Vigeon Post

THE THREE GIFTS 2008

CASPAR

My little Lord receive this gold,
the sign of all our worldly wealth
For banks no longer should now hold
their grip on your world's trading health
Hard headed dealers soon take fright
and sentiment turns markets cold
Regardless of the real world's plight
where human souls are bought and sold..
Executives who fail to act
retire with bonuses intact
While those with nothing see depart
their job, their home and then their heart..
In your best world where You are King
there money's not the basic thing.
Nor known the criminality
Of ledger book morality.
My little Lord convert my proffered gold
to justice, mercy and to joy untold






MELCHIOR

My gift of fragrant frankincense
surrounds great Barak's tour de force;
So many prayers ascend to him
in hope for Planet Earth's new course.
Hosanna to Obama's son
Great is the victory he won.
Pray our expectance don't descend
to disillusion at the end
And then the old prophetic story -
the cross that's consequent on glory..







BALTASAR

To you my dearest Infant King
My pain controlling myrrh I bring;
Too late to dull the agony
Of victims like dear Baby P.

Safe in your mother's arms you smile
And like most kids make life a joke
Yet in prophetic little while
You too will feel the nailing stroke.

Yourself a victim can explain
The human joy at giving pain;
The screams that reach your heavenly city
The minds and heart that know no pity.
The hand that broke that baby's spine
Were human hand like yours and mine

If it be true that only pain
Can heal the darkness of the heart
A world intent on seeking gain
And recreation cannot start
To make the sacrifice required
For the atonement that's desired.

Salvation does not come by laws;
But when you tame the devil's claws.

(Note: for folk outside UK "Baby P" is the legal name given to an 18 month old little boy who was beaten to death by his mother's boy friends with a broken skull, broken back and broken limbs - a cause celebre/scandal at the way Social Services did not act when they knew the child was at risk.
Papers full of it - especially the tabloids !)




CHANT FOR ALL


Myrrh and frankincense and gold
For Love that can't be bought or sold.
Gold and myrrh and frankincense
To find a faith that makes good sense.
Gold and frankincense and myrrh
See hope as life's conditioner.
So we our mystic treasures bring
To you our once and future King.

AN ICON OF THE CHRIST CHILD ENTHRONED ON HIS MOTHER'S KNEE

THE SPEECH FROM THE THRONE
(by the King of Kings and Lord of Lords)

You see me sat on my mother's  knee,
You see how proud she is of me;
You see my hand of authority,
You see my scriptural warranty

Yet you will never understand
The purpose of my strong right hand,
My liberating command,
The words I scribble in the sand..

For I was born to set you free
To be the one you need to be,
Not shackled to the moral key
Of virtuous mediocrity.

And I - King Herod's fugitive -
The preacher too provocative,
Who said we always must forgive
Was thought too dangerous to live.

For Herod's instinct was quite right
To kill me off when just a mite.
He must have guessed he'd have a fight
To keep his crown against my might.             
             
I am not gentle  - am not weak,
I am not helpless - not a freak.
Not sentimental  - not a geek,
For Angels tremble when I speak.   
  
I'm not the peasant artisan,
I'm not the homespun preacher man,
I'm not the village tradesman's child,
I never was born meek and mild

Yet there has always been a clique
Who treat me as their 'control freak'
And use emotional technique
To threaten and cajole the weak

But I don't judge the low estate
 I judge the priest, the magistrate
And leaders of your Church and State
And those inclined to think they're great

So as you see me sitting there,
And hide from my soul piercing stare,
Be told I came here to repair
The debt too terrible to bear.
And as you feast on Christmas fare
Think of my costly Passion Prayer.
 And believe that the child on his mother's knee
Will see you through to eternity

 

AT THE END OF A CREATIVE ARTS RETREAT

Father we thank you for this wonderful place

where we eat, sleep, pray and create by your grace;

for the staff who looked after our everyday needs

and the Spirit that guided our artistic deeds.

For beauty and truth when we suspect their presence

and the spark when we capture a whiff of their essence;

for delving within ourselves and finding in there

thoughts that we never imagined were there;

for finding creation’s a thing very strange

as the scene we imagined will radically change..

