away, My beloved, to our meeting place
beside the cool waters.
I delight in your hand clasped trustingly in Mine.
Your face shining with hope in Me
is beautiful, My child.
You have been seeking Me
wholeheartedly, desiring to learn
My ways so that My thoughts, words, and actions become yours.
I long to tell you great and deep things
you've never known before.
Yield to Me and your springtime will be now.
The blossoming of holiness can begin
even in this season when dry leaves fall to cool, moist ground.
Do not fold up the petals of your living
and determine not to open up till a different spring appears.
The sun is here and shines on every part;
the well flows up and will water a thirsty heart.
So then may songs burst forth and dances may celebrate to a joyful tune.
Spring in you is here and life can be green under an autumn moon.

Pictures of Prayer

This text comes from a draft of a devotion I wrote on 10/8/03 to share before our church's adult choir rehearsed the approaching Sunday's anthem, "Take Time to Be Holy."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It is early evening. The sun is slowly slipping down to the horizon in the west. You tug on the lamb's lead to persuade him away from some dry scrub brush. He follows you, the little bell clunking as he walks.

You enter the courtyard, passing through the fabric gate. The priests stand near the altar of burnt offerings and the laver, carrying out their duties. One of their helpers takes the lamb from you, and you bow. The sweet smell of incense lingers in the airafter a breeze blows from the tabernacle through the courts.

You pray as you watch the helpers and the priests perform the rituals given years ago, repeated day after day through generations of God-fearers. You marvel at these things God has instructed you and your people to do and sometimes wonder why and wonder if it would be OK to ask Him.

Now you smell the aroma of your lamb burning on the altar. You continue praying. May it atone. May it atone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
It is evening. The sun has slipped down to the horizon on the west. You and your friends are following the Master through the Kidron Valley.

You hear the shofar trumpets blare. You smell the fragrance of incense, the aroma of burnt offerings, and the stench of blood running from the temple. You know that the city of Jerusalem is crowded with Passover worshipers.

You look at the Master walking up ahead. He is singing with you, sometimes with a faraway look you cannot describe. You think about all the events you have experienced with Him and try to compress them all into a single thought, but you cannot grasp the meaning of them.

Then you remember something one of John's followers told you once. John had said, "Look, the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world." What did it mean? And what does the Master mean when He keeps saying He will destroy the temple and in three days build it again?

One of the followers comes to clasp your hand, and you put aside your musings as together you raise your voices in song: "This is the day that the LORD has made. We will rejoice and be glad in it!"

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Looking back on a life well spent in Your presence,
what will I see? The moments others saw as sacrifice
were times I chose to be silent before you,
times I did not listen to the white-noise hum of postmodern mechanics
but to the stretching-into-eternity vastness of the Truth
that has no harmonic on this human scale.
I set You at my right hand and You became my strength
as my weaknesses grew and covered my pride in rags of shame.
You stood in my place, revealed Yourself through the holes,
and washed away every stain.

Poem in progress

A statue stands in the center of the garden.
Moss grows over her feet,
and ivy curls over her shoulder.
Hands barely outstretched,
held near the heart,
she waits to catch the rain.

Once...those palms held candles:
a vigil of questions and cries
continued through foggy midnight
to a morning of cold shadows.

These days fog and shadow
are her constant companions.
But no rain.

If sun should pierce through covering cloud,
she might stretch and yawn,
wiggle a toe,
brush the moss and ivy away,
and walk the twisted, forking paths
to the field of wildflowers
and play.

But not even the rain comes,
though pregnant air weighs heavy
with its moisture.
The mists water the trailing vines
and mossy corners.
It is enough for them.
But not for her.
Not for one who hopes
beyond boundaries of what is,
though she herself
is naught but stone.