I Weave a Song of Praise

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I WEAVE A SONG OF PRAISE

I weave a song of praise to you,
Creator God,
who spoke the atoms into orbit
spread out the heavens in vast expanse
gathered planets' mass
set the sun alight
and spun the earth in place
then shaped with molten lava
with limestone sediment and tilted strata

Who scattered cirrus and cumulus
gave DNA its complex shape
set birds in flight
and fish to swimming
fashioned skin and bone
feather, fin
golden fur of tamarin
sleek orca’s hide
made man from dust
and stamped your image there

Thee I adore,
Creator God,
who built this habitation with such love
watched it fall
then bought it back with blood

I weave a song of praise to you,
Creator God,
who will build anew
in perfection
and dwell with those who trust you
all danger gone
pain banished
no end to life
with you,
with you.
DESERT HYMN
Earth with her thousand voices praises God—
S.T. Coleridge
God’s passion poured
on desert dwellers
shouts out
in dove wing and tortoise shell,
in cardinal red
and yellow cactus flower.
Grackles’ black elegance
and lizards’ varicolored beading
spring alike from the Creator’s mind.

Saguaro arms lift high in praise;
orange-flagged ocotillo trembles
and yucca’s creamy candles
blaze with waxen unburning.
Incense of creosote,
mesquite and purple sage
release aroma of thanksgiving.

Hummingbirds flit,
finding nurture in sweet to sweet.
Bees swim
in fairy-duster pools
brimming with pollen,
giving praise to the God of their provision.

Oh thousand desert voices,
shout, shout praise
for this passion poured!
COLOR SONG

Color clambers everywhere—
Oleander cascades over stuccoed walls,
white to pink to deeper pink,
brilliant chorus of color.
Bougainvillea scales trellises,
glowing as if from light within.

Jacarandas bloom ethereal in purple;
Palo Verde dances gold-clad,
and everywhere green,
dusty or fresh,
climbs into my eyes and sings,
clamoring, “See!” and “Hear!”

MINIATURES

What loveliness is packed
In tiny things—

Scaled wings and feathered wings
All golds and teals
Emeralds and rubies

Buzzing flight
And noiseless creeping
Shrill chorus
Or single melodic song

Beetle’s ebon shell
Dragonfly’s iridescence
Hummingbird’s gleaming blur

Short fragile lives
Lavished with glory—

What loveliness is packed
In tiny things.

MARTHA, WHEN LAZARUS
WASN’T DEAD ANYMORE

My brother was dead.
The breath had gone out of him,
All light from his eyes.
My brother Lazarus was dead.

That this should happen to us—
Us, who were so close to the healer,
The one whose very word or touch
Drove out illness, healed shrunken limbs!

We sent him word,
But he didn’t come,
And Lazarus grew worse—
And then he was dead,
The breath and light all gone.

We did for him
What you do for the dead—
The washing and wrapping—
And then we placed his body in a tomb
And went away
And wept.

When Jesus finally came,
The first words out of my mouth
Were reproach—
“Lord, if you had been here,
My brother would not have died.”

I did not understand,
When he replied to me,
That in a moment I would see him
Crack death wide open.

“I am the resurrection and the life,”
He said, his voice firm, compelling.
His question was blunt,
“Do you believe this?”

I stammered.
“I believe you are Messiah.”

He sent me to fetch Mary,
And when we returned
Jesus asked where we had laid him.
So we took him to the tomb.

Then he asked us to do an unthinkable thing—
He wanted us to move the stone
From the tomb of a man four days dead.

I knew what would come of that,
And I protested,
But once again his voice was compelling—
“Didn’t I tell you that if you believed,
You would see the glory of God?”

So we rolled back the stone.
And Jesus shouted—
He shouted—
“Lazarus, come out!”

And Lazarus came out—
Death cracked wide open.

My brother was dead—

And tonight, I hear him in the next room,
talking.