From time to time I pen my own psalms. Follow the link for the entire corpus (such as it is). I've heard enough about culture wars and the warring factions of religion to fill three lifetimes. Last week's brouhaha regarding World Vision (which, to illuminate the situation, was mostly relegated to a particular internet sub-culture) was the tipping point. I suppose there are genuine points to be made regarding the importance of the discussion, but I also suppose there are genuine points to be made about remaining less resolute, more quiet.
In any event, even if you didn't follow the goings-on last week, this poem is still for you. At least, it's for me.
Psalm #18 (On the Dawn)
Dawn is a half-rest, a symphonic pause pregnant like Mary with possibility of a meek Messiah who grows less like "go and conquer," and more like "suffer the child, the poor, the broken-hearted self."
Oh Dawn, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our dying. Amen.
Always gentle, it comes like a child waking God's affection, greeting us with purple robes and golden rods, gifts fit for kings. Who are the kings of the world? The meek, the slowed, the quiet observant. Who are the kings of the world? They are us.