Poems for Ephesians

Poems inspired by Paul's Epistle to the Ephesians

• Two Ways by Edith Södergran

  Two Ways

  You must give up your old way,
  your way is dirty:
  there men go with greedy glances
  and the word “happiness” you hear from every lip
  and further along the way lies the body of a woman
  and the vultures are tearing it to pieces.

  You have found your new way,
  your way is pure:
  there motherless children go playing with poppies,
  there women in black go talking of sorrow
  and further along the way stands a pale saint
  with his foot on a dead dragon’s neck.

  

  Edith Södergran (1892—1923) is a Swedish modernist poet. She published five poetry collections, including Shadow of the Future (1920). This poem is reminiscent of much of Paul’s teaching in Ephesians, particularly Ephesians 4: 22- 24.

  Posted: 18 June 2025

• The Weight of Light by Matthew Pullar

  The Weight of Light

  When You first declared, Let there be, we can hardly
  imagine the singularity seen only by You,
  what manner of life-enabling energy it was, for
  the sun – the source of all our illumination – and our
  shining neighbour were still three days’ labour away, and “day” surely meant something beyond
  or beneath the passing
  of our twenty-four earthly hours. However
  Your electromagnetic spectrum unfurled right across the untangling cosmos, it was not
  the kind of light that marks the limits to our
  concepts of ultimate speed: faster even than that,
  filling, propelling an entire
  universe in a spoken moment.
  Heaven, after all, holds many ways and waves of light,
  some seen by human eyes, some far beyond:

  like the way tonic water glows at a UV torch; or how
  the farthest reaches of the solar system whisper
  of dwarf planets hidden in infrared, clouded
  from our eyes in icy dust and meteor belts.
  Light forever evades our attempts
  to grasp or apprehend it. So then
  what kind did Paul have in mind? Of what
  species of light are we the offspring that we
  in all our dulled and muted finitude should
  live like it? Even the densest supermassive
  blackhole at our galaxy’s heart shines
  like a halo, a corona, that only
  the sharpest camera attuned to its ways can capture.
  Many are the forms of light he may have meant.
  Easy to obscure the soul-scrutiny of the command.

  Yet it must have been more than mere metaphor,
  or some vague truism like, I’ll call you light, so then
  you’re light. Paul’s imperatives are weightier than that,
  and we, if careless in our approach, will be caught
  in the infinite warp of their gravity. Better perhaps
  that we think of it like this: that the light
  within us, the light that gave us birth, now bursts
  like the force of a wildly expanding cosmos, and we –
  microcosms of Your unfolding glory, must
  make way for its explosive, accelerating
  space-time-transforming force, or find
  the light colliding with us, caught
  on the edge of Your event horizon,
  darkness swallowed up in unimaginable Light.

  

  Matthew Pullar is an Australian poet and author of This Teeming Mess of Glory (Wipf & Stock, 2025). “The Weight of Light” comes from his reflections after hearing a sermon on Ephesians 5.

  Posted: 04 June 2025

• O God, Our Help in Ages Past by Isaac Watts

  O God, Our Help in Ages Past

  O God, our help in ages past,
    Our hope for years to come,
  Our shelter from the stormy blast,
    And our eternal home.
  
  Under the shadow of Thy throne
    Thy saints have dwelt secure;
  Sufficient is Thine arm alone,
    And our defence is sure.
  
  Before the hills in order stood,
    Or earth received her frame,
  From everlasting Thou art God,
    To endless years the same.
  
  A thousand ages in Thy sight
    Are like an evening gone;
  Short as the watch that ends the night
    Before the rising sun.
  
  Time, like an ever-rolling stream,
    Bears all its sons away;
  They fly forgotten, as a dream
    Dies at the opening day.
  
  O God, our help in ages past,
    Our hope for years to come,
  Be Thou our guard while life shall last,
    And our eternal home.

  

  Isaac Watts (1674—1748) is an English hymnist who was a Dissenter, so was not eligible to attend Oxford or Cambridge. He is the author of about 600 hymns. The theme of God throughout time — past, present, and future — can be seen throughout Ephesians, including in Ephesians 1:10 (“the fulness of time”) and Ephesians 5:16 (“Redeeming the time, because the days are evil”)

  Posted: 21 May 2025

• Lectio with Mother Maple by Lorna Tatomir

  Lectio with Mother Maple

   

  All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well"                    — Julian of Norwich

  Mother Maple’s roots run deep
  A pioneer tree on heritage land
  From an ancient artesian spring
  She draws water even in the driest times
  Her roots reach out
  Nudging the younger saplings finding their strength
  Amid the seasons
  The eras mark their rings within her heart
  Storms winds and trials
  Rooted deep she seems to smile
  Stand tall
  Live well
  Have faith
  This too will pass
  Within in her heart the fresh sap runs
  As she slowly wakes from her winter sleep
  Stretching her branches against the sky
  Tiny buds on the end of her fingered branches
  Bring promises of spring
  Have hope
  Each little bud whispers
  The long dark winter has ended
  The Son will Rise
  She gives herself like a nursing mother
  As the steel funnels tap sweet love from her side
  Her inner being an offering of love
  Know me in a new way
  Taste and see
  Find here joy

  

  Lorna Tatomir, a “Grama” with four adult children, serves with Literacy and Evangelism Canada. The inspiration for this poem comes from Ephesians 3:17-19, and the maple just outside her window.

  Posted: 07 May 2025

• Easter by Katherine Tynan

  Easter

  Bring flowers to strew His way,
  Yea, sing, make holiday;
  Bid young lambs leap,
  And earth laugh after sleep.

  For now He cometh forth
  Winter flies to the north,
  Folds wings and cries
  Amid the bergs and ice.

  Yea, Death, great Death is dead,
  And Life reigns in his stead;
  Cometh the Athlete
  New from dead Death’s defeat.

  Cometh the Wrestler,
  But Death he makes no stir,
  Utterly spent and done,
  And all his kingdom gone.

  

  Katharine Tynan (1859—1931) is the most prominent female writer associated with the Irish Revival which began in the 1880s. She corresponded with both Yeats and Hopkins. This poem reminds me of Ephesians 2, which reminds us that we were dead in our trespasses and sins, and of Revelation 21:4.

  Posted: 16 April 2025

• To Singing by Ryan Keating

  To Singing

  I sometimes feel the Presence when we sing
  While distant stars explode out in the dark
  Following bright words on a shaded screen
  As when a hammer strikes and hot iron sparks

  Fly upward with my soul above the room
  Crushed leaves decompose into ancient paths
  Open to meaning buried in the tune
  A blazing campfire resolves into ash

  On the foreheads of saints gathered today
  New life emerges in the spring from mud
  We’re seeking the one who makes us this way
  In nature affection is drawn with blood

  And sacrifice made of melody on
  Bodies held in orbit by gravity

  

  Ryan Keating is a pastor and poet with a café ministry on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus. His poetry chapbook A Dance in Medias Res is available from Wipf & Stock. This sonnet first appeared in Calla Press, and was written in response to Paul’s instruction in Ephesians 5 to compose “hymns and spiritual songs…”

  Posted: 02 April 2025

• Unison by F.R. Scott

  Unison

  What is it makes a church so like a poem?
  The inner silence – spaces between words?

  The ancient pews set out in rhyming rows
  Where old men sit and lovers are so still?

  Or something just beyond that can’t be seen,
  Yet seems to move if we should look away?

  It is not in the choir and the priest.
  It is the empty church has most to say.

  It cannot be the structure of the stone.
  Sometimes mute buildings rise above a church.

  Nor is it just the reason it was built.
  Often it does not speak to us at all.

  Men have done murders here as in a street,
  And blinded men have smashed a holy place.

  Men will walk by a church and never know
  What lies within, as men will scorn a book.

  Then surely it is not the church itself
  That makes a church so very like a poem,

  But only that unfolding of the heart
  That lifts us upward in a blaze of light

  And turns a nave of stone or page of words
  To Holy, Holy, Holy without end.

  

  F.R. Scott (1899–1985) won Canada’s Governor General’s Award for poetry in 1981 for his Collected Poems. This poem rings true with the words of Ephesians 5:21 — “In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord.”

  Posted: 19 March 2025

• Blindfish by Claude Wilkinson

  Blindfish

  On my way through the Bs
  in an old encyclopedia,
  searching for some other gem
  of obscurity that I’ve since
  forgotten, I stumbled upon it,
  also called Amblyopsidae, pictured
  in stages of losing its organs of sight
  in the onyx uncertainty
  of Kentucky cave waters,
  where the birth-brightness of eyes
  must be like offenses of sin
  till completely scaled over
  and vanished into the translucent pink
  of their body, from then on led
  by a tense mercy of touch.

  Lingering there for a moment,
  I thought of the Apostle Paul’s eyes
  also being shackled with scales
  after his Damascus conversion
  before I noticed the recto
  and under the topic of blindness,
  three smiling children—
  a small, bangs, lashes, and all,
  talcum-white boy embracing
  two darker little girls—
  leaning to identify scents
  of sunlit petals.

  We’re told that later
  the children will study
  Braille outlines of the flowers.

  Glancing back at the fish
  encircled in such utter black,
  it seemed the poster child for faith,
  and again, I thought about Paul,
  before being healed, blinded
  for a while to better carry
  this gospel of these very children
  who’ve truly learned to feel.

