Time’s Fullness

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A sonnet for Palm Sunday. You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

Time's Fullness has comes to Jerusalem
Rocking a city who wave palms, give praise;
Cry, “Son of David!" shout in unison.
“Behold our king! To you Hosannas raise!”

This sudden coming, to show his power
On a donkey's colt, bearing salvation;
No longer secret, at last the hour
To save, redeem, vindicate the nation.

Now is fullness; full of expectation.
Rumor become real, promise become plan;
"Our enemies kneel! "See revelation!
Behold our king! Exalt this Son of Man."

Who could reject, not welcome his renown?
Who seeing, disown? Deny him his crown?

© Randall Edwards 2021.

artwork: abstract tapestry weaving by Jennifer Edwards. http://www.jenniferedwards.com

All Leave

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A poem about being left and leaving.

You may listen to me read the poem via the player below.

They all leave. Every single, last thing, leaves 
And goes away til there is nothing left;
All are consigned to one life and then, death.

All of us, all of them, from the first cry,
Are counting down till their last, labored breath
When they shall stop breathing and die.

And every leaving leaves me feeling left—
Leaves me burning with the sting of death
Empties my hands, leaves me bereft.

And to whom shall I leave what I have left—
The things for which I have paid for in sweat?
Who shall take it after my own death?

They all go; it all goes over time;
Whether they leave in trickles or at once
Leaving won’t stop till it has the last dime.

And here Truth shines for me to see
The fleetingness of my mortality:
That day by day the one leaving is me.

© Randall Edwards 2021

Your Hand

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This poem draws its inspiration from Psalm 139. You may listen to me read the poem via the

player below.

 Even there your hand,
 The hand which you stretched out to deliver me,
 The hand by which you led your people through the sea
 And with which you take our hand
 And as a shepherd lead,
 That hand is the same hand 
 With which you took hers
 As she lay upon her bed
 Even though her father’s friends had said,
 ‘It’s no use, she’s already dead.’
 But you clasped her hand in yours,
 And without an audience, behind closed doors,
 You tenderly tugged and said,
 ‘Sweetie, time to get up’
 As if it were just another morning.

 Those hands are the hands with which
 You wiped your own tears as you wept 
 At your friend’s tomb 
 Though you said he only slept.

 And with those hands, you took the beam
 And with them carried it through the din
 Of Jerusalem’s cries and shouts
 And bore with it the weight of my sin;
 To that wood, they nailed
 Your hand even as they mocked and hailed
 You King of the Jews,
 And in your exaltation
 Said your kingdom had failed.

 And with your hand which you raised to you mouth
 You called the disciples from the shore
 You hailed them with a shout
 To cast our nets on the other side
 Of the boat.

 That hand beckoned Peter again from the sea
 And asked again whether of fish or men
 Would he rather a fisher be,
 Entreating three times,
 And through Peter ask me,
 Do you love me?
 Do you love me?
 Do you love me?
 More than these?

 That hand is the hand by which 
 You take mine in hand
 Whether I ascend to heaven, 
 Mount on wings,
 Or make my bed in the grave 
 With those who have died;
 Whether I dwell in the utmost part of the sea
 Even there your hand shall guide,
 Your hand shall take,
 Your right hand lead
 And hold 
 Me.
 

 © Randall Edwards 2021

Seeds of Grace

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A poem about the birds outside my office window.

 A family of juncos
 Fly and flit though the branches
 Of a crepe myrtle outside my window…
 Up and down from limb to limb
 Then limb to ground.
 And back up and around.

 For some reason, they don’t feed at the feeder
 But prefer to take the seeds
 That others knock down,
 What others don’t seem to want or need.

 If I had my choice, I’d be
 A feeder bird.
 I’d rather be perched high and served
 By the source. 
 And for that matter
 Served first, of course.
 Not with other’s seconds
 Which they’ve scattered ‘round
 Spilled, and left lying on the ground.

 But then, what else are seeds but grace?
 And grace doesn’t just hang in mid-air
 Or float in space
 But it falls from above
 Is the overflow of Love
 That spills and feeds 
 In seconds of surprise,
 In a moment, in a place--
 Through a kind word,
 And a smiling face.

 © Randall Edwards 2021

Death and Dust

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A poem for Ash Wednesday.

I went to burn the palm fronds
For the Ash Wednesday service,
But when I looked, there weren’t any.

Remember?
There were no palms last spring,
Nor were there bodies in this building.
Here I am left holding the bag
Of one more thing taken away
By this year’s passion play.

“Shake it off,” I tell myself.
Don’t let it take hold
The one-more-thing of thousands
Of smears imposed
In marks of death and dust
Streaked with lines of tears
By COVID’S cold finger.

And with that push,
I set out again to forsake despair
That I might arrive again at
Resurrection.

© Randall Edwards 2021