Tuesday, July 5, 2011

Call The Grieving God - Reprise

I don't know how to make theology out of it. I don't care because for me this is where heart comes in. I know in my bones that Infinite God grieves. The sadness known to the house finch chick who fell from the nest, the fear and loss of its mother, the regret of the universe at that moment leads to the infinite grief of God. Anything God does in genuine response of His own is and must be infinite. As in the Holy Word, down to the smallest and least of them. When life is unfair, as it so frequently is, God grieves the necessity of that. Because it is necessary. It always has been. Life must prey on life. There is nothing else it can prey on, nothing but life and its gifts and remains. The oxygen we breathe in is the exhale of plant life. The prey will always know its own protest. The prey will always Witness. And God perhaps eternally grieves as she sees as a mother does through the prey's own eyes.

Call The Grieving God

The walls are too high.
They go too far left and right.

Storms will come near soon
And wild eyed, we still cast blame.

Call the grieving god to help
The host cross over.

We think we know what happens
And still the walls fall.

This poem was written on October 27, 2008
First posted, January 16, 2009


  1. Christopher, thank you for yet again sparking that thing that for so long was stifled, hobbled and trampled. This seems to be becoming a pattern
    The grieving god could be a character in one of my future books.

    With all my soul would I

    I could see that god crying
    With honesty so profound
    ”Oh my children,
    Why can I not help you?
    Why can you not understand,
    That to help you would be to harm all.
    With all my soul would I,
    Would that if I could ease mine own suffering
    By the lifting of yours”.!

    He ment well 7/5/2011
    Continue wandering with me my Friend, I still don’t give you my permission, for whatever that means, or is worth!

  2. The Edge Of The World

    I cannot show you
    this shore, these breakers thrashing
    the sandy chaos,
    roiling far more than
    buried life can bear for long,
    the rocks upthrust, sharp,
    with small damp caverns
    and craters where wild things grow.
    The edge of the world
    is damp and salty,
    like dilute new blood, pale light
    like early morning.


The chicken crossed the road. That's poultry in motion.

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