Tuned for endless years

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E l b o w   R o o m

Mount Olivet Cemetery

Nashville, Tennessee

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There is a fountain filled with blood

Drawn from Emmanuel's veins

And sinners plunged beneath that flood

Lose all their guilty stains

Lose all their guilty stains, lose all their guilty stains

And sinners plunged beneath that flood

Lose all their guilty stains!

The dying thief rejoiced to see

That fountain in his day

And there may I, though vile as he

Wash all my sins away

Wash all my sins away, wash all my sins away

And there may I, though vile as he

Wash all my sins away!

Dear dying Lamb, Thy precious blood

Shall never lose its pow'r

Till all the ransomed church of God

Be saved to sin no more

Be saved to sin no more, be saved to sin no more

Till all the ransomed church of God

Be saved to sin no more!

E'er since, by faith, I saw the stream

Thy flowing wounds supply

Redeeming love has been my theme

And shall be till I die

And shall be till I die, and shall be till I die

Redeeming love has been my theme

And shall be till I die!

Then in a nobler, sweeter song

I'll sing Thy pow'r to save

When this poor lisping, stam'ring tongue

Lies silent in the grave

Lies silent in the grave, lies silent in the grave

When this poor lisping, stam'ring tongue

Lies silent in the grave!

Lord, I believe Thou hast prepared

Unworthy though I be

For me a blood-bought free reward

A golden harp for me

'Tis strung and tuned for endless years

And formed by pow'r divine

To sound in God the Father's ears

No other name but Thine!

= William Cowper =

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Herein is love, not that we loved God,

but that he loved us, and sent his Son

to be the propitiation for our sins.

I John 4:10

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Happy Sunday

Joy comes, grief goes

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W a i t   F o r   I t

Mount Olivet Cemetery

Nashville, Tennessee

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And what is so rare as a day in June?
Then, if ever, come perfect days;
Then Heaven tries earth if it be in tune,
And over it softly her warm ear lays;
Whether we look, or whether we listen,
We hear life murmur, or see it glisten;
Every clod feels a stir of might,
An instinct within it that reaches and towers,
And, groping blindly above it for light,
Climbs to a soul in grass and flowers;
The flush of life may well be seen
Thrilling back over hills and valleys;
The cowslip startles in meadows green,
The buttercup catches the sun in its chalice,
And there's never a leaf nor a blade too mean
To be some happy creature's palace;
The little bird sits at his door in the sun,
Atilt like a blossom among the leaves,
And lets his illumined being o'errun
With the deluge of summer it receives;
His mate feels the eggs beneath her wings,
And the heart in her dumb breast flutters and sings;
He sings to the wide world, and she to her nest,
In the nice ear of Nature which song is the best?

Now is the high-tide of the year,
And whatever of life hath ebbed away
Comes flooding back with a ripply cheer,
Into every bare inlet and creek and bay;
Now the heart is so full that a drop overfills it,
We are happy now because God wills it;
No matter how barren the past may have been,
'Tis enough for us now that the leaves are green;
We sit in the warm shade and feel right well
How the sap creeps up and the blossoms swell;
We may shut our eyes but we cannot help knowing
That skies are clear and grass is growing;
The breeze comes whispering in our ear,
That dandelions are blossoming near,
That maize has sprouted, that streams are flowing,
That the river is bluer than the sky,
That the robin is plastering his house hard by;
And if the breeze kept the good news back,
For our couriers we should not lack;
We could guess it all by yon heifer's lowing,
And hark! How clear bold chanticleer,
Warmed with the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!

Joy comes, grief goes, we know not how;
Everything is happy now,
Everything is upward striving;
'Tis as easy now for the heart to be true
As for grass to be green or skies to be blue,
'Tis for the natural way of living:
Who knows whither the clouds have fled?
In the unscarred heaven they leave not wake,
And the eyes forget the tears they have shed,
The heart forgets its sorrow and ache;
The soul partakes the season's youth,
And the sulphurous rifts of passion and woe
Lie deep 'neath a silence pure and smooth,
Like burnt-out craters healed with snow.

= James Russell Lowell =

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Happy Saturday

All that is real to me

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F l a g s   O n   T h e   P l a y

The Art Institute

Chicago, Illinois

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I believe in the ordinary day
that is here at this moment and is me

I do not see it going its own way
but I never saw how it came to me

It extends beyond whatever I may
think I know and all that is real to me

it is the present that it bears away
where has it gone when it has gone from me

there is no place I know outside today
except for the unknown all around me

the only presence that appears to stay
everything that I call mine it lent me

even the way that I believe the day
for as long as it is here and is me

= W.S. Merwin =

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Happy Friday

And hushed the crying

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S k y w e d g e

From Inside the Art Institute

Chicago, Illinois

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Love is a breach in the walls, a broken gate,
Where that comes in that shall not go again;
Love sells the proud heart’s citadel to Fate.
They have known shame, who love unloved. Even then,
When two mouths, thirsty each for each, find slaking,
And agony’s forgot, and hushed the crying
Of credulous hearts, in heaven -- such are but taking
Their own poor dreams within their arms, and lying
Each in his lonely night, each with a ghost.
Some share that night. But they know love grows colder,
Grows false and dull, that was sweet lies at most.
Astonishment is no more in hand or shoulder,
But darkens, and dies out from kiss to kiss.
All this is love; and all love is but this.

= Rupert Brooke =

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Happy Thursday

Us who keep moving

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T o   T h e   T r a i n e d   E y e

From Inside the Art Institute

Chicago, Illinois

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A kind of thrill -- to lie on a road
and flatten yourself,

white fur like a ball of winter,

like the March blossoms on the fruit trees,
each one folded in like

the fledgling that never made it
from the nest.

They do this when they feel threatened,
remain motionless

even when curious people come prod
them with sticks,

stiffening their pearly claws as a tree stiffens
its twigs for winter. What is it to be dead?

The possums know -- that eternal watchfulness
by which the dead in their stately wisdom

watch us
who keep moving.

= Sheila Black =

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Happy Wednesday