Tag: Isaiah

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borne

What breath we own is borne in dust.
We sow what once was and will be
to reap the harvest of our trust.
What breath we own is borne in Dust
laid low, made enemy, and crushed
upon the contour of the Tree.
What breath we own is borne in dust,
we sow what once was and will be.

“If you keep your feet from breaking the Sabbath
and from doing as you please on my holy day,
if you call the Sabbath a delight
and the Lord’s holy day honorable,
and if you honor it by not going your own way
and not doing as you please or speaking idle words,
then you will find your joy in the Lord,
and I will cause you to ride in triumph on the heights of the land
and to feast on the inheritance of your father Jacob.”
For the mouth of the Lord has spoken.

Isaiah 58:13-14
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unleash

They say that just beyond the gates
the garden waits,

earth’s bones will bend to angel hands
beneath the land,

and fountains of the deep will sing:
“unleash the springs!”

While we are weeping at the sting
of absent breath and hope deferred,
Remember death has been interred:
The garden waits beneath the land. Unleash the spring!

“If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.
The Lord will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.
Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.

Isaiah 58:9-12
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phoenix

Then the pale violet light of winter’s edge
flutters its wings on our table, sinking
in the night, scrabbling at the hardwood ledge.
We watch the fledgling falter, vanes shrinking
to shafts, to ash, its tiny blades blinking
back bright tears. We whet swords in its sorrow.
We part chains and bear forth barrels, drinking
deep with those unbound until tomorrow.

“Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?
Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe them,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness will go before you,
and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.

Isaiah 58:6-9
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the saving kind

The angle is bent as the eye is blind;
I’ve given up hope this will reach your ears:
Forgive me, I’m just not the saving kind.

I’ve come to reject each voice in my mind,
afraid to accept the word that appears.
The angle is bent as the eye is blind.

A dangerous thing, a hope so entwined
with silence, violence, and all I revere.
Forgive me, I’m just not the saving kind.

For every day that I am refined,
I yearn to break like a heart for the spear.
The angle is bent as the eye is blind.

For every day that I fall behind,
the need burns in me to show you my fear.
Forgive me, I’m just not the saving kind.

In all I don’t know, hold me fast, defined
by turning and facing a mercy severe.
My angle is bent as my eye is blind:
Forgive me, for I’m not the saving kind.

“Yet on the day of your fasting, you do as you please
and exploit all your workers.
Your fasting ends in quarreling and strife,
and in striking each other with wicked fists.
You cannot fast as you do today
and expect your voice to be heard on high.
Is this the kind of fast I have chosen,
only a day for people to humble themselves?
Is it only for bowing one’s head like a reed
and for lying in sackcloth and ashes?
Is that what you call a fast,
a day acceptable to the Lord?

Isaiah 58:3-5
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exhume

Our lips are fluid, quick to drink
new liquid lies. We seem to think
some presence due to humbled ones,
some missive, set with drying ink.

Our fasts are full, or so we’ve spun
out in our vaults of loaded guns
a legend told in hallowed halls,
the legends of old battles won.

A foolish skin won’t hide our fall
when all within us mutes His call,
when all within is darkened tomb
and all without is splash-white wall.

O saints who long to make Him room,
awake, lay bare your bones, exhume:
His life will wrap your frame in red,
His life will cap your crown with blooms.

Begin in darkness, lay your head
upon the breast of broken Bread,
upon the breast that wept and bled
and drink the Wine that raised the dead.

“Shout it aloud, do not hold back.
Raise your voice like a trumpet.
Declare to my people their rebellion
and to the descendants of Jacob their sins.
For day after day they seek me out;
they seem eager to know my ways,
as if they were a nation that does what is right
and has not forsaken the commands of its God.
They ask me for just decisions
and seem eager for God to come near them.
‘Why have we fasted,’ they say,
‘and you have not seen it?
Why have we humbled ourselves,
and you have not noticed?’

Isaiah 58:1-3