Many waters, without beginning or end. Without surface. It was only depth. It was only inside, not outside. It was not form, only flow. And it danced without feet, an irradiating urge, worshiping ecstatically in the silent music of self-knowledge. It was alone. But it was not alone. There was itself and Itself and ITSELF,…
Category: Poetry
This Cross
This cross, this cross I know so well, each wood-grain scar, each bloody dell; each splinter broken from this tree, which once in him, is now in me; each splinter growing like a knife that plunges deep with worship’s life; a sacrifice my life to be, for Him, for Him who died for me.
Down the Drain
When I wrote the following poem, I was still VERY non-Christian. One day I sat thinking about how arrogant it was for Christians to say they knew THE Truth. I remembered Jesus’s words: “I am the way, the truth, and the life” (John 14:6). More arrogance. But then (courtesy of the Holy Spirit, I’m sure) a thought…
Hymne to God the Father
Sketch by Patrick Murphy Hymne to God the Father Before time your counsels chose that you would lose eternal ties with your one and only Son. Not sparing Him, you let the whips fall and the blood drip. Judges condemned as the priests quipped. On a dark hill, like Abraham, you left your Lamb. No bright…
Immor(t)ality
Drawing by Patrick Murphy Immor (ality) (tality) The difference is the (t) (cross)
God O’ballD
The following is a quirky poem I wrote about double-mindedness. *** Right now I wood lyke 2 spell yor nayme with two dees beakuz iyme con-fused without fusion un-one Two without u blown to sub-atomic smithereens (set blender to atom-smasher. Hit bl-end) with ewe confronted with tornadic reinteriordecorating sudden death we(l)dding what a mess pureed…
God’s Grandeur–Gerard Manley Hopkins
Painting by Patrick Murphy God’s Grandeur The world is charged with the grandeur of God. It will flame out, like shining from shook foil; It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod? Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;…
Comet
My voice takes flight, soaring on my breath, and my very self is caught up, like the tail of a comet, released in a rapture of adoration (my body becoming a ghost as everything fades and we commingle in a place that is not heaven or earth but You).
God Is Peace
Gentle soundless seeksinkless dea(p)th touching pain at every inside outside soothed surrounded floating cell self sealed beneath untrapped enwombed free child of soft vast rolling placentasm heavenly emptied pure safe purged far far away from obscene screaming concrete necessities. Gratefully I am totally blissfully eternally lost at the bottom of the ocean.
The Seventh Day
“God Resting on the Seventh Day” (19th Century German Engraving) This is the account of the heavens and the earth in the day when they were created. Pilate handed him over to them to be crucified. Carrying his own cross, he went out to the place of the skull (which in Aramaic is called Golgotha),…
The Voice of One 