The “wounded surgeon” works while I’m awake And only by compassion does not break The heart which beat so steady yet so dead While severed
I’ve begun rereading Exodus for my devotions and am struck again and again by the motifs that are fulfilled in Christ, often in unexpected ways.
I know my feet are prone to slip, unsure, So I play it again: Alleluia. And I know my hands may strike without measure, So
I worked on this sonnet throughout Holy Week but, as my organist schedule would have it, did not have a chance to revise and publish
Touch me, someone,That I might know you’re there! Greet me, anyone,So I am not aloneIn this dark, dark, darkness. I am begging,Begging for more than
I cannot tellWhat these gestures mean.Why do you all waveYour hands at me? I can only guess atThe words on your lipsAnd can only makeVain attemptsTo