Sunday Sabbath Poetry: Michael Nau

Chariot

By Michael Nau (of Page France)

Swing
Like a chariot
At the trumpet call
When we're all on saved

Swing
Like a wrecking ball
Like the heart of God
What a mystery

Filled
With the wedding feast
For the snakes and bees
With the angel teeth

Swing
Come and carry us
Come and marry us
To the blushing circus king

And dance like elephants
As he comes to us
Through a fiery golden ring

With a violin
And a song to sing
As he brings for us our wings

Now he's one of us
Plays the tambourine
Breaks the bread for us and sings

Will you wait for us?
Will you stay for us?
Will you grace us everything?

You're a wrecking ball
With a heart of gold
People wait for it to

Swing
Like a chariot
Swing it low for us
Come and carry us away

So we will become a happy ending
So we will become a happy ending

Fire come and carry us
Make us shine or make us rust
Tell us that you care for us
We need to hear a word for us
Let your body stand with us
Or let our rags be turned to dust
Chariot you swing for us
We think that you can carry all of us

So we will become a happy ending
So we will become a happy ending
So we will become a happy ending
So we will become a happy ending

- - - - - - -


New History

My history is unknown, but by a pillar
of fire and a cloud I have been given
a gift altogether free: new history. It breathes
easy, an easy yoke, taking in cleansing air that
enlivens old bones, bespeaking world order
and family, a nature hospitable, not unfriendly,
a creation made new before our own eyes
every moment – every blink. Our heartbeats,
our blinking, our sleeping – these are
God’s sovereign instruments of recreation.
The waters part, and behold: a flower.

The unmovable mover cannot be the God
of Israel, for that one cannot be anything
but movable. He comes to us in fire and
gracious terror – the holy gentleness of a
mother faithful (yes, ma’am, our response) –
and all that we do, are, say, he feels, sees, hears,
and behold: all is new. Yes, my child, now
that I know, now that you’ve shared, of course.
Even if it kills me. Anything for you.

The land yearns for new history, a past
unburdened by heavy crosses and cluster bombs;
the land yearns for God’s good unrealism.
May we sing with the earth: the Lord is wonderful.