Advent evening

Crystalline flakes
drop from the heavens
encircling this sacred space
in silence.

Devout assembly
escape from the frenzy
gathering to find peace
in stillness.

Warm glow
gleams from the candles
illuminating the silver tabernacle
in splendor.

Your sacrifice
raised high by trembling hands
inundating my sinful heart
with gratitude.
___________________________________________
Inspired by particularly restorative 5:30 mass this past December.
Jennifer D. Behnke - January 3, 2013

"Flickans årstider" or "Arioso" - Ture Rangström (1884 - 1947)

Swedish                                                                                 English translation courtesy of Hyperion Records/recmusic lieder

Flickan gick en vintermorgon                                           That your happiest days are gone!
I den rimbeströdda lunden,                                              You have lived, you have enjoyed,
Såg en vissnad ros och talte:                                             You have known spring and gladness
"Sörj ej, sörj ej arma blomma,                                          Before the winter cold reached you.
Att din sköna tid förflutit!                                                 My heart has suffered a worse fate,
Du har levat, du har njutit,                                  
Du har ägt din vår och glädja,
Innan vinterns köld dig nådde.
Värre öde har mitt hjärta,                                                  knowing both spring and winter together:
Har på en gång vår och vinter:                                         My lover's eyes are its spring;
Gossens öga är dess vårdag                                               And my mother's eyes its winter.
Och min moders ärdess vinter.
"Sorj ej, arma blomma,                                                     Weep not, weep not, poor flower,
att din sköna tid förflutit!"                                               That your happiest days are gone!"
 
---------------------- 

Snowy day and a heart full of both spring and winter.

This is my mood today.   

A Song for St. Cecilia's Day, 1687 - John Dryden (1631-1700)

 FROM harmony, from heavenly harmony,
      This universal frame began:
  When nature underneath a heap
      Of jarring atoms lay,
    And could not heave her head,
The tuneful voice was heard from high,
    'Arise, ye more than dead!'

Then cold, and hot, and moist, and dry,
  In order to their stations leap,
     And Music's power obey.
From harmony, from heavenly harmony,
   This universal frame began:
   From harmony to harmony
Through all the compass of the notes it ran,
The diapason closing full in Man.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
    When Jubal struck the chorded shell,
  His listening brethren stood around,
    And, wondering, on their faces fell
  To worship that celestial sound:
Less than a God they thought there could not dwell
    Within the hollow of that shell,
    That spoke so sweetly, and so well.

What passion cannot Music raise and quell?
    The trumpet's loud clangour
      Excites us to arms,
    With shrill notes of anger,
      And mortal alarms.

  The double double double beat
      Of the thundering drum
      Cries Hark! the foes come;
  Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat!

    The soft complaining flute,
    In dying notes, discovers
    The woes of hopeless lovers,
Whose dirge is whisper'd by the warbling lute.

    Sharp violins proclaim
  Their jealous pangs and desperation,
  Fury, frantic indignation,
  Depth of pains, and height of passion,
    For the fair, disdainful dame.

    But O, what art can teach,
    What human voice can reach,
      The sacred organ's praise?
    Notes inspiring holy love,
  Notes that wing their heavenly ways
    To mend the choirs above.

  Orpheus could lead the savage race;
  And trees unrooted left their place,
    Sequacious of the lyre;

But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder higher:
When to her organ vocal breath was given,
  An angel heard, and straight appear'd
    Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays
  The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator's praise
  To all the Blest above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky!

At Mile 3

Here
Finally reeling from the elevation, I did not think I'd make it.
The horizon is more beautiful than any I've seen before.
Where there is no mark of another boot.
Where I am suddenly and abruptly aware of my blistered feet.
I could stay and rest.
I could stop.

Here
Pulling the air into my lungs, maybe I can breathe a mountain.
Where I can smell the perfumed
scent of the wildflowers at the summit.
Where I can almost see the top though lost in the trees.
I am not stopping here.
I can not remain here.

There
One more swig of water, I am walking again. 
Where I can spread my wings and fly. I am destined for there.
I have worked hard to get there, not here.
I will not stop until I reach there.

There
Raise my arms above my head
And gather the strength of the wide world to support me.
Where the horizon is limitless. Where all possibilities exist.
I am heading there.
I am on my way there.

Completed Sunday, November 17, 2013 on realizations from the last 1/2 mile up Crow Peak.
Finally owning it all.

Sure Sign

Sculpture in the Boboli Gardens, Florence, Italy circa July 2004

I have come to the end
of all that I know.
I trust that there is a plan.
A path for me to follow.

You have sought me out when
I tried to run, to flee.
To climb so far into my own self
my need, my poverty.

You broke down my walls.
Left me trembling in shame
Patched up my cracks
Poured Yourself to fill me again.

You have brought me thus far.
Though I be scarred and shattered
A broken useless vessel,
You say that does not matter.

You have given much to me
A priceless miraculous gift
I know what You ask of me
But I am completely adrift.

You have done it all for love
although I do not merit.
I ask You only guide my path
Your love, evermore will I share it.

I am Yours

When all my hopes and dreams have been betrayed
I stand before you, my hands are empty

I am yours, if you are mine
I am yours, if you are mine

I fall and stumble flat on my face
And I'm shamed and humble in disgrace

I am yours, if you are mine
I am yours, if you are mine

When voices call me to question my faith
When misperception taints my love with hate

I am yours, if you are mine
I am yours, if you are mine

When time decides it won't stop for me
When the hawks and vultures are circling

I am yours, if you are mine
I am yours, if you are mine.


 Tracy Chapman - I am Yours - from "Let it Rain"

Lead Kindly Light

Graeme Skinner photography

Lead, Kindly Light,
amid the encircling gloom,
Lead me Thou on!

The night is dark,
and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet;
I do not ask to see the distant scene;
one step is enough for me.

I was not ever thus,
nor pray'd that Thou shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path,
but now lead Thou me on!

I loved the garish day,
and, spite of fears,
pride ruled my will:
remember not past years.

So long Your power hath blest me,
sure it still will lead me on,
o'er moor and fen,
o'er crag and torrent, till the night is gone;

and with the morn
those angel faces smile
which I have loved long since,
and lost awhile.

John Henry Newman (1801-1890)

______

At about this time last year, I performed the Howard Goodall setting of this piece. We'd just come through Hurricane Sandy. Today was one of those days where a million things had to get done, and some how by the grace of God, they all got done. One step at a time, one foot in front of the other.