Oh the delight awaiting children
on the edge of glades filled with light.
That dappled ground stirs no fear for
those readied by stories told at night.
Every step a soft whisper on deep humus.
Every large stone a call for sacrifice.
Every tree a witness to the movements.
Every breeze shaping a truthful heart.
Even now when the wind blows gently
I feel the persistent press for knowing
someone ageless pulsing through it all
and tapping out the rhythms for my life.
I’m trading my hill songs for street songs.
I’m trading my sweet amens for Lord have mercies.
I’m laying them down for the joy of the Lord.
I’m trading my shiny tables for rugged beams.
I’m trading my nationalisms for kingdom crosses.
I’m laying them down for the joy of the Lord.
And we say yes Lord, yes Lord, yes yes Lord.
Yes Lord, yes Lord, yes yes Lord.
Let’s trade our like-ability for the neighbour’s love.
Let’s trade our smooth talk for the prophet’s truth.
Let’s lay them down for the joy of the Lord.
And we say come Lord, come Lord, come come Lord.
Come Lord, come Lord, come come Lord.
We hardly know His words from the ground up.
Our quick takes ooze with white house platitudes.
We can’t speak truth to power so our nice words are used.
We are pressed but not crushed
Persecuted not abandoned
Struck down but not destroyed
We are blessed beyond the curse
For His promise will endure
That His joy’s gonna be our strength
And we say help Lord, help Lord, help help Lord.
Help Lord, help Lord, help help Lord.
We’re trading our hill songs for street songs.
We’re trading our sweet amens for Lord have mercies.
We’re laying them down for the joy of the Lord.
Note about the picture: an inset from Edward Hicks’ work, The Falls of Niagara
Note about a previous song quoted and alluded to in this poem: Darrell Evans wrote the song Trading My Sorrows, otherwise known as Yes Lord.
So the dance continues, but no one rejoices. And no one really believes the detainees “have completed their studies, found stable employment with the help of the government and have improved their quality of life and live a happy life.” (The Guardian)
So instead we shall lament for and with the Uighurs. #Advent
Dancing With The Middle Kingdom
New neighbours were sent to be with us. We
know they can’t stand us.
Throw your doppas down they told us. Your
songs are forbidden they told us.
Contempt, it rises like a lunar compass
shackling us both in a silk road conquest.
Home comforts have been taken from us. Our
children are lost so utterly lost to us.
Who surveils freedom’s death for us? Who
hears the child’s cry far from us?
With pork dumplings they torment us. With
baijiu they seek a ruckus.
Divine irony may make them like us. Swine
flu may make spare ribs as rare as mercy for us.
Empire building requires faces barbarous. So
according to their hearts they see us.
We are nothing except what they want from us. They
seek a solution for us, a solution for
While in a prayer meeting this week this question and the answer came quick. I had started with the question of Isaiah the prophet’s poetry which I suppose we can call the Lord’s poetry. Who reads God’s Word deeply? And then question in my mind “Well for that matter, who reads poetry? Who reads poetry?”
The answer came as a picture first and then as words.
Who reads poetry?
Perhaps those who will
tarry under trees
‘till their souls
rooted in soil
breathe
again.
“Thus did Job continually.” Job 1:5
Sometimes when a man dies
it’s only his children who knew
The contours of a smile turned up
when troubles pulled him down
The soft tears of laughter formed
in the crucible of tenderness
The quick retort of a word marked
by pain — the fear that he was not
enough. But do they know his
prayers? These shall live on