Alice cannot see her face
Through a looking glass darkly
Gentle jabberwockies grin bemusedly
But this is no wonderland
Three inches is a wretched height
Unless your head is in a teapot
But the Dormouse never wakes
And the Dodo is extinct
“EAT ME,” “DRINK ME,” which shall it be?
Or sit drowsily sipping the Mad Hatter’s tea?
Alice wonders where reality lands
On the other side of the rabbit hole
~lg
Friday, 23 October 2009
Saturday, 10 October 2009
Come, Ye Thankful People
This is an old Thanksgiving hymn that I learned only a few years ago when celebrating with my Bernhardt grandparents and great aunt Ruth in Bolsover. Being in the middle of an agricultural province makes the harvest language even more real. It's also a hymn that reminds us to prepare for another great harvest yet to come.
Come, Ye Thankful People
(Henry Alford & George J. Elvey)
Come, ye thankful people come,
Raise the song of harvest home:
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin.
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied:
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.
All the world is God's own field,
Fruit unto His praise to yield:
Wheat and tares together sown
Unto joy or sorrow grown.
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear:
Lord of harvest, grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.
For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take His harvest home:
From His field shall in that day
All offenses purge away;
Give His angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast,
But the fruitful ears to store
In His garner evermore.
Even so, Lord, quickly come
To Thy final harvest home:
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin;
There, forever purified,
In Thy presence to abide:
Come, with all Thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest home.
~
Come, Ye Thankful People
(Henry Alford & George J. Elvey)
Come, ye thankful people come,
Raise the song of harvest home:
All is safely gathered in,
Ere the winter storms begin.
God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied:
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.
All the world is God's own field,
Fruit unto His praise to yield:
Wheat and tares together sown
Unto joy or sorrow grown.
First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear:
Lord of harvest, grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.
For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take His harvest home:
From His field shall in that day
All offenses purge away;
Give His angels charge at last
In the fire the tares to cast,
But the fruitful ears to store
In His garner evermore.
Even so, Lord, quickly come
To Thy final harvest home:
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin;
There, forever purified,
In Thy presence to abide:
Come, with all Thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest home.
~
Friday, 2 October 2009
A Prayer of St. Columba
My dearest Lord,
Be thou a bright flame before me,
Be thou a guiding star above me,
Be thou a smooth path beneath me,
Be thou a kindly shepherd behind me,
Today and for ever more.
(St. Columba - Abbot & Missionary to Iona, 521-597 AD)
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