hey prophet

Hey prophet
Keep your eyes clear
You can still see through tears

Do not lose heart
The weight of glory is heavier
Though it is unseen

Free your tongue
There is power in a whisper
And love speaks from the gutter


~lg

magic births

The afternoon has warmed its beams
And wakened spring from all its dreams
This current is our merry bed
We watch the swans fly overhead

A canopy of feathered white
Encompass us in magic flight
We set a sail for western skies
We watch the dusk around us rise

The feathers turn to falling stars
We are alone and night is ours
The river floats into the moon
Magic births and love will soon

~lg

The Last Rose of Summer

I first heard this poem by Irish poet Thomas Moore sung as a duet by Hayley Westenra and Méav Ní Mhaolchatha. To me it captures both the sadness and beauty of a change in season and our deep need of companionship in a fragile world.


'Tis the last rose of summer
Left blooming alone;
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone;
No flower of her kindred,
No rosebud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
To give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one!
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go, sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter,
Thy leaves o'er the bed,
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,
When friendships decay,
From Love's shining circle
The gems drop away.
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit,
This bleak world alone?

Thomas Moore

how do i see you?

Coming home on the bus tonight, we passed by a homeless man with his empty Tim Horton's cup, sitting on the curbside of a busy corner. A family of several generations crossed his path, well-dressed, likely on their way to some fine Toronto entertainment. The adults picked their way around him, but there was a boy with them, about nine years old. He walked within inches of the bundled-up man, and openly stared as he passed by. I could sense his questions and childish wonder - why is this man here? why does he have nowhere to live? why does no one look at him? why doesn't he look at me? It seems we grow out of those questions and formulate our educated opinions which make us comfortable with doing nothing, at least very little. But the child challenges us to look again, to stare impolitely and perhaps meet the gaze of poverty. I don't have an answer, but that doesn't mean I forget the question.

There's a song by Jason Upton I recently rediscovered called "Power in Poverty." It stares impolitely into my heart and desires.

There’s a power in poverty that breaks principalities
That brings the authorities down to their knees
There’s a brewing frustration and ageless temptation
To fight for control by some manipulation

The God of the kingdoms and God of the nations
The God of creation sends this revelation
Through the homeless and penniless Jesus the Son
The poor will inherit the Kingdom to come

Where will we turn when our world falls apart
And all of the treasures we’ve stored in our barns
Can’t buy the Kingdom of God?
Who will we praise when we’ve praised all our lives
Men who build kingdoms and men who build fame
But heaven does not know their names?
What will we fear when all that remains
Is God on His throne, with a child in His arms, and love in His eyes
And the sound of His heart cries?

smog

I see you through the smog
A fierce orb of plasmatic glory
Our pollution puts you in a new light
You glow through the dark
Wasted breath catches in our throats
To render worship speechless

~lg

breakfast

I’m still coming to terms with this resurrection thing. I don’t think it’s something you understand fully after a sunrise one morning, or even after a couple kind of freaky appearances. First I thought he was a gardener, then a ghost. Now Jesus has to call out, in the same words he’s used before, to meet me in the same empty boat. I am still a child with no fish. Only when the miracle happens again does the echo catch in my heart and reality dawn on me. It truly is him, standing on the shore, but I am so far away. I am not a strong swimmer, and most certainly cannot walk on water, but I throw myself into the sea, pummeling the waves and hoping he is not a mirage born of sleepless delusion. I make the hundred yards to the beach. He is still there, thank God, and in light of the past bizarre days, I have never been more grateful to see a little charcoal fire burning merrily where the sand has been dug away. I smell fish and bread and the familiar scent of Jesus as he lugs me up to dry warm sand. “Come and have breakfast,” he says, and these word remain as some of the most memorable and precious I have heard him say. Breakfast with Jesus. He gives me the bread and fish he’s cooked up, and it’s like we’re camping, two friends watching the sun over the lake. I need to be here awhile, to pick at fish bones and burn my fingertips on bread almost too hot to eat. I need to learn what he looks like all over again. I know breakfast doesn’t last forever, but I hope he’ll cook for me again.

~lg

bread (2)

Soft evening light streams through a kitchen window and onto the worn surface of a wooden table. The hermit thrush sings, and by these chimes the woman knows it’s time to begin her work. She lays out flour, water, salt and the fragrant yeast. Her hands have memorized the motions – sprinkling, stirring, kneading. Her arms are strong from this nightly task. Love, frustration, sweat and prayers are worked into the dough till it is soft and resilient to her touch. It is the same process, day after day.

She makes bread, makes a living for her family. She sets the offering to rise in the warmth of the kitchen. The last thing she will do before she sleeps is punch it down again and separate it into loaves to be set in pans. Under the cover of night it will transform and gain its life. She will rise before the dawn to the robin’s song, and will make the fire blaze and put the loaves into the oven. As the family wakes they will smell her sweet labour, and she will be satisfied to place golden manna before them. They break the bread together and are warmed for the day’s work. They eat till they are full, and there is always enough left for supper. By the time the thrush chimes again it will all be consumed, crust and crumb. The woman will sigh and begin again the daily sacrifice. It is their life.