  

  Claude Wilkinson is the author of five poetry collections including Soon Done with Crosses (Poiema/Cascade, 2023) from which this poem comes. He says that “Blindfish” may be seen to present the concept of being one in Christ (Ephesians 2:11-22).

  Posted: 05 March 2025

• From an Ambassador in Chains or Alchemy of the Cross by Emmanuel Akaolisa

  If I will show you something beyond the walls before me
  among others, I will tell you about wood and stone,
  my plaques of credence which cannot be chained like me

  The cross at Golgotha
  upon which our king hung
  a stone in Zion upon which
  pride and unbelief stumbles

  The alchemy of the red(dened) cross
  turns despair into eternal hope
  radiating grace and love all over the world

  This unassuming cornerstone that begs for
  nothing but admiration with an eye of faith

  Dear friends in Ephesus, these plaques are
  not like the idols I spoke against, they are
  symbols of virtue and providence, invincible,
  moving through time and space

   

  

  Emmanuel Akaolisa is a Nigerian poet and freelance journalist based in Abuja, Nigeria. This poem arises out of Ephesians 6:20.

  Posted: 19 February 2025

• Towers by James Tughan

  Towers

  In a city of pillars, a forest of gods
  he walks north from Jerusalem
  just to stare down Diana
  and unleash the power of the Spirit
  on the unsuspecting Greeks,
  who can’t tell the difference
  between marble and Nazarene,
  between conjured and divine,
  and hear the ring of truth.

  He leaves behind the purists,
  the tight-assed guardians of Shabbat,
  with a thousand rules to keep God in line
  on His own day of rest and due reflection
  on all His imaginings;
  lest he stray too close to Nineveh
  and find an open mind.

  But in Ephesus there’s a market.
  There are tents, cloves and pomegranates.
  There’s trade for every rogue that plays
  in the squabbling court of Zeus,
  the currency exchange for the seat of Satan,
  funding to chase from town by this rabbi
  who’s paid the price of knowing.

   

  

  James Tughan has been called “one of the world’s foremost pastel artists.” His poetry has appeared in In a Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (Poiema/Cascade, 2019). The recent book of his visual art is Contact: The Artistry of Jesus in Nine Faces (Nadir, 2023).

  Posted: 05 February 2025

• Friendship by Elizabeth Jennings

  Friendship

  Such love, I cannot analyse;
  It does not rest in lips or eyes,
  Neither in kisses or caress,
  Partly, I know, it’s gentleness

  And understanding in one word
  Or in brief letters. It’s preserved
  By trust and by respect and awe.
  These are the words I’m feeling for.

  Two people, yes, two lasting friends.
  The giving comes, the taking ends.
  There is no measure for such things.
  For this all Nature slows and sings.

   

  

  Elizabeth Jennings (1926–2001) lived most of her life in Oxford. She received a C.B.E. (Commander of the Order of the British Empire) in 1992. Although this poem is about a particular friendship, the source of such love, I know she would agree, is expressed in Ephesians 3:17 & 18 among other passages.

  Posted: 16 January 2025

• germination by Jonathan Chan

  germination

  ‘Awake, O sleeper,
  and arise from the dead,
  and Christ will shine on you.’
  – Ephesians 5: 14 (ESV)

  if ever there was the dark delight
  of feeling strange, the penalty of
  difference in a faceless crowd,
  quash it between a lace of
  fingers. for no one moves in
  earthy fluency, unencumbered
  by a swimming thickness. no one
  yearns for the taste of ambiguous
  loss. for to wake is to listen, treading
  in the scuppered soil, watching the
  sunbeams scatter between the
  casuarina trees. to wake is to
  learn each sorrow by name:
  tender, unheeded, and slowly
  familiar. gradually, each apology
  will be as a seed, ripe for dispersal,
  yearning for growth,
  thirty, sixty, and a
  hundredfold.

   

  

  Processed with VSCO with q7 preset

  Jonathan Chan lives in Singapore, and is the author of Going Home (2022, Landmark Books). This poem first appeared at Global Poemic. His second collection bright sorrow will also appear from Landmark in 2025.

  Posted: 01 January 2025

• Mom and the Corpse by H.D. Sandy Ayer

  When I was three, you tried to wake a motionless man
  lying on the banks of the Kemano River.
  The murder remains unsolved.
  Would you be the next victim?
  I remember only this:
  Any immobile body in a field
  received a prod from your cane
  to ascertain
  if it was dead or
  just sleeping.
  (To keep this family tradition alive
  I try to open the driver’s door
  Of any empty parked car I see
  With its lights on).

  Decades later, you caught a sleeping sickness,
  then a coma.
  You stirred for the scriptures I read
  over the hospital bed,
  but went back to sleep:
  The sleep of the dead. . . .
  But let the tombstone say:
  “Asleep in Jesus.”
  Which means very much awake and
  always listening for the trumpet, and eager and waiting
  to re-inhabit that body,
  discarded but soon renewed,
  that will limp, nay walk
  through walls.

   

  

  H.D. Sandy Ayer lives in Calgary, and until recently directed the library at Ambrose University and was the archivist for the Christian & Missionary Alliance in Canada. The poet relates this poem to Ephesians 6:2 & 3.

  Posted: 18 December 2024

• Annunciation by John Donne

  Annunciation

  Salvation to all that will is nigh;
  That All, which always is all everywhere,
  Which cannot sin, and yet all sins must bear,
  Which cannot die, yet cannot choose but die,
  Lo, faithful virgin, yields Himself to lie
  In prison, in thy womb; and though He there
  Can take no sin, nor thou give, yet He will wear,
  Taken from thence, flesh, which death’s force may try.
  Ere by the spheres time was created, thou
  Wast in His mind, who is thy Son and Brother;
  Whom thou conceivst, conceived; yea thou art now
  Thy Maker’s maker, and thy Father’s mother;
  Thou hast light in dark, and shutst in little room,
  Immensity cloistered in thy dear womb.

   

  

  John Donne (1572—1631) was dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral. In this poem, around line 10, he has the Angel Gabriel allude to Ephesians 1:4 — for Mary was thought of, known, loved, and chosen before time began, as were we.

  Posted: 04 December 2024

• Songs in the Night XLII by Susanna Harrison

  Songs in the Night XLII

  Walk circumspectly, not as fools but as wise. — EPH. V. 15

  This blessing, Lord, to me impart,—
  O make me circumspect in heart!
  Let not hypocrisy and guile,
  My soul’s interior powers defile.

  O make me wife, Celestial Dove!
  Wife as a sharer in Thy love;
  Wife to believe and truth Thy word,
  To honour Jesus as my Lord.

  May grace divine be still supplied,
  My soul’s Director, Guardian, Guide;
  Lord, let Thy honour be my end
  In all the labours I attend.

  I want that lively zeal for God
  Which loves to spread His praise abroad;
  Let this, and not the praise of men,
  Inspire my Muse, and guide my pen.

  Jesus, do Thou direct my walk,
  Inspire my thoughts, dictate my talk;
  O give me faith and holy fear;
  Make every act of mine sincere.

  I’d leave the prating fool to boast,
  Let me lie humbled in the dust.
  Lord, keep me ever at Thy feet,
  I’ll freely choose the lowest seat.

   

  

  Susanna Harrison (1752–1784) was a domestic servant in Suffolk, England, who taught herself to read and write. Her 1780 collection Songs in the Night went through at least twenty-one editions in Britain and America, and became one of the best-selling collections written by a working-class poet in the late eighteenth century.

  Posted: 20 November 2024

• Learning a New Language by Steven Peterson

  Learning a New Language

  ———-Ephesians 5:21

  We’re learning a new language,
  my wife and I.
  The new word for kids is “kid,”
  the answer to “How are you two holding up?”
  is “Fine,”
  or “It’s been hard,”
  or “If it wasn’t for friends like you…”

  At night,
  when language goes to bed,
  we lie awake,
  not talking but holding
  another drowning soul,
  so far out to sea
  we hear the even newer language
  of a distant shore.

   

  

  Steven Peterson writes poems and plays in Chicago. His new full-length poetry collection Walking Trees and Other Poems will appear from Finishing Line Press in January 2025.

  Posted: 06 November 2024

• Sort Sol by Joyce H. Munro

  Sort Sol

  “Soon after this I saw Starlings in vast Flights, borne along
  like smoke, mist – like a body unindued with voluntary Power.”
  Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  Sunday by Sunday they gather in ever-diminishing numbers, feet
  scuffing the sanctuary carpet, hoping The Divine will come among
  them. Worship as they like it: liturgical, awe-inspiring. Music
  arcing upward, reverent prayers spoken in unison. The air stirs
  with God-the-Transcendent and they go forth supremely satisfied.
  On they journey, until something changes. New minister,
  spontaneous prayers, strangers among them, au courant music,
  unceremonious venue sans pulpit, paraments, organ—any or all of
  the above or something else. The loosely connected flock tightens.
  Discontent taints the air and sounds of awe wither to tale-
  muttering, blame-placing. Then comes a stormy Monday (but
  Tuesday’s just as bad). They congregate, slump-shouldered, heels
  rat-a-tating on tile. Sharp-eyed, they take the measure of others
  nearby, gauging the turbulence, sensing the resolve. Opinions veer
  here, there, everywhere—we need new music, traditional hymns,
  choruses, longer sermons, shorter sermons, expository sermons,
  outreach, inreach, stewardship, discipleship, evangelism, silent
  retreats. It’s his fault…no hers…no theirs. They pulse, dart, weave.
  One noise piercing the air. A terrifying (terrified?) sort sol
  seeking a roost.

  Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one
  another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit
  through the bond of peace. Ephesians 4:2-3, NIV

   

  Joyce H. Munro is an Amish poet from Pennsylvania (hence the absence of a portrait picture). She has a Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University, and has returned to a first love — creative writing — after a career in college administration.

  Posted: 16 October 2024

• Bathos by Matthew Pullar

  Bathos

  what is the breadth, and length, and depth, and height…
  Ephesians 3:18 KJV

  The apostle Paul, surviving
  shipwrecks and knowing the threat
  of an unknowable abyss, wrote
  of God’s love having bathos
  the same word Alexander Pope took
  to describe a kind of sinking sickness
  he despised in inferior verse:

  Bathos for depth, as a way of saying,
  “How low you’ve sunk”, or denoting
  a void of transcendence, an abyss one might
  plunge into when trying too hard, or
  like a Greek Chorus warning Oedipus
  how the ocean depths stand always
  as the foil to clutching pride.

  My undergraduate ear heard it as a sort of
  “bad pathos”, or like pathos with a cold. A poet
  with congested nose muddling
  through clumsy iambs in a tepid bath. But now,
  my eldest child obsessed with oceanic zones, I hear
  new resonance, imagine instead

  the bathypelagic and that
  mysterious blue sphere lowered
  into unknown midnight depths, finding
  creatures more at home in Grimm or Bosch
  than our perceptions of science: luminescent
  eels like winding electrical cables; fish with circular fangs;
  giant fluorescent tubes that prove, somehow, to be worms;
  prehistoric coelacanths thought long extinct.

  And yet
  even this proved to be like wading in the shallows when
  that crack in the Pacific floor was found,
  tunneling into miles on miles of undiscovered earth,
  an upside-down Everest of teeming
  dark, unimaginable life,
  lurking far, far beneath all reasonable expectation:
  simplest of single cells yet infinitely baffling in their
  near impossible presence.

  When it says
  He ascended, must he also have
  descended, meaning
  plumbed
  into unfathomed depths? And was this
  descent somehow part of the saving?
  And before he rose, did he first plunge an anchor,
  binding love with its deathblow to this earth-plunging ooze?

  Depths of mercy. Leaden weight of grace.
  No hubris sinks this deep; only praise.

   

  

  Matthew Pullar is an Australian poet. He adds the following note: Alexander Pope used the Greek word Bathos (meaning “depth”) in his essay “Peri Bathous, Or the Art of Sinking in Poetry” (1728) to satirize the poetry of his day.

  Posted: 02 October 2024

• Humble And Unnoticed Virtue by Hannah More

  Humble And Unnoticed Virtue

  O my son!
  The ostentatious virtues which still press
  For notice and for praise; the brilliant deeds
  Which live but in the eye of observation —
  These have their meed at once; but there’s a joy
  To the fond votaries of fame unknown, —
  To hear the still small voice of conscience speak
  Its whispering plaudit to the silent soul.
  Heaven notes the sigh afflicted goodness heaves,
  Hears the low plaint by human ear unheard,
  And, from the cheek of patient sorrow, wipes
  The tear, by mortal eye unseen, or scorn’d.

   

  

  Hannah More (1745—1833) is a British poet, playwright and abolitionist. Her staged plays include The Inflexible Captive (1774), Percy: a Tragedy (1777), and Fatal Falsehood (1779). To my thinking, this poem relates well to Ephesians 4:2.

  Posted: 18 September 2024

• Trying to Calculate Love by Judy Lorenzen

  Trying to Calculate Love

  Ephesians 3:18

  The ancient Babylonians and Egyptians
  discovered mathematics—
  one plus one equals two,
  and Galileo said
  that God wrote the laws of nature
  in the language of mathematics,
  but Dante said
  nature was God’s artwork,
  and Francis Bacon said
  that beauty was the sensible image
  of the Infinite,
  and King David said
  God is everlasting,
  and the Apostle John said
  God is love,
  and Paul said that love
  is the most excellent way,
  but F. W. Boreham said
  that love is the realm where the laws
  of mathematics break down—
  a mother gives all of her love
  to each one of her children,
  and George MacDonald added
  that the closest thing on earth
  to God’s love is a mother’s love,
  but a mother’s love can ruin her child,
  while God’s love never will,
  and God said
  that two shall become one flesh.
  Finally, the Apostle Paul said
  that the breadth, length, depth, and height
  of the love of Christ passes knowledge.

  Judy Lorenzen is a Nebraska writer whose poetry has appeared in Poetry Daily, Front Porch Review, The Orchards Poetry Journal, and Your Daily Poem, among others.

  Posted: 04 September 2024

• resurrection by Jonathan Chan

  resurrection

  at dusk the tremors begin,
  too stubborn to yield to that pained
  ekphrasis: jagged headpiece, mottled
  palms, limp torso, crimson stain.
  perfection is unbroken bones; they
  roll the stone from the mind. light
  crackles in an empty cavern. no tears
  will surge this descending jerusalem,
  only the lungs, the limbs he comes
  to fill, the bough that learns to bend,
  the breath, spilled upon the altar, and
  the body, roused to dance, over and
  over again.

   

  

  Jonathan Chan lives in Singapore, and is the author of Going Home (2022, Landmark Books). This poem previously appeared in the anthology A Given Grace, and abides in relationship with Ephesians 1:19 & 20.

  Posted: 21 August 2024

• Armor by Colm O'Shea

  Armor

  The fire is out. My hearth is cold.
  I have scarcely slept. Now from my castle I spy him
  shrouded in the meadow’s morning fog:
  the Black Knight, waiting for our joust.

  My armory is replete
  from a lifetime’s campaigns,
  but my every weapon strikes me
  as little more than a child’s stick.

  I rise, waiting for my squire to secure my breastplate
  but instead the new boy (whence did he come?)
  casts away my buckler, chainmail.
  My body shivers, naked.

  Who is this young man? Does his smile reassure,
  or terrify more than my Adversary?
  The boy whispers something absurd.
  What warrior seeks not to slay,
  but to pierce hardened armor
  so the wearer fills with new life?
  Defeat your withered self, he says,
  which revels in the darkness of evil days.

  Under the rising sun, his words disarm—they ring like bells.
  But where is mine enemy? Nothing but fog
  retreats over legions of flowers.

  

  Colm O’Shea is a Clinical Associate Professor at New York University’s Expository Writing Program. His books include his debut novel Claiming De Wayke, (Mystique, 2022), and the literary study James Joyce’s Mandala (Routledge, 2024). Although “Armor” isn’t saying the same thing Paul is saying in Ephesians 6, it uses similar imagery and shares with us another side of the conflicts we face in the Christian life.

  Posted: 07 August 2024

• inheritance by Katlyn DeVries

  inheritance

  “This mystery is that through the gospel the Gentiles are heirs together with Israel, members together of one body and sharers together in the promise of Christ Jesus…his intent was that now, through the church the manifold wisdom of God should be made known…”
  ——————————–– Ephesians 3:6, 10

  manifold (adj): much variegated, marked with a great variety of colors
  —————a. of cloth or a painting

  I’m wearing your jacket
  today, the one you patched
  together with swaths of fabric
  onto an old sweatshirt.

  I love its wornness
  and the boxy silhouette
  it makes on my slender frame.
  I imagine you

  thirty years ago, hovering
  over a table strewn with cloth,
  a kaleidoscope of pattern
  and color. You choose
  the purple first, with its flecks
  of glitter, then the floral pink tossed
  with brown and green. Vibrant teal,
  mottled lilac, and a navy backdrop
  complete the palette. You lay them
  side-by-side, play with combinations,
  then cut and sew, and though

  some days the fabric itches.
  when I wear it, I know

  I’m woven together with you.

   

  

  Katlyn DeVries lives in Holland, Michigan. She works at Western Theological Seminary running the writing center and as the Associate to the Girod Chair. She is ordained as a Minister of Word and Sacrament in the Reformed Church in America.

• Hope, a Miracle, Stands by the Trees Like a Shadow by Andrew J. Calis

  Hope, a Miracle, Stands by the Trees Like a Shadow

  “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not from you; it is the gift of God”
  — Ephesians 2:8

  This memory, this shadow
  of a dream, comes out of tree-darkness —

  when a friend says he saw a car overturn. The past is
  a sharpened stone, a spearhead

  inside my chest. It comes
  and then I am alone.

  ——————————-The night I spoke to a stranger
  as she died.

  —–         —-Star-flickered July slips in and
  the thick night warm and her flipped car; I park by the ditch, drawn

  by the scarred grass, to ask
  if she is alright; her worn voice —

  her husband dead beside her, upside-down, hanging in his seat.

  Delirious, she asks if she is going to die;
  Do you lie to some stranger, who in a single night

  is losing everything? Or steal away
  her small and shredding hope?

  Grief is a wall, a heavy cloth
  of sleep. Alone, the living go on

  this way, sunk under silence,
  its wide weight; or crying, carry

  themselves up the steep hill
  and find themselves upended, crucified.

  ***

  I held her hand and gave her words and
  tried with all my heart to hope — tried to share it,
  but it stood apart like a shadow, hovering
  near the trees, eerie with night.
  I said her husband was alright, and she would be too
  if she kept talking to me,

  but she was overturned; blood
  swelling her brain or trickling out.
  And maybe she didn’t understand,

  but she said, good, and then she slowly said
  she didn’t want to die. You won’t, I lied,

  and I prayed it. I swear you will not die.
  Your husband will not die. He is alive.

