Psalms of Gratitude and Prayer. John J. Brugaletta

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СКАЧАТЬ hands befouled, his feet two mounds of mud,

      who stands before the door and thinks himself

      too filthy for clean floor and fragrant table,

      I come to You with desecrated phrase

      made foul by those who think their lies a skill,

      and timid creatures who think lies are kind.

      What honest words are left to speak to You?

      But with Your guidance I have found a well

      to wash my hands and rinse my smelly mouth,

      and then, before I pray, take off my boots.

      Only fools defile a holy place.

      The Present

      Small as I was, possessing like a king,

      I knew my property came from my dad,

      and not just some of mine, but everything.

      What could I give him that he had not had?

      The possibilities became a list

      with statues first, then windows, then

      his picture that I daily blessed and kissed.

      But these were feeble objects made by men.

      With Christmas drawing near, my next thought flew

      to duties, proper acts of charity,

      to hordes converted (to my rivals’ few).

      Yet which of these could I say came from me?

      At last I found the box my gift would fill

      and put inside the best I had, my will.

      Better than Best

      This little church

      that lives by slip and lurch

      will sing off-key

      and seldom will agree.

      But these are yours and work for You,

      and though their tones may be somewhat askew,

      as amateurs, they love You so

      that all their songs may not impress with polished show.

      We howl and growl to serenade our artful God.

      You do not think it odd

      that those You made should be so artless in their hymns,

      for they must use their limbs

      to till the social fields of sullen earth

      and bring to birth

      a fair facsimile of heaven’s town

      and your renown.

      Like men who dig, and wives who press,

      who love their children nonetheless,

      and touch their faces with a hand

      abrasive but as soft as sand,

      they honor You with secondary gifts,

      which, better than the best, may patch all rifts.

      The Benefits of Pain

      Now comes my pain that sweeps away the world.

      The cluttered workday, all the social weights,

      the habit that compels on mindless day—

      all gone, or hid, like minor creatures when

      a monarch makes approach. The pinpoint distant

      star, confronted so immense, becomes the sun,

      and I am intimate with You, and dead,

      for no one lives this close to all that is.

      My gratitude to You who send such pain,

      who melt our eyes to let us see the real,

      who break our legs so we will sit and think,

      who scorch our tongues so we may speak alone

      of You, think none but You, see who we are

      by seeing we are not the God of all.

      Distractions at Prayer

      Hear me, Lord, secluded here

      in this closed and quiet place.

      Surely You attend our prayers

      anywhere we call to You.

      Still, the human mind, it seems,

      wavers like a candle flame,

      moved aside by every hiss,

      upward and intent on You

      only when the air is still.

      Pain and anguish forge their own

      upright highway to your home,

      but our daily talk desires

      isolation and the calm

      of a pair who sit and talk,

      all their children now asleep.

      Hear me, Lord, my nagging chores

      set aside to be performed

      when You’ve filled my lungs with life.

      Needs of family and friends

      will not draw my thoughts from You

      if I hold them to your eyes.

      Now the thick, diurnal dust

      of a thousand minor aches,

      with a hundred pinprick jabs,

      umbrage taken, nurtured close—

      now I ask You clear away.

      Either СКАЧАТЬ