GRACE (again)

 

If Grace rowed to me

in my struck brig

I found that Grace

had watched for me before.

If Grace had set the light

to my distant ship

Grace set the fire

for my rescued self. 

When I turned my back

on the sun

Next morning there it was

blazing in my face.

Before Grace nursed me

to good health

It was Grace whose scalpel

had wounded me.

When grace upon grace

pulsed through my arteries

It was Grace which held

the syringe.

If Grace fed me richly

in the Father’s house

Grace in the far country

had brought my famine.

Though Grace gave me rags

in the far country

Come into the Father’s house

it clothed my richly.

While Grace made me know sonship

in the Father’s house

Grace had seen, in the far country, 

me as a son.

After Grace comforted me

when I was sad

Grace preserved me

when I was happy.

If Grace provided a repast,

free of labour,

Grace taught me how to hunt,

to flay and to cook.

Since Grace guided me

in sowing

Grace helped me

in harvesting.

How right that when Grace

paid dearly for my ransom

Grace should acquire me

as its bondman.

As it was Grace that filled me

with the new wine

It was Grace that created

my new skin. 22002

When I wrote this, and the previous poem, I think that I had the story of Grace Darling in mind: Grace Darling.

Inside or looking out of Culzean Castle (have you spotted the Lego person?)

GRACE

 

When I was battered on a rugged shore

Grace took the oars, braved waves, and rescued me;

Grace had prepared both light and warmth before

My chartless ventures on the sullen sea.

I drew my burnt hand from the savage flame

Since grace had given me my sense of pain;

Grace salved my wounded hand, grace took the blame,

Grace held me back lest I should burn again.

Grace was the policeman who arrested me,

The coastguard who observed my zigzag course,

The fireman who has rushed to cut me free,

The surgeon who exposed my gangrene’s source.

And grace has served me that I might be shown

The throne of grace, with grace upon the throne.

Around Culzean Castle, Ayrshire

SHEPHERD

 

Struggling through the biting winds
He visited
Those about to perish.

Through harsh thorns and clogging mud
He sought
That which was strayed away.

In chilling nights and cracking rain
He healed the wounded,
Fed the sound.

He is the worthy shepherd
That does not leave his flock.

(Compare Zechariah 11:16)

A Trip to the South West

The Firth of Clyde and the Isle of Arran. 

SARAH

 

You had some husband ‑ dragging you
From civilization and comfort to dwell,
Season after season, in a tent. Neither
Sand deterred nor fertility halted:
Always he loved his vision ‑ which you,
With a wife's common sense, laughed at.
Did long miles and years drain your strength,
Perils of the wayside and in king's palaces
Fray your nerves? Finally, with nothing
But faith to cling to, you found strength
Nature could not provide. With Abraham
You saw Isaac ‑ Christ's day;
And insisted that he alone remain.

If feet still trudged arid or arable
Heart had its peace ‑ its sought country.

Craigmillar Castle in Edinburgh:

associated with Mary Queen of Scots

ABRAHAM

You had felt the land's tilth
Ooze lushly, the land's desert
Sand your feet, its barren rocks
Graze and bruise. You tent's pegs
Had beaten into arid and arable
Ground of your promised land. Never
Had your share dug deep. Although
All was your own your only possession
A grave plot. But there was the possession
Gained from earth, dust and stone
On the hardened feet of you, the wanderer.

And possession of faith. Not human hope against hope
Nor the dull grasping of the disturbed thought through the crust
Of scepticism. But the certainty of trust in the Lord Almighty
‑ The admirable demonstration of bold credulity.
You, like God, saw the things that are not as existing.

Nomadic, but still a builder,
You cast earth, heaped rocks,
Not forms of grand appearance
But created from the textures you knew ‑
Altars. Rough but vital
They stand as milestones on your pilgrimage
Marking, guiding, smoking:
Each altar drew you nearer,
Higher, to become friend of God,
Ready approacher ‑ a priest's service.

Glencorse Reservoir in the Pentland Hills

WATER

Straiton Pond in the Spring

Egypt’s water - the first we knew -

Turned to blood

At the twirl of a staff.

Glad were we when the Red Sea’s water

Left the Egyptian shore

Irretrievably cut off.

Bitter were we till Marah’s drink

Was transformed for us

By cast wood.

Fertility greeted us,

Seventy palm trees,

At the twelve springs of Elim.

We murmured, but it was the Rock

Which was smitten; the Rock

Which gave water.

And the Rock was willing

To follow; to serve water

At the lawgiver’s request.

After our wandering years

At last we could wield staves

To dig the well.

The last water, Jordan, dashed

Hopes; till the ark

Championed our passage.

We have been brought to a good land,

A land of waterbrooks, of springs,

And of deep waters,

That gush forth in the valleys and hills.

Kingdom Poets (a blog by D.S. Martin): Hester Pulter

Kingdom Poets (a blog by D.S. Martin): Hester Pulter: Hester Pulter (1605–1678) is a writer of poetry and prose who was completely unknown, prior to the discovery of her manuscript at Brotherton...

THOUGHTS

More of the East Lothian Coast

The Upholder of the universe 

Held

A little child in His arms.

The One whose blood cleanses from sins

Washed 

The feet of fishermen.

The Holy One of God

Handled

A poor leper.

The Lord of glory was 

Nailed 

To a wooden cross.

The Originator of life

Lay

In another man’s tomb.

The Man of the Father’s choice 

Looks

On you and me in grace.