   

  

  Andrew J. Calis teaches at Archbishop Spalding High School in Maryland. His books include Pilgrimages (2020, Wipf & Stock), and Which Seeds Will Grow, which is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.

  Posted: 19 June 2024

• When in Ephesus by Bill Stadick

  When in Ephesus

  Demetrius— — — Do as true Ephesians do: Buy local!
  ——-                   —Help swell the GDP one Artemis
  ——-                   —Shrine at a time! Beam civic pride! Be vocal
  ——-                   —About our silversmithing chops! Resist
  ——-                   —That outsider who’s out to keep us down,
  ——-                   —Who won’t stop yapping in the synagogue,
  ——-                   —Deriding all that makes this town a town!
  ——-                   —Drive from these streets this Paul, this less-than-dog!

  The Apostle——– Or do the opposite: Put on that self
  ——-                   —Made new (but not by some false deity),
  ——-                   —Remove all idols from your sagging shelf,
  ——-                   —Replace them with faith, hope and clarity,
  ——-                   —Then thrill to think of all that waits in store
  ——-                   —For choosing well this weighty either-or.

   

  

  Bill Stadick is the author of the chapbook Family Latin (2020, Finishing Line Press) and is one of the featured poets in In A Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (2019, Poiema/Cascade). This poem relates to Paul’s experiences in Acts 19.

  Posted: 05 June 2024

• The Spirit of Prayer by John Bunyan

  The Spirit of Prayer

  Wouldst thou have that good, that blessed mind,
  That is so much to heavenly things inclin’d

  That it aloft will soar, and always be
  Contemplating on blest eternity.

  That mind that never thinks itself at rest,
  But when it knows it is for ever blest;

  That mind that can be here no more content,
  Than he that in the prison doth lament;

  That blessed mind that counts itself then free
  When it can at the throne with Jesus be,

  There to behold the mansions he prepares
  For such as be with him and his co-heirs.

  This mind is in the covenant of grace,
  And shall be theirs that truly seek his face.

   

  

  John Bunyan (1628—1688), in this poem, echoes many truths from the Book of Ephesians — such as the gift of God’s grace (Eph.1:7) and that we are joint heirs with Christ (Eph. 3:6). He, of course, is best known as the author of The Pilgrim’s Progress (1678).

  Posted: 15 May 2024

• A Life Singing Hymns by Steven Peterson

  A Life Singing Hymns

  ———-Ephesians 5:19-20

  Starting with Methodists thumping
  a pump organ wheezing from pumping:
  O for a thousand tongues to sing.

  Kneeling with Catholic friends,
  we rise at their mass near the end:
  Come, thou Almighty King.

  Skyward with African voices,
  a village of Christians rejoices:
  Tuapendula, which means Thank You.

  Swaying with Bible-church fervor,
  we lift hands to praise our preserver:
  Hallelujah, we adore you.

  Standing with Anglican British,
  amid smells and bells to the finish:
  Forth in thy name, O Lord, I go.

  Passing this valley of tears,
  I know what I’ll sing drawing near:
  Precious Lord, lead me home.

   

  

  Steven Peterson writes poems and plays in Chicago. His poems appear in The Christian Century, Dappled Things, First Things, and elsewhere. Several of his poems are in the anthology Taking Root in the Heart (2023, Paraclete Press).

  Posted: 01 May 2024

• Abrahamic by Jordan Hilger

  Abrahamic

  I was born in the twilight of your waiting, a numb heart
  nicked by the stone knife of your homesick
  wrestling, clutching for a way back,
  haunted down every close and sunbleached alley
  by the desiderium, the hidden face
  after which your history yearns. Amid a people
  returning like doves to an off-white city pendent
  on the edge of trust, all my conscious powers of
  resistance failed suddenly, even my clenched fist
  in the shower, the bared skin I thought the ward of
  authenticity no god could brook.
  Graffiti on an electrical box transparently declared, I miss you,
  the amaranthine spray paint of an unmistakable witness.

  Mountains crested, gathered strength
  as I walked to the border with all I had
  slung over my shoulders, newly bereft of David’s
  mother tongue lyrics (the guards had taken my book),
  those cries from between cave walls: Let me bear the reproach,
  and let that be my honor. The desert sky ramified
  prismatic as an iris, and I lifted up my voice and wept on the rooftop,
  muezzin of a long-sought promise, citizen and son
  ————————–of an undreamt country.

   

  

  Jordan Hilger is a New Jersey poet. His poem “Abrahamic” came through readings of Ephesians 2:11-3:21, the mystery of Gentile inclusion in “the commonwealth of Israel” (2:12), but also draws from Abraham’s search by faith for a lasting country in Hebrews 11:8-16. He would particularly have us focus on Ephesians 2:19 —”Now, therefore, you are no longer strangers and foreigners, but fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God.” (NKJV)

• An Essay on Man (III) by Alexander Pope

  from An Essay on Man (III)

  ———-Heaven from all creatures hides the book of fate,
  All but the page prescribed, their present state:
  From brutes what men, from men what spirits know:
  Or who could suffer being here below?
  The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed today,
  Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
  Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
  And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood.
  Oh blindness to the future! kindly given,
  That each may fill the circle marked by Heav’n:
  Who sees with equal eye, as God of all,
  A hero perish, or a sparrow fall,
  Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,
  And now a bubble burst, and now a world.
  ———-Hope humbly then; with trembling pinions soar;
  Wait the great teacher Death; and God adore!
  What future bliss, he gives not thee to know,
  But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.
  Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
  Man never is, but always to be blest:
  The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
  Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

   

  

  Alexander Pope (1688—1744) wrote his philosophical poem, An Essay on Man (1733) about the nature of the universe and man’s place in it, to — like Milton — “vindicate the ways of God to man…” This section on hope, partners well with Ephesians 1:12, 1:18, 2:12, and 4:4.

  Posted: 03 April 2024

• Hymn XI by Marc Di Saverio

  Hymn XI

  O Three-Personned God,
  I unconditionally surrender from this world;
  I unconditionally surrender to your rule.
  I come to you as naked as a newly born;
  I come to you as helpless as a newly born;
  I pray you may help armour me
  Against the demons attacking me.
  O let my own desires be replaced by yours alone;
  O let my own desires be as empty as your tomb!
  O I now blind some demons with their
  own reflections beaming from my breast-plate!
  O I have long had foot-soles of wind,
  but now my feet are fitted in
  a readiness that’s tempoed by
  the gospel of peace, so
  no fiends can catch hold of me.
  O thank you for my water-shield of faith,
  Which snuffs the flaming arrows of my foes.
  O thank you for this helmet of Salvation,
  which force-fields ears from darkly seductions.
  O thank you for the sword of the Spirit
  I swing when speaking or singing the Word;
  the demons can’t bare the verses and chapters.
  I pray in the Spirit upon all occasions;
  I pray for your children who live on this earth.
  O now I sleep with ease inside the bed of my
  surrendering. O now I keenly pray inside
  the chapel of my fealty. O now I’ll never
  unshield myself of the armour you’ve imparted me.

  AMEN

   

  

  Marc Di Saverio is an Ontario poet, living in Hamilton. His books include Sanatorium Songs (2013, Palimpsest Press) Crito di Volta (2020, Guernica Editions) and Songs of My Surrenders (2023) also from Guernica. Hymn XI embraces Paul’s images from Ephesians 6:10-18.

  Posted: 20 March 2024

• Dianoia by Matthew Pullar

  Dianoia

  That the eyes of your understanding may be lightened, that ye may know what the hope is of his calling, and what the riches of his glorious inheritance is in the Saints…
  (Ephesians 1:18, Geneva Bible)

  Before dinner my children play
  “Pretend Church”, a wild
  and varied game consisting
  of dress-ups, piano presets and snatches
  of half-remembered liturgy,
  improvised worship songs with
  key phrases scattered like
  a jazz singer’s scats: mighty!
  Saviour! Lord Jesus Christ!
  Faith at first is part
  instinct, part performance,
  an improvised trying-on-for-size, or
  a toddler testing out a new dress-up kit.
  But then – as mind enlarges to make
  space for growing truth,
  no longer an act; the words become
  not performative, more like breath,

  like the way,
  as a college student, I devoured Ephesians,
  absorbing Pauline clauses highlighter in hand
  inhaling every verb and adverb as though
  mind atrophied without it. This is you,
  it said. Now live. Decades gone,
  faith sometimes worn rice-paper-thin,
  while my children dance I take
  my old study Bible from the shelf and leaf
  its weathered, underlined pages. Welcome
  to church! my youngest shouts. Welcome.
  May the eyes of my heart be enlightened;
  may You highlight new life again.

   

  

  Matthew Pullar is the author of three books of poetry, including The Swelling Year, a sequence of poems for the church year. He is the 2013 winner of the Young Australian Christian Writer of the Year for his unpublished manuscript, Imperceptible Arms: A Memoir in Poems.

  Posted: 06 March 2024

• The Year Ash Wednesday Fell on Saint Valentine’s Day by Desmond Kon

  The Year Ash Wednesday Fell on Saint Valentine’s Day

  Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.

  This is at the end of the two-page document they gave me years ago.
  It’s placed after the Act of Contrition. It can be used too, said too.
  It seems more comforting, but less interrogative of all my misgivings,
  all that needs washing away.

