Monday, February 28, 2005

If I make my bed in Sheol

A frightened widow
hung on to her son,
her broken heart,
her tears unceasing,
while darkness approached,
invading and dimming the light
he shone

and the darkness suffered
until the heavy purple clouds of heaven
wept and gave water
that mixed with the son's blood
and washed in variegated rivulets
through his matted hair,
down his stripped back,
around his bruised breast,
across his bear loins,
over his pierced feet,
a whelping flow which
poured onto the dry, hardened ground,
and sunk below its brazened surface.

Even below,
where no light had ever shone.

©Judy Eurey 3/04

Saturday, February 26, 2005

God Talk

How many languages does God know?
Does he know Tai, Lapland or Congo?
Does he know French, Welch, or Chinese?
Can he speak in Portuguese?

Does he talk to a storm,
and to the bees when they swarm?
Can he converse with a dove,
and explain the ways of love?

When tornadoes roam about?
Can God command them to leave out?
Can he tell them what to do?
Can he make them listen too?

Does God speak to the snow,
and tell it exactly where to go
And what about the gentle rain,
can he speak its perfect name?

Does God answer the wind’s low moan,
and calm its fears and take it home?
Does the blue of the sky
speak to God and he reply?

Through ceremony and wedding vows,
does God merely stand around,
or does he whisper into ears,
that love can last a million years.

And what about the angry man,
who holds a weapon in his hand.
Can God make him understand,
that hate and death aren’t His plan.

And in the dark of a Hospice bed,
when our prayers have all be said,
and there’s no strength to utter words,
does God speak, and is he heard?

Wednesday, February 23, 2005


"I surrender all. I surrender all.
All to Thee, my blessed Savior, I surrender all."

the notes trail down, down, down.

It’s like saying to me, a voice,
from somewhere far away,
"Give me all your money
give me all your food, your house and all its rooms.

I want your talents,
your voice, your pen,
your time carved out for yourself,

I want your thoughts, your friends, your lust,
your 401K, your car, your clothes, your children,
your husband, and your ministry."

"You don’t need them at all,"
is the whisper.
"Give me the key, too, the one to that room,
the one at the corner of your heart, the one hiding
the you, who,
no one sees (but me)."

The Voice sounds like mellow oil
being poured from a vessel of alabaster,
white and hard. I sense its sagacious fragrance
seep down through my soul, a caressing
not unlike my lover’s.

My mind rushes
and questions
and cries
and flees
but the Voice hastens closer,
until I feel the presence of the Voice
echoing within the recesses of my fractured heart
whispering at the crack of the closed door.

Deliberately I steel beneath
the Presence
knowing that if only
I remain as I am
I will silence the Voice into retreat

Then I will bathe
in the milky presence of myself
washing away the slick of
fragrant surrender.