For insight revealing new words in their magic,

the drama that lets us by proxy be tragic,

embroidery deft and calligraphy graphic,

the making of music and skills photographic,

for all manner of skies and their varying blues

for all manner of greens in their multiple hues

for the prayer of the artist sharing a vision

for brush, knife and palette and instinct’s precision.

For colour and pattern and texture and styles

for black and white, dark and light, the glory of smiles;

for times of pure silence and times of real prayer

those moment we sense that You really are there

For times when we worship and times when we think

For food sacramental to eat and to drink.

For friendships forged, for faith and for fun

For sleep when all our day is done

For springs that have refreshed our art

For re-discovering peace of heart

And so dear Lord accept our praise

For blessings on these quiet days

Be with us as we go our ways

With bodies rested, hearts ablaze

Content to know that our Retreat

Has left us spiritually up-beat.

Accept our work - our worship too

That give a fleeting glimpse of You

Accept our work with needles, pens

With brush or photographic lens

For as we seek to express the Real

Our spirits strangely start to heal

And through our art we re-discover

The You who is our Lord and Lover

And glimpsing You we see more clearly

Our true selves whom you love so dearly.

A SONG OF THE ANASTASIS
a meditation before the ikon
(a Greek Orthodox ikon of Easter portrays the victorious Christ breaking open the gates of hell and releasing Adam and Eve from their captivity)

Resplendent and so glorious
above the gates of death
Our Jesus is victorious
and our Christ will not give way;
But  with hands that bear the marks of nails
and breathing Gods own breath
We see him dragging Adam  
to the light of His new  day.

So to  Adam and Eve who are just you and me
Jesus holds out his hands and says 'hang on to me'
'Just hang on to me and  I'll set you free
For I hear when  you pray  your "Libera me !'

When Verdi composed
his great Mass of the Dead
His trumpets and drums
exposed us to terror
As he fed us on sorrow
and fire and dread,
And we faced dropping into
God's bottomless cellar.
But he knows at the end
that all we need say
Is his softly repeated
cry "Libera me !"

So to  Adam and Eve who are just you and me
Jesus holds out his hands and says 'hang on to me'
'Just hang on to me and  I'll set you free
For I hear when  you pray  your "Libera me !'

When the kindly oncologist
tells you what's there;
When you go down to theatre
and face it alone;
When you've lost one you love
and you can't raise a prayer;
When you face the Abyss
and drop down like a stone;
Then the hands pierced with  nails
will catch you and say
"Fear not ! for I have heard you
cry "Libera me !"
So to  Adam and Eve who are just you and me
Jesus holds out his hands and says 'hang on to me'
'Just hang on to me and  I'll set you free
For I hear when  you pray  your "Libera me !'
For the hostage caught up
in a terrorist war,;
The children locked up
in their immigrant cage;
The priest who's "not sure
he believes any more ";
The widower facing
a lonely old age;
For all those who fear
they are going to Hell,
(be it one of their making
or as victims of fate,)

The Christ who is risen
cries "All shall be well !
For I've been there before you
and I've opened the gate.
And I'll pull you all out
and there's no fee to pay
For I hear my lost sheep
crying "Libera me"

So hang on to me and  I'll set you free
And rebuild your humanity on my Cross-tree
And  all that I ask when you kneel down to pray
Is  cry  "Libera - Libera - Libera me!"






WHERE IS GOD ?
Did an angelic army
send the tsunami ?
Did God's engineer break
the rocks of Kashmir ?
And could it be true
that the avian flu
Is a long overdue
judgement on you
and the rest of our crew ?
No wonder more worldly folk  
think it quite odd
That the best sort of Christians
are happy with God.

But "God was not in the earthquake"
and "God was not in the fire;"
But God was in that still small voice
that left the world with little choice
Than to do what Love would require.
So God was in those generous cheques
And Relief Workers there on the ground
God was in those sniffer dogs
And the teams with the specialist sound.