  I told the priest my godfather suggested weekly confession.
  That’s been his lifelong practice—I say practice; you say discipline,
  some say habit. [Lifelong since he made the decision to join The Work.]
  I told the priest that confession is palpably healing for me,
  and Mass after becomes so much lighter, brighter.

  +

  “Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.”

  When I say this, I like the feeling—
  ————————–of first deciding to say it,
  ————————–then the feeling of saying it,
  ——————————————————–having said it,
  ————————–the feeling that comes after.

  +

  Saint Peter was sad that Jesus had to ask the question three times.

  Simon, son of John, do you love me?

  Saint Peter must have remembered the threefold denial.
  Just as the crow reminded him. Did he willingly make those denials,
  with full awareness of his decision? Even with Jesus letting him know,
  the prophecy already revealed? Does one recognize a prophecy as it
  unpeels its moment, or does the realization only happen after the fact?

  As plainly said as a matter of fact.

  ——————————————–An afterthought,
  ——————————————–like I keep saying these days.

  +

  [[[[[[[ How culpable is our culpability? ]]]]]]]

  +

  “Please remember—”

  “Bring us the palms you’ve kept all year—”

  “This is what Ash Wednesday looks like—”

  “This is what Saint Valentine’s Day looks like this year—”

  “No meat, no dispensation from fasting—”

  “I’ll imagine Saint Valentine’s relics in Dublin and Rome—”

  +

  [The priest at The Work said we crucify Christ still, to this day.]
  [That’s why we cry “Crucify, Crucify, Crucify” in the Passion Play.]

  I avoid saying it,
  even for the iterative drama, the enactment.

  ————————–Some say it once,
  ——————————————-then stop,
  ————————–as if in sudden realization
  ————————–of what it means.

  +

  “This is what Ash Wednesday looks like on Saint Valentine’s—”

  “People walking around with ash on their foreheads—”

  “Ours so well-drawn, pressed deep into skin, as if inscribed—”

  “It’s like ink on skin, this heavy black—”

  “Black as coal, these ashes from last year’s Palm Sunday Mass—”

  “Imagine the shape of the cross on so many foreheads—”

  “Imagine the shape of the cross, all across town—”

  +

  [The priest at The Work said we crucify Christ, because we sin still.]

  I say it now, muttered under my breath, to acknowledge our culpability.

  —————————————————–How guilt-smeared
  —————————————————–our collective culpability.

  I told the priest how hard it was to live by the eight Beatitudes each day.
  Every confession, there are some of the same sins, like a stubborn stain.
  This, not the kind of iteration—of aesthetic—I used to like. It is not
  the sort of story rhythm I’d like to remember. I remember to confess
  the sins I can’t remember, that these have to be washed away too.

  It seems nowadays, I wait for the pews to empty. I sit for about an hour more.
  I take out the prayer leaflet, A Quarter Hour Before the Blessed Sacrament,
  and contemplate each item in the five small pages. Sometimes, I start with
  the rosary first, which also takes a quarter hour. Then, I rise and walk
  to the tabernacle. I kneel on the marble, and bring my forehead to the floor.

  ——————————————-Three times,
  ————————————————————-and every time,
  ——————————————-the same love profession.

  ——————————————-That’s what love looks like,
  ———————————————————————talking to Jesus
  ———————————————————————in the tabernacle.

  Lord, you know everything; you know that I love you.

  Then the keys, then the rock,
  ————————–given to the loving disciple,
  ————————–the one who loved him most.

  —————-Then,
  —————-Jesus said to Saint Peter:

  ——————————————-“Feed my sheep.”

   

  

  Desmond Kon is the Singapore author of eighteen books, including his memoir The Good Day I Died and creative guided journal Depth of Field, both from Penguin Random House. He teaches creative writing at Nanyang Technological University, and can be found at: desmondkon.com. This poem is inspired by Ephesians 2:4-5.

  Posted: 14 February 2024

• Sunset by Nellie deVries

  Sunset

  Ephesians 4:26

  Sand singing beneath her feet,
  she meant to pose with the setting sun
  cupped in the palm of her hand.

  Gulls stood silent
  at the waveline,
  bickering done for the day.

  She raised her hand
  to hold up the glowing orb
  but his camera angle was always off.

  There’s no stopping sun’s setting;
  anger is the variable
  to be washed out like footprints in sand.

  Gulls, too, had been waiting.
  They rise in unison at sunset—
  fading commas in silhouette.

   

  

  Nellie deVries is a retired nurse, living in Michigan. Her poems have appeared in such places as Peninsula Poets, The 55 Project, Exhale, Heart of Flesh, and in the anthologies Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse; and Michigan Roots.

  Posted: 07 February 2024

• The Grasshopper Heart by Andrew Lansdown

  The Grasshopper Heart

  the Father, from whom every fatherhood
  in heaven and on earth is named – Ephesians 3:14-15

  That man with the cowboy hat and tan and tattoos
  is holding his little white-skinned daughter
  very gently in the shallow water. Now he is
  zooming her along, but not too quickly
  for fear of her fear. He tosses her up,
  catches and hugs her, holds in check
  the fierce tenderness that craves to crush her.
  Her father. His wholly holy love. He is smiling
  and I know his heart is like a grasshopper—
  leaping and landing spring-loaded to leap again.

   

  

  Andrew Lansdown is the author of 15 poetry books; this poem appears in his book, Abundance: New & Selected Poems (2020, Poiema/Cascade). He and his wife live in Perth, Australia; they have five adult children.

  Posted: 17 January 2024

• The Man Who Stepped Out by Pamela Mordecai

  The Man Who Stepped Out

  … who is over all and through all and in all…
  ————————————Ephesians 4:6

  I heard the story
  of a man who one
  day felt and saw

  a world of awe
  and let himself step in
  to sudden radiance

  it lit him
  and his children
  and the world

  the glow
  stayed all day
  and the next

  then
  he shut eyes
  against the light

  he’d glimpsed
  Elohim dancing
  giddy in sand and sea

  pervasive
  in each cell
  atomic in all things

  small stones
  blue air we shudder
  that he’s everywhere

  but that
  to him is mere
  save always care

  the story on
  a page drawing
  a man’s soft rage

   

  

  Pamela Mordecai is a Jamaican-born poet who lives in Toronto. Her A Fierce Green Place: New and Selected Poems appeared from New Directions in 2022.

  Posted: 03 January 2024

• Holy and Blameless by Tania Runyan

  Holy and Blameless

  Eph. 1:4

  Before the world was made.
  Your nebula of breath.
  Yin-yangs of tadpole eggs
  frozen inside a star.

  I was just a dream, a single
  neuron firing. But there was
  something I wanted to say
  to you, something like

  I won’t be saved,
  my invisible fists rising.
  The world did not deserve
  my mercy, other that it was.

  You knew then
  that I would return, standing here
  at the kitchen sink:
  I can’t scrub a pan without you.

  Let there be light, you said,
  And I hid my face.
  I can see you,
  And you are good.

   

  

  Tania Runyan is the author of several poetry collections, including Second Sky (Poiema/Cascade) from which this poem comes. Her latest book is an autobiography, Making Peace With Paradise: an autobiography of a California girl published by T.S. Poetry Press.

  Posted: 20 December 2023

• A House Like a Shawl by Laurie Klein

  A House Like a Shawl

  Of course, we must all
  unravel, as we gravely
  mouth the verbs of change,
  until ego resists no more
  than a garment,

  sloughed. May our souls,
  exposed, finally forgo
  shoring up gaps,
  as if we can somehow
  repair one blessèd thing. Maybe

  these closet selves, no more
  substantial than April air
  crocheted into a shawl,
  only need to be shouldered,
  held again to the breastbone.

  Ephesians 2: “[Y]ou too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.”

   

  

  Laurie Klein is the author of Where The Sky Opens (2015), and the forthcoming House of 49 Doors ― from which this poem is taken; both are part of the Poiema Poetry Series from Cascade Books.

  Posted: 06 December 2023

• Each Step I Take is Like a Little Death by Rena Ong

  Each Step I Take is Like a Little Death

  The narrow path where sometimes I can skip
  can be the steep track of my weary trudge,
  where jutting roots and stones cause me to trip
  while bold mosquitoes follow for my blood.

  Each morning when I change my pus-stained bandage
  so blood won’t seep, infection creep and cause
  distress to excised flesh and increase damage
  to new emergent skin as old withdraws.

  My daily restoration, Spirit-kindled,
  a spark from dead wood , bears an inward flame
  to light my forward steps before they’ve dwindled
  my confidence, so now I can again

  with purpose, tread along the guided paths,
  reaching the promised mansion, home at last.

   

  

  Rena Ong is from England, yet has lived in Singapore for 37 years. Her poetry and other writing has appeared in Studio, Ekstasis, Proverse, The Englewood Review of Books, and A Given Grace. This poem arose from Paul’s words in Ephesians 4:22-24.

  Posted: 15 November 2023

• Walking to Eternity by Philip C. Kolin

  Walking to Eternity

  ——-Ephesians 4:1-3; 17; 5:8

  The monks of Gethsemani Monastery
  avoid cold and vain stepping stones
  to eternity. Those inscribed with broken
  hearts, chiseled rose petals overshadowing
  locket long goodbyes, weeping angels.
  All for souls puffed up in finery and
  encased in their tarnished bronze boudoirs.

