The buffeting breeze and rippling waves settle down to a steady rhythm.
You are the god of the tides, I say.
And how true this is.
Day by day the rock stands ringed by sands, and stone.
No one comes and goes except for the tide.
Now crowded , now alone
Better to travel on the outgoing tide, adventure bound than stand forlorn in sand and stone. Untold unfound.
You are the god of the tides I say
And how true that is.
Seize the day let peace abide
And know your life is his.
LINDISFARNE
Life cries in the sand wind
Breath hushes the sea grass
The sea leans softly to the land
And a million creatures feel it pass
And they chatter in the village street, walking on the stones
Gazing at the ruins, walking on the bones
Life beams warm from the sun
Praised by God-clothed flowers
The tide has left small streams to run
Drawn back to the deep by unseen power
And they slam doors in the car park, walking on the stones
Buying tea and tickets, walking on the bones
A road joins land to mainland
A cross joins earth to heaven
The sea can hiss and thunder
But the rock sand land stands even
And boots crunch to the castle, walking on the stones
Built by Henry’s soldiers, walking on the bones
There are prayers in the grey church
Still warm with the grace of I AM
There is a hollow by the island cross
Where grasses listen to the lifting wind
And the stones can hear the running of the tide
I AM is there
And the roof has all the patterns of the sky
I AM who conquered brooding death
I AM breath of the moving wind
I AM light on the soothing waves
I AM life in the soaking sand
I come breathing in the sea light
I come standing in the rock faith
I come whistling with the birds’ prayer
I come running with the tide’s wave
Come you breathing in the sea light
Come you standing in the rock faith
Come you whistling with the birds’ prayer
Come you running like the tide’s wave
Weave in, weave in the Father, Son in woven faith in weaven pattern
Spirit’s working weft of all creation, I in Them and Thou in Me
And they’re coming out at closing time from walking on the stones
A little life, a little life from walking on the bones
August 1999
Broken. He came home, broken. Bits of bike under truck wheels on a dark night. On the road. Broken. He came home.
Not another word spoken. Where god tears great gaps….puff daddy raps but the wound is still open. He came home broken.
He came home to father or rather he lay in waiting. The morgue lights fading. Pain in the uncovering rage in the discovering. Fathers arms open.
Another token.
The prodigal had a better ride. Fathers arms open wide. Ring n ting party's over. Rolling in clover. Who knows what road he took on that dark night. Oily tarmac shouts back. Broken.
Diesel and dust is a must. Don't let your blade rust keep it sharp for that killing thrust. Cos the anger inside is twisting your guts. Where in hell can you find an answer. What road did he take.
Was it fate or grace. Get outta my face. Where god tears great gaps he should be ashamed to revisit that place. Where he left his own son, broken.
On the road to god knows where..,
I cast the first stone and with it my eye upon the vast ocean. I caught sight of the winged omen calling my gaze to the blue horizon.
The waves crashed on and the gravel under my feet began to churn. I felt my heart turn. Sea mist kissed the azure sky and all the islands gave a cry. Love is no more.
Three days have past and the same source trickles in rivulets from its rocky source. The son of love once shone upon a single space of highland turf and there from the barren earth grew a flower.
It sweetened the rills and rickles with its sweet aroma and the faithful sky gave it it's colour; blue. Strong steadfast and true, none could wish for more than a humble flower of such brilliant hue.
As the river takes its name from the valley of its birth, so it kept the colour of its patron flower. The son of love sang his eternal song and encouraged the eager flow through Dale and verdant field.
Down amongst the yield a girl would play. Almost the whole long day. Till the corn dolly lost it's arms and legs and her mother's apron would appear at the edge, poppy red. All curls and gentle kisses the years passed and the river chuckled by as the harvester plied his trade.
Unnoticed in that same cropped grain lay a tiny flower. Fed by the son of love and nurtured by the sparkling blue waters. A playmate it longed for at last came oft to the place in the pasture. one day he picked it up by its sturdy stem and pinned it to his collar.
The streets of any town come alive to the sound of genteel laughter, and tradesmen's banter. But not till the nights grown fresh and the lights go down do we think of the hereafter.
He and she both made their promises then. Made loyal and true by their youth and sealed with a blue cornflower.
