The Contemplations of Waiting
Earth is bowed with a weight
Hard and heavy to bear;
Bowed and curved around the great
Core of despair.
Go into a deep cave,
Where the stone groans in the dark
Like a voice in the grave;
Lift up the light, and mark
The heavy sag of stone,
bearing its load of woe
Till time shall be undone
And the aching form can go,
So men have always said;
Earth is heavy and cold...
But in sleep I saw her, clear
As a drop of dew:
Like a crystal was her sphere,
And the sun shone through:
Standing at midnight in the street...
Solemn and lovely visions
and holy dreams,
Mysterious portents,
wanderers who range
Among unearthly themes,
Strong catalysts that change
The colors and the contours
of the mind;
Be silent in your valleys in the moon,
Fade to the country that we
never find:
For I am listening for that mortal tune,
The broken anthem of
my fallen kind...
These in the light of heaven
I shall behold,
If I can come there,
standing in the flame
Of glory, with the blessed
in their gold.
There is no dream more wonderful,
for they
Are worth the whole creation,
each alone.
Grant me to see their beauty
on that Day!
—The Transparent Earth, Ruth Pitter
Batter my heart, three person’d God
for you as yet but knock.
Breathe, shine, and seek to mend,
that I may rise and stand
O’erthrow me, and bend your force to break,
blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp’d town to another due
labor to admit you but
Oh, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me
should defend
But is captiv’d, and proves untrue.
Yet dearly I love You,
and would be loved fain
But am betrothed unto your enemy
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again
Take me to You, imprison me
For I
Except You enthrall me
never shall be free
Nor ever chaste, except
You Ravish Me.
—John Donne
In solitude we give passionate attention to our lives,
To our memories, to the details around us.
—Virginia Woolf
Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls;
The most massive characters are seemed with scars;
Martyrs have put on their coronation robes
Glittering with fire;
And through their tears have the sorrowful
First seen the gates of heaven.
—Chapin
Imagination is the creative task of making symbols, joining things together in such a way that they throw new light on each other and on everything around them. The imagination is a discovering faculty, a faculty for seeing relationships, for seeing meanings that are special and even quite new. The imagination is something which enables us to discover unique present meaning in a given moment of our life. Without imagination the contemplative life can be extremely dull and fruitless.
—Thomas Merton
Everything has its wonders, even darkness and silence, and I learn, whatever state I may be in, therein to be content.
–Helen Keller
All work that is worth anything is done in faith. . .
–Albert Schweitzer
There is only one great adventure and that is inwards toward the self.
–Henry Miller
Before an altar—with a gentle bride;
her face was fair, but that was not that which
made
The starlight of his Boyhood;---as he stood
Even at the altar, o’er his brow there came
The same self-aspect, and the quivering
Shock
That in the antique oratory shook
His bosom in its solitude; and then—
As in that hour—a moment o’er his face
The tablet of unutterable thoughts
Was traced,---and then it faded as it came,
And he stood calm and quiet, and he spoke
The fitting vows, but heard not his own words,
And all things reel’d around him; he could not see
Not that which was, nor that which should have been—
But the old mansion, and the accustom’d hall,
And the remember’d chambers, and the place,
The day, the hour, the sunshine, and the shade,
All things pertaining to that place and hour,
And her who was his destiny, —came back
And thrust themselves between him and the light:
What business had they there at such a time?
A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The Lady of his love:-- Oh! she was changed
As by the sickness of the soul; her mind
Had wandered from its dwelling, and her eyes
They had not their own lustre, but the look
Which is not of the earth; she was become
The queen of a fantastic realm; her thoughts
Were combinations of disjointed things;
And rooms impalpable and unperceived
Of others’ sight familiar were to hers.
And this the world calls frenzy; but the wise
Have a far deeper madness, and the glance
Of melancholy is a fearful gift;
What is it but the telescope of truth?
Which strips the distance of its fantasies,
And brings life near in utter nakedness . . .
A change came o’er the spirit of my dream.
The Wanderer was alone as here to before,
The beings which surrounded him were gone,
Or at war with him; he was a mark
For blight and desolation, compass’d round
With Hatred and Contention; Pain was mix’d
In all which was served up to him, until,
Like to the Pontic monarch of old days,
He fed on poisons, and they had no power,
But were a kind of nutriment; he lived
Through that which had been death to many men,
And made him friends of mountains: with
the stars
And the quick Spirit of the universe
He held his dialogues; and they did teach
To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was open’d wide,
And voices from the deep abyss reveal’d
A marvel and a secret—Be it so.
—Lord Byron
Heed not the face
Maiden, heed the heart.
The heart of a fine young man is oft deformed.
There are hearts where Love finds
no abiding place.
Maiden, the pine tree is not fair,
Not fair as is the poplar tree
But its leaves are green in winter bare.
Alas! Why do I tell you this?
Beauty alone has right to live;
Beauty alone can only beauty love,
April doth turn her back on January.
Beauty is perfect,
Beauty wins all.
Beauty alone is lord of all.
The raven only flies by day,
The owl by night alone doth fly,
The swan by day and night alike
may fly.
—Victor Hugo
Dear sister, I was human not divine,
The angel left me woman as before,
And when, like flame beneath my heart, I bore
The Son, I was the vestal and the shrine.
My arms held heaven at my breast—not wine
But milk made blood, in which no mothering doubt
Prefigured patterns of the pouring out,
O Lamb! To stain the world incarnadine.
—Sheldon Vanauken
The Sound Of The Sea
The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain’s side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
— Henry Longfellow
Versified prophetic to consider . . . harvested for you to your feast table.
Share With A Friend
Prophetic Moments
Waiting for Jesus.
Listening to the Holy Spirit.
Urged to act by power not our own.
Worshipful Postures
Hold your hands out.
Keep your candle lit.
Worship every day.
Pray for others.
Quiet Time With Sea