  But lain between sheets of soil,
  with only a cypress cross above.
  the monks are caressed in light
  even as their bodies lie unadorned,
  faces cowled and arms stripped,
  lest they enter eternity too worldly.

  Their sandaled feet walk east.

   

  

  Philip C. Kolin is Distinguished Professor of English Emeritus at the University of Southern Mississippi, and Emeritus Editor, of The Southern Quarterly. He has published 15 collections of poems including Reaching Forever (Poiema/Cascade, 2019), Delta Tears (Main Street Rag, 2021), and forthcoming Black Trauma: Resistance Poems about Black History (Third World Press, 2024).

  Posted: 01 November 2023

• The New Self by Shane Schick

  The New Self

  “Put off your old self, which is corrupted
  by its deceitful desires . . . and to put on
  the new self, created to be like God.”
  – Ephesians 4:22-24

  The street, I eventually decide,
  is as good a dressing room as any.

  After another financial setback
  and a client who’s never happy

  I didn’t even feel embarrassed
  about the holes that had worn

  through my ideals, like when I
  pocketed coins someone dropped.

  The temptation to cut corners
  was loosed in me like a thread

  that, if pulled rather than cut,
  can unravel the entire sweater.

  Fortunately St. Paul’s Bloor St.
  keeps its chapel open at noon.

  There’s only me and two others,
  but we all sit in a naked silence.

  When my lunch hour has ended
  and I stand up, it’s not cold out

  but my resolve pulls together,
  like teeth on a zipper’s slider.

  I pass through the glass doors,
  fastening the promises I’ve made

  as if they were a series of snaps.
  Moving slowly along the sidewalk,

  nobody even notices how I
  wrap my fear of failure tighter

  around my waist, the cinching
  making me more aware of it

  but also a bit easier to carry.
  While waiting for the walk sign

  I wonder what other eyelets,
  buckles, pins, grommets or

  hook-and-loops I’ll need to
  figure out before I’ve done

  changing, and even then,
  how long it’s going to take

  to break all this in, until
  it finally feels like it fits.

   

  

  Shane Schick is a journalist and content marketer whose poems have been featured in Macrina Magazine, Ekstasis, Amethyst Review and many other publications. He lives with his wife, an Anglican priest, and their three children in Whitby, Ontario. ShaneSchick.com/poetry. Twitter: @ShaneSchick

  Posted: 18 October 2023

• Ephesians by Trey Dunham

  from Ephesians [We Are Children]

  We are children
  Upon the sea
  Adrift
  In the swells
  The ebbs
  And flows
  The crests and valleys
  Of waves
  Tossing us
  The winds
  And salt spray
  Blinding us
  Infants
  Deceived
  And drowning
  The schemes
  Of the crafty
  The deceitful
  Rising like towers
  Above us
  Cresting
  Breaking
  Falling
  On our heads
  Filling our lungs
  Until by some grace
  And against all hope
  We are blown
  Onto some mysterious
  Shore

  And there
  We catch our breath
  The first ray of morning
  Warming our skin
  The largeness
  Of the world
  And us growing
  In it
  Like wheat
  Filling fields
  Mature and golden
  Adorned with
  Thickening crowns
  Kings and queens
  Of glory
  Joined
  Held together
  By a billion
  Shafts stacked
  So close
  That one
  Cannot push
  Through
  The ligatures
  Binding us
  A whole body
  Shaken
  Ebbing a flowing
  In the wind
  The spirit
  Joining ours
  Each stalk
  Holding
  One another
  Working
  Towards fulness

   

  

  Trey Dunham is a poet living in West Virginia. His books, including Ephesians: Poems, are available through Amazon. The above is his poetic rendition of Ephesians 4: 14-16.

  Posted: 04 October 2023

• How to Look for a Church by Violet Nesdoly

  How to Look for a Church

  Pretend you’re visiting
  a family of distant relatives.

  Of course you don’t expect
  —-to get an invitation for lunch
  —-and all your social needs met
  —-by a bunch of third cousins.
  And it doesn’t matter
  —-that the stairs smell of mildew
  —-and water stains the ceiling
  or that amongst themselves
  —-they’re way too happy and loud
  —-and hug a lot.

  What may catch you by surprise
  —-even make you want to return
  is how the Father you share
  —-meets you there
  puts His gentle but persistent hand
  —-under your chin
  —-to raise your face
  and meet His eyes.

   

  

  Violet Nesdoly is a poet and novelist living in British Columbia. Her poetry collection Borrowed Gardens appeared from SparrowSong Press in 2014. This poem connects with the common bond of believers Paul speaks of in Ephesians 4:4-6.

  Posted: 20 September 2023

• Lying in Wait to Deceive by Marjorie Maddox

  Lying in Wait to Deceive

  ——-Ephesians 4:14

  To deceive, he lies in wait
  in plain view upon the pews.
  He watches sinners congregate,

  then nods his head to validate
  the pain of “penitents” who choose
  deceit. He lies. He waits

  while the priest exonerates
  the un-felt list, the false excuse,
  watching sinners congregate

  to clear their conscience, obviate
  their guilt. What tool to use?
  Deceit. They lie. He waits.

  They check their lists, accelerate
  their sense of good, and yet refuse
  to watch their own sins congregate.

  In time, all sorrows propagate
  and spread the falsehoods that he spews.
  To deceive, he lies in wait.
  He watches sinners congregate.

   

  

  Marjorie Maddox is director of Loch Haven University’s Creative Writing Program. Her most-recent poetry books include In the Museum of My Daughter’s Mind (2023, Shanti Arts), and Begin With a Question (2022, Iron Pen/Paraclete). This poem previously appeared in Mezzo Cammin.

  Posted: 06 September 2023

• With My Mother Dying by Brad Davis

  With My Mother Dying

  ——-Ephesians 2:10

  A stalk of wheat cannot bear figs,
  nor an orca a litter of seal pups.

  Would that it were a simple thing
  to know the fruit one’s meant to bear

  into the world, easy as an apple tree
  her coy blossoms, then her apples.

  •

  There is an ache within the dearest
  deep down stuff of earth that begs

  for our deliberate, healing gaze—
  the handiwork of compassion.

  Why then a quandary what to bear?
  All good work bends in one direction.

  •

  Yet as with debt, there are no rules
  but this: to love—with all of love’s

  improvisations. Which is itself a call
  for wisdom. Patience, too. And lacking

  answers for another’s pain, to being
  free to bear the suffering without words.

   

  

  Brad Davis is a California-born Canadian living in northeastern Connecticut. His most recent collection is Trespassing on the Mount of Olives (Poiema/Cascade, 2021). His poems have appeared in Paris Review, Poetry, Image, Michigan Quarterly Review, Spiritus, JAMA, Brilliant Corners, Connecticut River Review, and many other journals.

  Posted: 16 August 2023

• Ephesians by Ryan Teitman

  Ephesians

  Beloved,
  Remember what we used to know: the owl perched in the barn rafters with a kitten dangling from its beak, the summers so dry that the wheat withered underfoot as we walked through the field with ice-cream-coated hands. I remember the day you went crazy with fever and took a hatchet to the hives in the apiary. You stood in the swarm and shouted, “I am the Lord God of all creation!” before your father ran in and cradled you to the house. That night, the doctor dipped bandages in honey and wrapped your welted limbs, while your father read to you from Aesop’s Fables. You opened your mouth and let the doctor reach in with pliers, let him pull one bee after another from under your swollen tongue, and let him hold each corpse—glistened with spit—up to the windowpane, before dropping it in a jar at your bedside. You carried that jar with you always, half-filled with their dried bodies, like kernels of corn. On the last night of summer, we fell asleep in the hayloft. In your dream, you whispered, wake up, O sleeper, rise from the dead. In the morning, the jar was empty, and our eyes were the color of nectar.

   

  

  Ryan Teitman is a poet living in Pennyslvania, and the author of Litany for the City (BOA Editions, 2012) from which this poem is taken. The scripture reference included is from Ephesians 5:14.

  Posted: 02 August 2023

• By love are we thus bound by Joanne Epp

  By love are we thus bound

  Think breath: how long to hold the chord,
  how to release it, how to lead them
  to breathe with you, all drawing air
  at once, exhaling in tune.

  Think of time, of echo: how voices reverberate
  off hard pews, varnished floor, enlarged
  by the space that contains them. Think
  of the half beat it takes for the sound
  from the farthest rows to reach you.

  Think encouragement. To hold up
  the voices, not drown them. Pronounce
  the rhythm with such clarity that no one
  can help but feel its hearbeat.

  Think contrast, penultimate
  to final verse: signal a new thing
  coming. Lead them from four-part to unison
  with bigger pedal stops, more reeds
  in the manuals. Feel your neck hair
  stand on end as every mouth in every
  pew unites on the melody. Becomes
  one instrument.

   

  

  Joanne Epp is a Winnipeg poet whose most recent collection is Cattail Skyline (2021, Turnstone Press).This poem arose from the poet’s reflections on Ephesians 4; the title comes from the hymn “Where charity and love prevail”; its 9th-century Latin text was translated by Omer E. Westendorf.

  Posted: 19 July 2023

• Being is Good by Ryan Keating

  Being is Good

  Be yourself is the worst
  advice that ever went viral,
  as if being someone else could be
  a real option let alone the default ―
  as if you were a static set
  of style, capacity, and preference
  unable to change and grow ―
  as if you were an ideal type
  of a particular breed whose traits
  you must exemplify or risk
  betraying yourself ―
  as if we should all sacrifice ourselves
  on the altar of authenticity
  or someone’s idea of it.
  You will keep being yourself,
  but you might also consider
  being good
  and even
  being better.