But most of all I think I see God
In the fathers on  ice covered trails -
No shoes on their feet but a kid on their back,
And inching their way through the gales.

THE RELUCTANT SPORTING CHRISTIAN  
(or why possibly Sport is the popular religion of the day)

A famous Cricket victory
on the fields of far Mumbai
Fills my heart with great elation
as I watch each fresh replay.
I devour the morning papers
as they tell of wondrous deeds
amd a voice within me cries "We won !"
and it fills my heart felt needs.
Then my football team* starts winning
 and it's heading for promotion
And every winning goal they score
sparks an exquisite emotion.
It's the knowledge your side's winning  
that will fill your heart with joy;
And as you read the match reports
you mark each winning ploy.
So why do I get more excited  
and emotionally so involved ?
Far more than I do on Easter Day
when God's  mystery is solved ?

And why do my mates
spend twenty five pounds
To sit in the rain and the gale  
to watch their team
kick a football around
in pursuit of a non holy grail ?
While I being conscious
of a need to be thrifty
Still think I'm being generous
to give God six-fifty

For somehow on a Sunday
when we celebrate our Christ
And how he overcame our death
through the life He sacrificed.
We listen to the match reports
of how He won the game
And shout  "Glory Halleluya !"
- but it's never quite the same !
For however much we listen
 and sing with  heart and soul;
There's nothing so exciting
as to cheer a winning goal.

*Carlisle United








THE ROMANS TWELVE CAROL
When the angels proclaimed the imminent birth
Of the Child God had sent to bring peace on the earth,
Did the shepherds imagine this Saviour would
Tell his armies to overcome evil with good ?
When the Magi turned up at that Bethlehem Inn
And worshipped the child with their mystical spin;
Did they think that their gold, myrrh and frankincense could
Betoken a King who fought evil with good ?

When the child became man and proclaimed his good news
Of the Kingdom at hand and the challenge to choose;
Then the crowds were amazed as he told them they should
Be the flock of a God who fights evil with good.
When the crowds had gone home and his friends had all fled
And the church and the state both needed him dead;
When the soldiers came armed with the nails and the wood,
There was only One left to fight evil with good.

Fighting evil with good sounds a lovely idea
Until terror and crime bring reality near;
Then you weigh up the probable profit and loss
And you know that the price is the way of the Cross.
So as Christmas draws near let us pray Our Lord may
Give us courage this year to seek Peace in His way;
And remember we're part of that Christian brood
Who worship a God who fights evil with good
{Romans XII 21}
PS This could be sung to the tune of 'Bonnie Dundee"
                            
                 SOMETHING LESS SERIOUS
How exciting it must be to be a Mullah
Or an  Imam or some other Muslim cleric
But I'm only just a Church of  England vicar
Whose liberality is quite generic.

Iraqi  clergy have their own militias
And enforce  with guns their all and every  whims;
But my people put a stopwatch on my sermons
And complain about my weekly choice of hymns !

It must be nice to have their kind of power
and know that God is always on your side;
    But in Christendom we've given  up pretensions
And nakedly been stripped of all our pride.

And yet Our Lord Himself was most suspicious
Of those who claim to know the Mind Divine
And humbly underwent humiliation
To give God an Alternative Design.









SONNET TO MY GRAND-DAUGHTER
CAROLINE AGED ONE AND A BIT

Like a deep rose you beautifully unfold
Determined to expand your life's direction;
To recognise, to laugh and to be bold;
Delight in company, return affection.
We watch with wonder each returning day
To see you claim  your right to live and learn.
What power  drives you through your daily play
To find new skills, discover and discern ?

Unforced is your deep instinct to explore
Which is the secret of our human heart.
How sad we later make our life a chore
Stop up the springs and live life a la carte.
Could we but keep the joy of Caroline
We'd never cease till we found Life Divine
    
    









SONNET ON HOLDING MY GRAND DAUGHTER'S HAND

"Hold Granpa's hand" I gently did invite;
And so she put her tiny hand in mine.
Then suddenly my soul with strange delight
Was lit up by the trust of Caroline.
The Godhead surely does not live for kicks;
But still -  a shaft of great unsullied pleasure
May fan the flame of heaven's candlesticks
When childlike trust is God's most valued treasure.