Oh hapless youth thou art driven from your lovers breast by that bittersweet desire and eternal unrest. Sought ye to assuage thy thirst by the salt sea of avarice and strife. Thy longing for adventure tore thee from the flower of your life. abandoned hope faded in the coastal clime.
So another wave crashes into my broken heart. I fall under the swell and the last regretful thought is purged from my aching breast by its relentless scourge. All is silent and the stones stop shifting. All that's left is the yearning.
A time of returning. All is lost and yet surely when the mist rises there is the mountain. Revealed in rugged form it's shoulder hides a million penitential miles. I rise and seek the son of love
Falling in weakness the crevasse yawns wide to receive my shameful form. The dawn of creation foresaw it's demise. But still it hoped for more. Until dashed down the harsh ground rises to meet and crush and empty the shell of its husk.
Once more the mist descends and into the cavern pours a merry sound. If laughter would mock at mourning then I describe it not. But joy is clothed in many colours. So I hear the stream e’en in this dark place. Its bright torrent reaches my emptied mouth and I am borne aloft.
Blessed by spring rains and held fast from fickle winds. The original blue flower still sends down its bittersweet roots into granite bedrock. The flock grazes, my hands find a hold and I am at the summit.
My singled eye now gazes. In every delicate petal is the vast sky, rushing river and deep blue sea. Intently I am down on hands and knees. There is no face but yours and in it the years of longing.
Faithful thoughts come thronging.
The great woodland surrounds the whole, heavy boughs breathing in the buffeting breeze. Every leaf astir with the rufflling gusts from below. With chaotic symmetry like dancing hands every upright standing plant moves with the same cadence. Summers scirocco unties the knotted spine of old England's staunch defenders.
The beanfield baked and astir with insect life presents its frayed hem to the hazy eye as lazy by the stream chuckles at each rill and rock. Kingfisher or fleeting Finch cuts from under hedge and dives for cover in the shady bank where leaves grow large and shield and hide.
The red stain of poppy head spreads like a painters stroke through the yellow green mass of late summers rape seed. The roll of hill and perching thicket picks out each turn and fold of the valley. Another light evening stretches ahead as the well trod road unwinds before me.
Nesting Fledglings squabble in the window box next crushed rose wafting scent from rain dropped petal.
The lawn is lush green and black bird bobs furtively across the wide patch.
Dappled sun and shadow from shady beech and dug earth deep trodden rich and sweet.
Lamb and dew eyed ewe chew seemingly distracted but ever alert while martins swoop. Beneath the thatch.
The old crow knows and tells. Three times and is gone.
Ever to be remembered is that best and brightest of hours, when first we saw the Lord, lost our burden, received the roll of promise, rejoiced in full salvation, and went on our way in peace. It was spring time in the soul; the winter was past; the mutterings of Sinai's thunders were hushed; the flashings of its lightnings were no more perceived; God was beheld as reconciled; the law threatened no vengeance, justice demanded no punishment. Then the flowers appeared in our heart; hope, love, peace, and patience sprung from the sod; the hyacinth of repentance, the snowdrop of pure holiness, the crocus of golden faith, the daffodil of early love, all decked the garden of the soul. The time of the singing of birds was come, and we rejoiced with thanksgiving; we magnified the holy name of our forgiving God, and our resolve was, "Lord, I am thine, wholly thine; all I am, and all I have, I would devote to thee. Thou hast bought me with thy blood--let me spend myself and be spent in thy service. In life and in death let me be consecrated to thee." How have we kept this resolve? Our espousal love burned with a holy flame of devoutedness to Jesus--is it the same now? Might not Jesus well say to us, "I have somewhat against thee, because thou hast left thy first love"? Alas! it is but little we have done for our Master's glory. Our winter has lasted all too long. We are as cold as ice when we should feel a summer's glow and bloom with sacred flowers. We give to God pence when he deserveth pounds, nay, deserveth our heart's blood to be coined in the service of his church and of his truth. But shall we continue thus? O Lord, after thou hast so richly blessed us, shall we be ungrateful and become indifferent to thy good cause and work? O quicken us that we may return to our first love, and do our first works! Send us a genial spring, O Sun of Righteousness.
CH SPURGEON