   

  

  Ryan Keating is a pastor, poet, and winemaker on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus. His poetry can be read at Foreshadow magazine and other outlets. This poem arose through reflection on Ephesians 4:22-24.

  Posted: 05 July 2023

• The Space Between by Eric Forsbergh

  The Space Between

  Jesus is walking down a road, as he often will.

  From a side path emerges a centurion,
  nodding at the distance of a plea.

  My servant lies at home, paralyzed.

  Surely Jesus smells the Roman’s leather battle straps,
  sees their frost of dried sweat salt, their earth-like stains and cuts,
  yet hears a brittle syllable in the commander’s voice.

  Just say the word. My servant will be healed.

  Bound at the hip, the soldier’s sword
  cannot divide the space between.

  Just as you believed it would, says the Jew.

  Back up the path, bending into shade of a low lintel,
  striding through a rising rag of oven smoke
  the Roman offers a clean robe, sits in the shadows,
  and waits beside his ashen man for sweat to break.

   

  

  Eric Forsbergh is a Virginia poet, retired dentist, and Vietnam vet. He has just completed the necessary training to allow him to teach creative writing in prisons. He relates this poem to Ephesians 4:32

  Posted: 21 June 2023

• Prayer 46 by Gregory of Narek

  Prayer 46

  Speaking with God from the Depths of the Heart

  A
  Now I am lost, forever punishable,
  always immoral,
  condemning myself to death,
  shepherd of a flock of fetid sin, a flock of wild boars,
  a despicable mercenary,
  a shepherd watching a flock of desert goats.
  The image of the shepherds’ tent in the Song of Songs
  aptly applies to me,
  for I do not know or understand,
  by whom, in whose image or why I was created.

  B
  Behold, you were formed like an angel,
  on two feet that take and bring you,
  as if in flight on two wings lifting you upward,
  to gaze down on my fatherland.
  O fool, why did you choose to be earthbound,
  always preoccupied with the worldliness of
  the here and now,
  carrying on like wild asses in the desert?
  On the lamp stand of your body, encircling your head,
  a chandelier with many arms was placed,
  so that by its light you might not stray and might
  see God and know what is everlasting.
  You were doubly endowed in the womb of reason,
  so that you might speak with an unfettered tongue
  of the victory of the good things given you.
  And you were endowed with artful hands and
  nimble fingers
  to carry out the practical affairs of daily life
  like the all-giving right hand of God,
  that you might be called God.
  You are assembled of 360 parts and five senses,
  the number of the days of the year,
  and no aspect of your physical being remains invisible
  to your sight or unstudied by your mind.
  For some parts are thick and strong,
  some are small and others necessary,
  some are sturdy but sensitive,
  some are sublime, important and noble,
  some are necessary but humble,
  and the explanation of the image of these things is engraved on you
  as on an uneraseable monument, wretched soul of mine,
  so that like the elements of time
  and the continuous train of days around the year
  by some inner law these parts function
  in unerring and inalterable order.

  C
  And now another spiritual image,
  tied to the bonds of love uniting the church,
  is also reflected within you.
  Like the yoke that mediates between the great
  and the lowly,
  the assembled body
  established in the name of Christ is sometimes impaired,
  as with the cutting off or loss of an unruly organ,
  infecting the body.
  Something is lost in your mortal structure,
  feeling abode of mankind,
  and the usual shape of the person undergoes
  some disfigurement.
  And now when the uniquely miraculous structure
  in the living image of God,
  is completely condemned, my enslaved soul,
  that original likeness is stolen from you as
  by breaking the law in the Garden of Eden.
  But by the light of the baptismal font
  the breath of the Holy Spirit is received and
  the image is restored to God’s likeness.

  D
  And now, why did you give up heavenly glory
  like the original man Adam did in the earthly
  Garden of Eden?
  Why did you yourself close heaven and lock
  the door to ascent?
  Why did you mix the clean water with
  impurities of bitter tears?
  Why did you soil newly washed clothes with dirty work?
  Why did you put off the clothes given you
  and put on the cloak of sin?
  Why did you infect the purity of your feet
  by taking the path of the fallen?
  Why did you repeat the violation of just vows of
  the Old Testament?
  Why did you refuse the fruit of grace, as Adam did
  the tree of life?
  Why did you willfully lose the unshadowed hope
  of eternity?
  Why did you cover your face with brazen shame?
  Why did you arm your enemies against you,
  repository of stupidity?
  Why did you venture into the snares of death,
  abandoning the way of faith?
  Why did you get caught on the fishhook of deception,
  you who share the body of the life giver?
  But again, relying upon him, call to him,
  the redeemer of those seeking refuge, renewer,
  savior, life maker and life giver,
  merciful, caring, lover of humanity,
  ungrudging, generously compassionate,
  blessed forever.
  Amen.

  Gregory of Narek (c. 950–1003/1011) was an Armenian theologian, priest, monk and poet. Thank you to the translator of this poem, Thomas J. Samuelian, for his permission to include it here. It is from the new anthology To Heaven’s Rim: The Kingdom Poets Book of World Christian Poetry Beginnings to 1800, in English Translation (edited by Burl Horniachek). It relates to several themes in Ephesians, including the parts of Christ’s body, the church, in Ephesians 1:23, 4:16, and 5:29.

  Posted: 07 June 2023

• That Birthday Present by Grace Constable

  That Birthday Present

  ——-Ephesians 2:8-10

  He is a father,
  chose the gift
  planned its execution
  before you had breath.

  He is a carpenter,
  secured the gift
  with his
  pierced hands.

  He is an advocate,
  keeps at bay the lie
  denying
  this gift was made for you.

  He is who he is,
  ever-patient
  for his children
  created anew.

   

  

  Grace Constable is graduating from Redeemer University this May with a double major in Psychology and English. She served this year as Chief Editor of Quest ― Redeemer’s literary journal ― and received the Rotary Club of Hamilton Amateur Young Writers Award for Fiction in 2021.

  Posted: 17 May 2023

• Pain by Andrew Lansdown

  Pain

  ——-Look carefully then how you walk …
  ——-making the best use of the time – Ephesians 5:15-16

  Yesterday, when I woke early
  with that pain and got up and got
  no relief, I thought of death,
  my death. This is it, I thought.

  And I felt grief for my family
  and friends. My two young sons
  especially—fatherless in their
  formative years. But mostly

  I felt shame, an overwhelming
  shame that I would soon meet
  my Saviour with so little to give
  in thanks. Inexcusably little.

  Today the pain has gone, but
  not the shame. Oh, dear Jesus!

   

  

  Andrew Lansdown is the author of 15 poetry books ― most notably Abundance: New & Selected Poems (2020, Poiema/Cascade). He is one of Australia’s most-significant poets.

  Posted: 03 May 2023

• Bowl of Strawberries, Bowl of Milk by Steven Peterson

  Bowl of Strawberries, Bowl of Milk

  ——-Ephesians 4:22-23

  It probably wasn’t my best idea,
  during the worst of COVID,
  to stream Ingmar Bergman’s
  1957 film The Seventh Seal
  set during the 1350 bubonic plague,
  because nearly every character dies—
  in black and white and in Swedish.

  But then I reached the scene
  where a grim medieval knight
  encounters a poor traveling family—
  mother, father, and infant—
  who share their simple supper:
  a bowl of strawberries
  and a bowl of milk.

  The knight takes what he is offered,
  then says, according to the subtitles:
  I shall remember this moment,
  your faces in the evening light,
  and carry this memory between my hands
  as carefully as if it were a bowl
  filled to the brim with fresh milk.
  It will be a sign; it will be enough for me.

  

  Steven Peterson writes poems and plays in Chicago. His poems appear in The Christian Century, Dappled Things, First Things, and elsewhere. Several of his poems are in the anthology Taking Root in the Heart (2023, Paraclete Press).

  Posted: 19 April 2023

• love by Jonathan Chan

  love

  what lays outstretched in shades beyond a hill,
  the silent trickling, stains upon a tree.
  what every whispered prayer could fulfil
  that transforms hidden shame to dignity.
  to deal in glances and not platitudes,
  a tight embrace and fingers intertwined.
  to catch the words that tumble raw and lewd,
  and tame the rudder should it steer the mind.
  for love is in the poems that we give,
  the conversations shared in evening rides,
  the spoons of broth that nourish dreams to live,
  the tender pixels laid in soft asides.
  to see the mystery of a cosmic trace
  within the beauty of another’s face.

  

  Jonathan Chan lives in Singapore and is the author of the poetry collection Going Home (2022, Landmark Books) This poem is from his series on the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5) yet relates to many verses in Ephesians, including the beginning of chapter five. It first appeared in A Given Grace, and is in his new book.

  Posted: 05 April 2023

• Amidst Compline and Prime by Desmond Kon

  Amidst Compline and Prime

  If a man wishes to be sure of the road he treads on,
  he must close his eyes and walk in the dark.
  ————————-― Saint John of the Cross

  as much as this lyric seems so far away
  inasmuch as distance is nearness

  as much as that night seems as removed
  inasmuch as tomorrow’s dawn is arrival

  as much as this utterance feels out of reach
  inasmuch as love demands an idiom

  as much as that sufferance feels impassable
  inasmuch as hope rests on our faith

  

  Desmond Francis Xavier Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé is the Singapore author of eighteen books, including his memoir The Good Day I Died and creative guided journal Depth of Field (both from Penguin). He teaches creative writing at Nanyang Technological University. This poem is inspired by Ephesians 2:13.

