From Tennyson's In Memoriam

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
   The flying cloud, the frosty light:
   The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
   Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
   The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind
   For those that here we see no more;
   Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
   And ancient forms of party strife;
   Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
   The faithless coldness of the times;
   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
   The civic slander and the spite;
   Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
   Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
   The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
   Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Noël

A poem by Anne Porter.

Christmas (I and II)

by George Herbert (1953-1633)

All after pleasures as I rid one day, My horse and I, both tir’d, bodie and minde, With full crie of affections, quite astray, I took up in the next inne I could finde, There when I came, whom found I but my deare, My dearest Lord, expecting till the grief Of pleasures brought me to him, readie there To be all passengers most sweet relief? O Thou, whose glorious, yet contracted light, Wrapt in nights mantle, stole into a manger; Since my dark soul and brutish is thy right, To Man of all beasts be not thou a stranger: Furnish & deck my soul, that thou mayst have A better lodging then a rack or grave.

The shepherds sing; and shall I silent be? My God, no hymn for thee? My soul ’s a shepherd too; a flock it feeds Of thoughts, and words, and deeds. The pasture is thy word: the streams, thy grace Enriching all the place. Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers Out-sing the day-light houres. Then we will chide the sunne for letting night Take up his place and right: We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should Himself the candle hold. I will go searching, till I finde a sunne Shall stay, till we have done; A willing shiner, that shall shine as gladly, As frost-nipt sunnes look sadly. Then we will sing, shine all our own day, And one another pay: His beams shall cheer my breast, and both so twine, Till ev’n his beams sing, and my musick shine.

The Nativity of Our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ

by Christopher Smart (1722-71)

Where is this stupendous stranger,
Swains of Solyma, advise?
Lead me to my Master’s manger,
Show me where my Saviour lies.

O Most Mighty! O MOST HOLY!
Far beyond the seraph’s thought,
Art thou then so mean and lowly
As unheeded prophets taught?

O the magnitude of meekness!
Worth from worth immortal sprung;
O the strength of infant weakness,
If eternal is so young!

If so young and thus eternal,
Michael tune the shepherd’s reed,
Where the scenes are ever vernal,
And the loves be Love indeed!

See the God blasphem’d and doubted
In the schools of Greece and Rome;
See the pow’rs of darkness routed,
Taken at their utmost gloom.

Nature’s decorations glisten
Far above their usual trim;
Birds on box and laurels listen,
As so near the cherubs hymn.

Boreas now no longer winters
On the desolated coast;
Oaks no more are riv’n in splinters
By the whirlwind and his host.

Spinks and ouzels sing sublimely,
“We too have a Saviour born”;
Whiter blossoms burst untimely
On the blest Mosaic thorn.

God all-bounteous, all-creative,
Whom no ills from good dissuade,
Is incarnate, and a native
Of the very world He made.

New Prince, New Pomp

by Robert Southwell (1561-95)


Behold, a seely tender babe
      In freezing winter night
In homely manger trembling lies,—
      Alas, a piteous sight!


The inns are full, no man will yield
      This little pilgrim bed,
But forced he is with seely beasts
      In crib to shroud his head.


Despise him not for lying there,
      First, what he is enquire,
An orient pearl is often found
      In depth of dirty mire.


Weigh not his crib, his wooden dish,
      Nor beasts that by him feed;
Weigh not his mother's poor attire
      Nor Joseph's simple weed.


This stable is a prince's court,
      This crib his chair of state,
The beasts are parcel of his pomp,
      The wooden dish his plate.


The persons in that poor attire
      His royal liveries wear;
The prince himself is come from heaven—
      This pomp is prizëd there.


With joy approach, O Christian wight,
      Do homage to thy king;
And highly prize his humble pomp
      Which he from heaven doth bring.

Christus Natus Est

by Countee Cullen (1903-46)


In Bethlehem
On Christmas morn,
The lowly gem
Of love was born.
Hosannah! Christus natus est.

Bright in her crown
Of fiery star,
Judea’s town
Shone from afar:
Hosannah! Christus natus est.