Jesus said to them, “I am the bread of life; he who comes to Me will not hunger, and he who believes in me will never thirst . . . I am the bread of life. Your fathers ate the manna in the wilderness, and they died. This is the bread which comes down out of heaven, so that one may eat of it and not die. I am the living bread that came down out of heaven; if anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever; and the bread also which I will give for the life of the world is my flesh.” (John 6)

In the city

The following is increasingly uncomfortable. I can’t turn back. I don’t want to go on. I have limped along at a distance through the maze of twisted streets, half hoping not to be noticed. I’ve been climbing on my hands and knees behind him, cursing this narrow path, praying for escape. For in the fearful ascent I have been uncovered for who I truly am. I have travelled the road and it leads to the place of the skull. Standing unclothed I am the laughingstock of my closest friends and deepest enemies. The sudden and shaming revealing of self hits me hard in the pit of my stomach. The light pierces and burns, illuminating corrupted flesh and a calloused heart. My punishment is all around me. Yet in this shame there is a grace, for I have not been left here to decay. So I submit to the pain of uncovering. Here humiliation is mercy, for though I have fallen, it is not over the precipice, close as I have been groping to the edge. I have stumbled over Jesus himself, and in the fall is my salvation.

~lg

Journey to Jerusalem

Trampled leaves lay a path into the city. Bleeding palms and torn garments are what is left of a triumphant entry, and now the dusk descends. The city is full of shadows and night voices. I’ve never been here in the dark before. I jump at what I think is a soldier or vagabond around the corner, but it is only an old rooster scratching the stony ground. I’m not sure I want to follow this man, but I know I’ll get lost here if I don’t. The streets are so narrow I hardly know if I’m staggering upwards or stumbling down. I smell bread baking, women roasting lamb, roses growing in thorny gardens. I do not yet understand what this journey means.

Left under a black sky all I see is my own heart. I am uncomfortable with silence, for it brings out aortic wars I have long suppressed. My feet are weary of the blind struggle, but I know I must go on. What I fear most is the journey into myself.

~lg

bread

What if we gave our bread away? If we broke our gluttoned souls and opened our carbohydrate wallets, would we all have enough to eat? While we argue over substance change, starvation whispers in desperate stomachs. Have we reached a point where thankfulness becomes selfishness and we hoard our eucharist in hallowed arks, not seeing how it rots in our fat hands? We are fine kings and priests who gorge ourselves at the banquet table and brush our crumbs into the highways and hedges of human existence. We are growing moldy. Is this his body?

~lg

searching

I am searching for simplicity

The stripping of sin and selfishness

My heart is cluttered with the pursuit of happiness

I must first pursue what is pure

I am searching for clarity

The moment of intimate wisdom

Self-deception is an art I have perfected

Fear and grace bring me to honesty

I am searching for direction

The rising mist on the early morning path

Is it pride or timidity that holds me back

When all I hear are echoes of a calling

I am searching for Jesus

The unveiling of cloudy eyes

My senses are dulled by my own drowsiness

I need nothing less than death and resurrection

~lg

Take Off My Shoes

This is one of my favourite Delirious songs.

I'll take off my shoes, I'm coming in

Untie this rope, I'm staying with him

Love of my life, I'll live and die

Just for the moments for my king and I

Why did you call, why did you wait

For someone so guilty, someone so fake

There are no words for my beautiful song

Now I'm in the arms of my beautiful one

Hold me, blow all the pride from my bones

with your fire

Hold me, breathe on this heart made of stone

make it pure

Hold me, saviour of heaven and earth

king forever

Hold me, love of my life lead me on

through the fire

lead me on

I'll take off this crown, and fall at your feet

The secret of joy are the moments we meet

How could a man with all of your fame

Pull me from darkness and call me by name

So hold me today, as I carry your cross

Into the desert to find who is lost

Look at my hands, they're still full of faith

God keep them clean till we finish the race

Hold me, blow all the pride from my bones

with your fire

Hold me, breath on this heart made of stone

make it pure

Hold me, saviour of heaven and earth

king forever

Hold me, love of my life lead me on

through your fire

lead me on...

I hear you singing, I hear you singing

Stand up and be strong

You gotta finish, finish

We've gotta finish, finish

I love you

I'll take off this crown and fall at your feet

So hold me

~Delirious (Mission Bell, 2005)

Watch and listen here

to dance

I want to dance
To leap gracefully, always poised
To fall elegantly into the energy of the earth
And rise on strong arches
To enter the exquisite motion of music
With a silent harmony, grace notes flexing and pointing
I desire the timeless rhythm
To feel it in my clumsy feet
Until my toes can touch the sky
There is a song that I know
But it cannot be sung
I must search it out with tendons
Give it voice with the pounding blood of throbbing feet
Till they are beautiful on the mountains

~lg

triune prayer

Surround me today holy Trinity. Let me stand within thy threeness, let me stand upon thy oneness. I need thy strength and purity. Surround me with thy will till I know not my own. Let all I do flow as from the heart of thy being. Let thy mystery illuminate my passion and infuse my hands in thy service. Holy Trinity be thou my life and my living.

~lg

The Roof

Dad said we weren’t allowed to go on the roof, and Mom agreed. But the old woodpile next to the garage was the perfect stairway to heaven. So we waited till it was dark, when we could see into the house but they couldn’t see out, and we climbed Jacob’s ladder, angels in snowsuits.

We crawled up through the snow, under the spruce branches, noiselessly, till we reached the peak. There we lay, cold and still, with a singular purpose – to watch the northern lights.

It seems they were always out the most when the mercury was at the least, but we didn’t care. Shivers are a small price to pay to sit at heaven’s threshold.

They say if you whistle loud enough, the lights will come down and carry you away into the black night. The elders say not to whistle, but maybe their bones are too crackly for the journey. We whistled as loud as we could. We were young, and foolish, and not supposed to be on the roof, but we knew there was something up there, something beyond, and we wanted to go.

I thought if I could breathe deep enough, I would inhale the magnetic fire, and be drawn up to piercing brilliance with the exhale. My heart was pierced, but my feet stayed on the roof.

The next day, Dad looked out the window and saw our clumsy path. He smiled and said nothing.