deep cries out
to deep

A still,
small voice
speaking
venture
into the overture
of the adventure
of advent

it beckons.

On quiet days
I can hear it
calling us
feckless fools,
into a
reckless
reckoning
with the king

deep cries out
to deep

but my quiet days
are devoured by
deafening days—
swallowed by strident songs
of careless consumerism
clamor posed as glamour
greed disguised as need
and wanton want
wolves clothed as sheep

deep cries out
to deep

but we are deaf.

in waiting, we wade
through the wake
of time wasted—
we are weighed down:
weary of regret
wary of lament,
too numb to repent
too dumb to bend
to your will
but still, we cement
our souls
to our goals
of decadent roles
too puffed to see the holes
in our hearts

deep cries out
to deep
deep cries out
to deep

and on quiet days
grace
upon grace
seeps in
to our sleep
to keep the
fire still sparked
in our bones
so we might join
the stones' groans
moaning
in their longing
aching with anticipation
screaming with
creation
for liberation
calling the nations
to restoration

deep cries out
to deep

Second: speak

the ax is at the root
the ax is at the root

and
your loves rages on
bulldozing down
our dozing souls
silently sleeping through
the straightening and smoothing
of the magnificent seamstress
whose meticulous stitches
hem us in ,
behind and before

even so –

instead of bowing
instead of bending
we sleepily slop ourselves
with whitewash
bearing fruit
fit for flies

the ax is at the root
the ax is at the root

like Zechariah
we are mute
as we persecute
the shoot
from the stump of Jesse –
the one sent to
loosen our lips
loosen our grips
the one sent to
to baptize
to surprise
to mesmerize
to circumcise
our hearts

the ax is at the root
the ax is at the root

what then should we do?

The response:
if you have two coats,
give one away.

do the same
with your food

I feel your fire
dancing in the darkness

I feel your fire
dancing in the darkness

But I've got four coats
In my closet
And food filling
my pantry

The ax is at the root
The ax is at the root

the fire rages
but I've accepted my death wages
as I've trapped myself in the cages
of crowded clothes filled closets
and food filled fridges

the ax is at the root
the ax is at the root

you loosen my lips

and
without presumption
or assumption
but in desperation
i confess the massive
mess of my lecherous
leprous life

The ax is at the root
The ax is at the root

Third: breathe

Grace
upon grace

He draws me out
Ushers me out
Carries me out
Held by
His bloody
Wound-worn
Nail-torn
Hands

Grace
upon grace

And while holding the holy holes
that make me whole:
My lungs expand.
My lungs contract.
My lungs expand.
My lungs contract.

Grace upon grace:

I breathe it in

-Sara-Kay Mooney, 2010

Amazed and perplexed, they asked

one another, 'What does this mean?'

– Acts 2:12

Strand One: recognition

tongues of fire on their heads,

glimmering banners of love –

tongues afire in their mouths,

burning through the brush

of the babble

of unknown languages –

a harmonious riversong of unity

streaming through

the thorns and thistles

of cultural and geographic

differences,

redeeming

the chaotic cacophony

of Babel that had once confused

and scattered.

they knew that fire.

it was the same that blazed boldly before

their father Moses

as he shucked off

his dusty sandals at Horeb –

the same that stood as a mighty pillar,

guiding them on their way

in the thick, dark

soulless blackness of the wilderness –

the same that

enveloped their brothers

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego,

singeing not a

single hair –

the same that Elijah sang down

from the skies

which licked up the sacrifice, the wood, the stones, the soil,

and the water in the trench

and lit the tongues

of witnesses to declare,

The LORD – he is God!

The LORD – he is God! –

the same that

set their hearts ablaze

as he walked with them

on the road to Emmaus .

Strand Two: readying

the fuel?

stale hay from a

manger-turned-crib,

the worn straw mat of a cured invalid,

a towel blackened with the grime

of the feet

of twelve men,

the splintered wood

of the cross

upon which his

flesh

hung,

used grave

garments wadded on the floor

of an empty

tomb

Strand Three: release

the spark?

a kernel of wheat,

falling to ground,

dying.

Strand Four: reckoning

the light shines in the darkness

but the darkness has not

understood it

Strand Five: requirement

the cost of Pentecost

is a reckless flinging of the self

into the other,

into the unknown,

into the untamed flame

that razes and grazes

whenever

and wherever it wants.

Strand Six: risk

ridicule

Strand Seven: reassurance

I will not leave you as orphans

I will come to you

Strand Nine: reconciling

They will call on my name

And I will answer them

I will say, "They are my people."

And they will say, "The LORD is our God."

Strand Eight: result

refinement

Strand Ten: remembering

we are ashes.

Strand Eleven: reality

to ashes

we shall return.

Sara Kay Knicely

May 25, 2010