I. Kyrie
Have mercy —there is too much grief
grinding in our heart:
an unrelenting rain
spelling poignantly on the streets
and the bright pebbles,
on the common places
sparrows find for cover —
have mercy — scatter over the land,
dreamingly. It’s May
and your appalled face is everywhere:
look upon us,
have mercy.Look upon the east,
the wind rips the sky.Mercy.
We are fallen.
Some say
it has always been this way — fallen,
trodden upon or
we trod upon others.
Now, the day speaks in tongues
like many prophets,
like soothsayers and naysayers
voicing their visions,
their fire-and-brimstone
spreading
silk wings of lingering doubt.
Mercy.There is too much grief.
We barely escape.We bruise.
The unforeseeable music is too scary to hear,
singing our failures,
our unsteady houses on sand.
We know we don’t deserve mercy.
We ask anyway.We ask many ways.
We stare with lovesick eyes, anyway.
There is too much grief,
falling uneven rain,
sadly, on the street today,
like the lack of mercy:
it is that cold in the rush of wind
arriving from the graveyard;
it is a story that reaches its zenith
about the fathomless loss
someone drowns in;
even then, love free-falls
forever.
II.Gloria
The angels are singing hymns
inside the light
piercing the sky
like a Roman lance.
Some cannot stand to hear it,
cannot standwithin the light,
turn away
from being seen,
disbelieving what they hear.
Even then,
love keeps arriving.
Praise to the unknown
breaking open its secrets
until all we could never imagine
becomes real.
Praise the shadows created,
inscribed with words
far away
with despair.
Praise whatever gives strength,
enriches the weary spirit
so that we endure
any unpleasant experience,
to see another day
and another.
Praise the peace the strength to survive
in spite of the tumultuous days
knowing the luminous is near
and expandable —
like invisible comforting arms
someone feels
whenever they need reassurance.
Praise
how the day pulses:
sunrise to sunset
to wave-churn
in our blood.
III.Credo
I believe in this day,
this daily awakening,this rise
to the light,this silence before a storm
of words.I believe
this all passes —
if you don’t see what you want,
another day will arrive.
I believein music
in unexpected places. When I lay
on your chest, I hearlarks,
the rain on silence
going into a deeper quiet,
the child dying
as soon as they are born
and the absence
when no one can hug them.
I believe in the support
in unexpected times,
and the sadness
when it never happens.
The music has a pause,
the tuning of instruments,
the off-key moments warming up,
light from light,
true silencefrom true silence
and contemplation,
from the corner in a nave
where shadows linger
like late confessionals
clutching their rosary,
tight as the desire for forgiveness.
I believeforgiveness is possible;
but I also believethe mind seldom forgets,
I believe some people perpetuate mistakes,
I believe there is an end
to amount of forgiveness
when someone can no longer forgive —
there’s a limit to the amount of pain we will endure,
where we no longer can forgive
and the other person
does not deserve forgiveness.
I believe the music
provides a rest spot
for someone to recover for pain,
and a rest spot
for forgiveness
for people who are repentant,
and, in that light,
shadows cannot last.
IV.Sanctus
Sanctus, Sanctus, Sanctus
Dominus Deus Sabaoth.
We do not need fiery six-winged seraphim,
nor blessed bread. Keep them.
We do not need to open the Arc of Covenant,
to open this day
like a prayer we see in our open palms.
Someone could die today,
unprepared for what transpires next;
they would die, eventually,
anyway:
the way would be prepared anyway:
the soul would rise
like music from an organ’s bellows,
each note
telling the story of their life:
telling all the good they did,
even the small kindnesses
they forgot, like one misplaces
keys only to find them later
mislaid:like kisses
on a child’s face
and how their child’s face
almost glowed
in the dark, after kissed.
Today, someone likely died
and the music of their life
is in the birdsong, the crisp light,
the after-light at night, the cricket throb,
the veins in the palm leaves
carried in re-enactment, the sighs
when someone is hugged,
when someone smiles during and after.
V.Benediction
We need help.We need better guidance
we actually can follow.
We need blessings
before we go on with our life,
our mistakes.
Raise your hand,bless us,
send us out with messages
engraved in our hearts.
And if we die,
watch our souls exit
like wrens;
and, if we soar,
guide us to where we need to go,
to where we’ve never been,
where we can’t even imagine.
Let us join
the chorus;
let us blend
with the rain.
VI.Agnus Dei
O silence that engages us,grant us peace.
O daily morning,brighten our hearts,
lift us up into light.
O gracious is the heart in peace with itself:
grant us rest.
I know the spirit can be restless,
can search unreasonably for rest, searching here
and there, swinging a lantern
they have forgotten to light.Turn on a light
inside us.
I know the deft fingers of light playing music,
stirring those that hear.Let others hear it.
The morning light has music,
placing the music in rocks, water, air,
the low ferns, the hushed moss
and its tiny mass
cooperating together
to adapt
to the conditions of the world.
Let us absorb
and cooperate.
I know the harboring silence,
what it says,
the hiddenness sacred music and its meaning,
the epiphany,its hosanas,
its wind-ripped messages,
the name of the spirit,
its unnamable, unrepeatable name —
every letter, found: in fossils,
tree rings, eclipses, snow crystals,
cacophony of sudden flamingo flight
bringing morning light,
light encompassing everywhere,
every moment —
like amen
and anon,
then,quietude
after the last quivering note
passeslike a soul
into the light
always beyond
this light.