You Who walked
the crossed streets of Jerusalem
like the waves of the Sea of Galilee.
You Who drank
Your own blood
and passed it out as wine.
You who broke Your body
and brought it back,
bread from Heaven
baked in Hell.
You Who stepped back
into a thunder of clouds
and will step forward
out of a cloud of thunders.
We remember with lilies.
For some reason,
we remember all this fire
with delicate white lilies.
H. Edgar Hix Minneapolis, Minnesota Copyright 1998 H. Edgar Hix
November's melancholy calms my sighs
with somber grays. Her muted beauty speaks
of rest between October's flaming skies
and gold December's rush of hectic weeks.
My hectic senses pause, each in its turn,
as snow's white calmness stills the slightest sound,
and passive, smoky skies let me discern
majestic grace in softened light. I've found
the touch of moistened wind a crisper taste,
a sweeter breath in early-shadowed days.
Breathe on, November, wrap me in your chaste
low clouds. Bereft of color, you hold my gaze.
Enthralled by ageless charm I walk your length,
Throw wide my arms, drink deeply of your strength.
Lora Zill, Conneaut Lake, Pennsylvania, Copyright 1996 Lora H. Zill. First published in The Lyric, Winter 1995.
Revelation (Revelation 5:5, 6, 12, etc.)
Lamb at my door,
patient, persistent, knocking so gently
to enter and dine,
are you threatened by darkness?
Have the thorns torn your clothing?
Are you lost from your sheepfold
that you’d settle for mine?
To open my door demands I dismantle
the bricks and the barricade
built of my fear.
Oh, Lamb, so unfriended
when I am defenseless, who can protect us
if danger is near?
Then come to my arms, Lamb.
At least we’ve each other
though storm overarches and wind snuffs my fire.
How can it be that you glow with such beauty,
illumine my terrors,
embrace and inspire?
Oh, Lamb of my life,
so warm, so unscratchingly wooly,
what is this wound that my fingers caress?
How is it I feel the roar of the lion,
the staff of the Shepherd,
and wish for white linen
in which I might dress?
Lamb in my arms,
though I hold, you embrace me.
Though fatally wounded, you stand and give life.
Enthroned in my praise, you put crowns
on my forehead.
Worshipped, you offer me honor;
and though I give welcome,
I am the cherished,
Charles A. Waugaman