Contains Flashing Images by Lily Hamourtziadou

The narrative of terror is 

the narrative 

of justifications, 

of explanations, 

of accusations. 

It is the narrative of 

the names and faces 

of the innocent. 

It is the narrative 

of the helpless and the poor, 

the millions of refugees, 

the bodies found and picked up 

from the streets of Baghdad, 

buried in mass graves, 

unidentified, unclaimed. 

We are the lucky ones, 

who witness the horror from afar, 

our TV screens, 

our newspapers, 

our computer monitors. 

We can watch in shock and awe, 

as it all unfolds, 

less and less frequently now, 

safe from the missiles, 

safe from the car bombs, 

the only danger 

those flashing images 

hurting our eyes. 

That’s why those reports come with a warning.

Every Grain of Sand by Bob Dylan

In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed 
There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere, 
Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.

Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake, 
Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break. 
In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand 
In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.

Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear, 
Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer. 
The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way 
To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay. 

I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame 
And every time I pass that way I always hear my name. 
Then onward in my journey I come to understand 
That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.

I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night 
In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light, 
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space, 
In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.

I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea 
Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me. 
I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan 
Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.

Copyright © 1981 Special Rider Music

:

Saint Peter

Malcolm Guite

Impulsive master of misunderstanding
You comfort me with all your big mistakes;
Jumping the ship before you make the landing,
Placing the bet before you know the stakes.

I love the way you step out without knowing,
The way you sometimes speak before you think,
The way your broken faith is always growing,
The way he holds you even when you sink.

Born to a world that always tried to shame you,
Your shaky ego vulnerable to shame,
I love the way that Jesus chose to name you,
Before you knew how to deserve that name.

And in the end your Savior let you prove
That each denial is undone by love.

A Prayer in Brokenness

O God,

I cannot undo the past,

or make it never have happened!

– neither can You. There are some things

that are not possible even for You

– but not many!

I ask You,

humbly,

and from the bottom of my heart:

Please, God,

would You write straight

with my crooked lines?

Out of the serious mistakes of my life

will You make something beautiful for You?

Teach me to live at peace with You,

to make peace with others

and even with myself.

Give me fresh vision. Let me

experience Your love so deeply

that I am free to

face the future with a steady eye,

forgiven,

and strong in hope.

Celtic Daily Prayer 

The Cure

Katharine Harer

baseball is a good antidote for death

where else do we mutter belief scream

hope over green grass bathed

in light where else do we coach the best

out of one another

it's all right baby

you can do it

settle down guy

you'll be okay just hang in there

we need you buddy

we need a spark

be the ignitor man

our whispered pleas combine over rows

of seats and peanut calls and pour into the ears

of our boys fixing them

with our best hope the best we have to give

nowhere else do we do this together

reverently from some untapped place

in our chests saved for our children

and our lovers we thought we'd used it up

but listen to us croon making our voices

carry just the right mixture

of love and demand

our throats are sore

the peanut shells under our feet flattened

from jumping up and sinking down again

our heats extended

pumping belief

into this one afternoon

you can do it

you can do it for us

do it now come on

do it now

The Greeter

Robert N. Watson

He’s not the Reaper, but he does stop by

To say, to everything that’s ever lived, “Nice try.”