So on the hilltop where three crosses stand
The Son of God's nail splintered tortured soul
Held to his Father's outrstreched timeless hand
And walked with Him into the gates of Sheol.
So at the death of His most Holy Child
The Father's face with pride,delighted,  smiled.


* "SHEOL" is the bible word for the place of departed spirits

  
THREE SONGS FOR EASTER
2006

WHERE IS GOD ?
Did an angelic army
send the tsunami ?
Did God's engineer
Break the rocks of Kashmir ?
And could it be true
That the avian flu
Is a long overdue
Judgement on you
and the rest of our crew ?
No wonder more worldly folk
 think it quite odd
That the best sort of Christians
are happy with God.

But "God was not in the earthquake"
And "God was not in the fire;"
But God was in that still small voice
 That left the world with little choice
Than to do what Love would require.
So God was in those generous cheques
And Relief Workers there on the ground
God was in those sniffer dogs
And the teams with the specialist sound.
But most of all I think I see God
In the fathers on  ice covered trails -
No shoes on their feet but a kid on their back,
And inching their way through the gales.

THE RELUCTANT SPORTING CHRISTIAN 

A famous Cricket victory
on the fields of far Mumbai
Fills my heart with great elation
as I watch re-plays come by.
I devour the morning papers
as they tell of wondrous deeds
amd a voice within me cries "We won !"
and it fills my heart felt needs.

Then my football team starts winning
 and it's heading for promotion
And every winning goal they score
sparks an exquisite emotion.
It's the knowledge your side's winning
That will fill your heart with joy;
And as you read the match reports
you savour each winning ploy.

So why do I get more excited
And emotionally so involved ?
Far more than I do on Easter Day
When God's saving mystery is solved ?

And why do my mates
spend twenty five pounds
To sit in the rain and the gale
To watch their team kick
a football around
In pursuit of a non holy grail ?
While I being conscious
of a need to be thrifty
Still think I'm being generous
to give God six-fifty

For somehow on a Sunday
when we celebrate our Christ
And how he overcame our death
 through the life He sacrificed.
We listen to the match reports
of how He won the game
And shout  "Glory Halleluya !"
- but it's never quite the same !
For however much we listen
and sing with  heart and soul;
There's nothing so exciting
as to cheer a winning goal   


A SONG OF THE ANASTASIS
a prayer before the ikon

Resplendent and so glorious
above the gates of death
Our Jesus is victorious
 and our Christ will not give way;
But  with hands that bear the marks of nails
and breathing Gods own breath
We see him dragging Adam 
to the light of His new  day.

So to  Adam and Eve
who are just you and me
Jesus holds out his hands
and says 'hang on to me'
'Just hang on to me
and  I'll set you free
For I hear when  you pray
 your "Libera me !'


When Verdi composed
his great Mass of the Dead
His trumpets and drums
exposed us to terror
As he fed us on sorrow
and fire and dread,
And we faced dropping
into God's bottomless cellar.
But he knows in the end
that all we need to say
Is his softly repeated cry "Libera me !"

When the kindly oncologist
tells you what's there;
When you go down to theatre
and face it alone;
When you've lost one you love
and you can't raise a prayer;
When you face the Abyss
and drop down like a stone;
Then the hands with the nails
will catch you and say
"Fear not ! for I have heard
your soft "Libera me !"

For the hostage caught up
in a terrorist war,;
The children locked up
in their immigrant cage;
The priest who's "not sure
he believes any more ";
The widower facing
a lonely old age;
For all those who fear
they are going to Hell,
(be it one of their making
or as victims of fate,)
The Christ who is risen
cries "All shall be well !
For I've been there before you
and I've opened the gate.
And I'll pull you all out
and there's no fee to pay
For I hear my lost sheep
crying "Libera me"
So hang on to me
and  I'll set you free
And rebuild your humanity
on my Cross-tree
And  all that I ask
when you kneel down to pray
Is  cry 
"Libera -
Libera -
Libera me!"