While beasts in stall
On bended knee,
Did carol all
Most joyously:
Hosannah! Christus natus est.

For bird and beast
He did not come,
But for the least
Of mortal scum.
Hosannah! Christus natus est.

Who lies in ditch?
Who begs his bread?
Who has no stitch
For back or head?
Hosannah! Christus natus est.

Who wakes to weep,
Lies down to mourn?
Who in his sleep
Withdraws from scorn?
Hosannah! Christus natus est.

Ye outraged dust
On field and plain,
To feed the lust
Of madmen slain:
Hosannah! Christus natus est.

The manger still
Outshines the throne;
Christ must and will
Come to his own.
Hosannah! Christus natus est.

Jack Kerouac: three haiku

Beautiful summer night
     gorgeous as the robes
Of Jesus

*

The hermit's broom,
     the fire, the kettle
-- August night

*

Gull sailing
     in the saffron sky --
The Holy Ghost wanted it

+ + +

[From Book of Haikus, ed. Regina Weinreich (Penguin Books, 2003), pp. 30, 48, 70]

Ethiopian anaphora

O Mary, vastness of the heavens,
foundation of the earth,
depth of the oceans, light of the sun,
beauty of the moon,
splendour of the stars,
your womb contained God
whose majesty makes man tremble.
Your arms cradled the burning coal.
You held on your lap the lion
whose majesty is awesome.
Your hands touched
him who is untouchable
and the divine fire within him.
Your fingers are like the incandescent tongs
with which the prophet received the coal
of the heavenly offering.
You are the basket bearing this burning bread
and you are the cup of this wine.
O Mary, you bring forth in your womb
the fruit of the offering ...
we most earnestly pray to you
that you may protect us from the ensnaring enemy
and that, just as the measure of water
is not divided from the wine,
so we may not separate ourselves from your son,
the lamb of salvation.

+ + +

[Found in Blessed are you who believed by Carlo Carretto, trans. Barbara Wall (Orbis Books, 1983), pp. 74-75]

Copiosa apud eum redemptio

De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine;
Domine, exaudi vocem meam.

Fiant aures tuæ intendentes
in vocem deprecationis meæ.

Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine,
Domine, quis sustinebit?

Quia apud te propitiatio est;
et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine.

Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus:
Speravit anima mea in Domino.
A custodia matutina usque ad noctem, speret Israël in Domino.

Quia apud Dominum misericordia,
et copiosa apud eum redemptio.

Et ipse redimet Israël
ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus.

[Psalm 130 (129 in Vulgate)]

Carlo Carretto

There are no limits to the way[s] in which we experience God.

He is always new, and I suspect that he never repeats himself in the way he chooses to approach us.

When I was waiting for him under the olive-tree, he came under the oak.

When I was waiting for him in church, he came in the city.

When I sought him in joy, he came in sorrow.

When I gave up waiting for him I found him before me, waiting for me.

God has always taken me by surprise, and his time has never been mine.

+ + +

[From Summoned by Love (Orbis Books, 1978), p. 76]

Fr Christophe Lebreton, slain at Tibhirine

December 25, 1993

Christmas.

A dark night.  The morning Star lights up each face.  We are all alive.

And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.

It is enough to stand firm in the power of becoming children of God,

born here of God.

What has happened to us?

You, the one who is above all,

the unexpected one, who reveals our thirst to us: come, oh!

Behold, I come quickly.

We are caught up in the Coming.  It remains for us to follow the flow of grace.

+ + +

[From How Far to Follow?: The Martyrs of Atlas, by Dom Bernardo Olivera, OCSO (Cistercian Publications, 1997), p. 61

Song for Deborah

My day began
A bit off-track
I spilled some coffee
Down my back

A magic trick
I hopped the train
It's off to work
Wake up my brain

Spilling coffee down my back
Thank Heaven it was cold
Spilling coffee down my back
I'm thirty-eight years old

A doppio espresso, Jack
I'm spillin' coffee down my back
The stain will turn my white clothes black
I'm spillin' coffee down my back