  Posted: 22 March 2023

• Potato Harvest by Janet Smith Post

  Potato Harvest

  . . .you. . .were sealed with the promised Holy Spirit,
  which is the guarantee of our inheritance. .. Ephesians 1:13-14

  High mountain desert, birthed
  from old fractures, old faults,
  an ancient basin for an ancient lake,
  whose slow drain left a hundred miles
  of shrub brush, sage, and yucca.
  Nurtured by the Rio Grande,
  the river mother, sending veins of life
  to scattered plots of produce—especially
  potatoes, their leaves blossoming white near fall
  then turning brown to dead, a signal
  of waiting harvest beneath the ground.
  In the fifties, school dismissed to send
  us to join the work in the fields,
  already filled with men and women,
  bent over the blessing of the soil.
  Burlap bags spread across the rows.

  Women, bandanas tied round their hair
  to fend off flinging vines of dirt,
  —their broad aprons, filled with potatoes
  to tumble into crates; later into burlap bags.
  Old men, old shoes, furrowed like the field.
  Barefoot, we worked on our knees—good
  knees—and closer to the ground.
  Hands, faces and clothes congealed with dirt,
  as we became one with the potatoes.
  Tractor-digger filled the air with dust,
  the old women called it El dolor—sorrow cloud.

  We caught up potatoes—fast—in each hand
  upturned from their womb of soil, sometimes
  throw-away-rocks, or impostor-balls of dirt.
  Beside me, Alejandro’s dark eyes above his crate. And above
  his head, the jagged peaks of Sangre de Cristo, the “Blood of Christ.”
  Beneath us the strong smell of earth, microbes, interred in the soil.
  Our pencils scratched marks, to tally crates.
  Alejandro told me his Madre delivered a baby–
  sister—the first child to live, since his own birth.
  Alejandro and I nodded heads in rhythm
  to the clink of coins counted out upon our palms.
  We saw the buyer in his suit, close-surveying the field.
  The farmer presented him one, small bag. “These potatoes,” he said
  “are a guarantee of purchased quality.” Then a grin,
  “Sweet taste of your field to come.”

  And then that Sunday, Alejandro’s dark eyes moist,
  The baby sister—herself the size of a small bag of potatoes.
  The priest drew a tiny cross of oil upon her head and said,
  “Sealed with the Holy Spirit; marked as Christ’s own forever.”
  The Holy Spirit—a force unseen. Believed, like the light,
  splintered from the stained glass window above our heads.
  The priest in scarlet robe—ambassador of guaranteed inheritance.
  The farmer in his coveralls–the promise of the field to come.
  The baby baptized—then dead within a month.

   

  

  Janet Smith Post is a writer, and musician who has written children’s books, fiction, and the self-published poetry collection Eyes of the Heart (2022). She is a member of the Colorado Authors League.

  Posted: 08 March 2023

• A Hymn to the Evening by Phillis Wheatley

  A Hymn to the Evening

  Soon as the sun forsook the eastern main
  The pealing thunder shook the heav’nly plain;
  Majestic grandeur! From the zephyr’s wing,
  Exhales the incense of the blooming spring.
  Soft purl the streams, the birds renew their notes,
  And through the air their mingled music floats.
  Through all the heav’ns what beauteous dies are spread!
  But the west glories in the deepest red:
  So may our breasts with ev’ry virtue glow,
  The living temples of our God below!
  Fill’d with the praise of him who gives the light,
  And draws the sable curtains of the night,
  Let placid slumbers sooth each weary mind,
  At morn to wake more heav’nly, more refin’d;
  So shall the labours of the day begin
  More pure, more guarded from the snares of sin.
  Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,
  Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.

  Phillis Wheatley (circa 1753—1784) is a black American poet who, as a child, was taken to be a slave. Her collection Poems on Various Subjects, Religious and Moral was published in 1773. This poem reflects what Paul says in Ephesians 2:21.

  Posted: 22 February 2023

• Ephesians 1:23 by Sarah Olivo

  Ephesians 1:23

  body means to be earthside—
  our maker roams this barren ground

  where wild prophets are buried
  headless, and temples teem with gentiles

  cleansed, and appointed to wash
  millennia of grime from the inner sanctuary.

  we are the swelling wineskins
  made of new lamb’s hide and stitched at the throat;

  we are baskets of fish, passed hastily about
  in a crowd that doesn’t know its own hunger.

  driven by the visions of a shepherd king
  and burdened by the right to speak them,

  we press our feet to a road we did not pave
  and feel the desert stir beneath us

  at the will of him who wanders there
  and calls forth heirs from stone.

  

  Sarah Olivio is a fourth-year honours writing major at Redeemer University in Ancaster, Ontario. She is on the editorial team for Quest, the student literary journal.

  Posted: 01 February 2023

• Thanksgivings for the Soul by Thomas Traherne

  from Thanksgivings for the Soul

  —–Blessed be the Lord,
  ———Whose Understanding is infinite,
  —–For giving me a Soul
  ———-Able to comprehend with all Saints the length, and breadth,
  and depth, and height of the Love of God, which passeth
  knowledge that I might be filled with all the fullness of God.

  ———Unsatiable is my Soul,
  ————–Because nothing can fill it.
  —–A living Centre, wider than the Heavens.
  ————–An infinite Abyss,
  —–So made by the perfection of they Presence,
  ———Who art an infinite KNOWLEDGE in every Centre;
  ———Not corporeal, but simple Life;
  ———Wonderfully sufficient in all its Powers…

  Thomas Traherne (1637—1674) is an English writer whose poetry has been known for less than 150 years. This section of “Thanksgivings for the Soul” — which is from his book Thanksgivings — includes lines from Ephesians 3:18-19.

  Posted: 18 January 2023

• Guilty Feet by Rochelle Watt

  Guilty Feet

  Might I timidly tiptoe toward
  a glassy sea,
  or are my slippers
  too tattered for holy ground?
  Would the Trinity be dishonoured
  by pirouettes of praise
  from one wearing a ragged,
  stained tutu?
  I used to only peek
  into your sanctuary.
  Wings of a seraph
  veiling my frame,
  tongue too ashamed
  to bless your name.

  But now,

  clothed in confidence,
  stenched garments of
  insecurities and fear
  surrendered.
  Freedom found
  through faith
  in you,
  guilty feet given rhythm.
  Forgiveness allowing me to dance,
  undignified in your presence.
  Finally,
  in your presence.

  

  Rochelle Watt lives in Toronto, and enjoys experiencing beauty in art, music, dance, theatre, and nature. She recently self-published her first poetry collection, Eden. This poem relates to Ephesians 3:12.

  Posted: 04 January 2023

• Ephesian Villanelle by Edward Clarke

  Ephesian Villanelle

  With psalms and hymns and odes the heart could bless,
  But I must write and re-write lines I’ve read:
  Do not get drunk on wine, wherein’s excess.

  The vodka at the fair made me legless.
  My mother feared she’d wake and find me dead.
  With psalms and hymns and odes the heart could bless.

  In Florence we styled ourselves young Bacchuses,
  My mouth stained purple, but our teachers said:
  Do not get drunk on wine, wherein’s excess.

  I sat collections in the hall, feckless,
  High from the night before, and the gods fled
  With psalms and hymns and odes the heart could bless.

  At Trinity we knocked back Guinnesses
  And ate mixed grills looking like the undead:
  Do not get drunk on wine, wherein’s excess.

  This tale’s the consort to a great goddess
  Who’d have me stop and write the tune in my head.
  With psalms and hymns and odes the heart could bless:
  Do not get drunk on wine, wherein’s excess.

  

  Edward Clarke lives in Oxford, England, and is the author of A Book of Psalms (2020, Paraclete). This poem relates to Ephesians 5:18.

  Posted: 21 December 2022

• Lament for a Holy People by David Doherty

  Lament for a Holy People

  Of the Methodists of Ontario in the middle of the nineteenth century

  Beloved ones, light-footed, rising from
  your pews like calves emerging from their stalls,
  your hearts not soured by the gall of wine,
  you seek, with opened lungs, the rushing wind.

  Redeemed from Adam’s twisted heart you bless
  the hills and falling rivers as your Eden.
  But each year harvest yields a grander heap,
  and your ever-bigger barns blunt autumn’s breeze.

  And soon your children, playing in the orchard,
  will prod a serpent coiled upon a branch.

  

  David Doherty is a graduate of McMaster Divinity College, an adjunct professor at Emmanuel Bible College, and an Anglican pastor in Oakville, Ontario. He says, “The poem refers to old-time Methodism’s famous emphasis on the apostle Paul’s twofold teaching in Ephesians 5:18.”

  Posted: 07 December 2022

• Ambassador by Mischa Willett

  Ambassador

  I am writing —-              ——–to you dear brothers
  from the foundation ————of the blamelessness
  I am writing —-              ——–He who first began
  dear ones ——                —–   the blameless to become
  were later —–                —–  –that is to say
  after the adoption —-   —– —us of all people
  poised cliffside ——      —–   –those who
  he saw and said —-        ——–through whom
  earnest after inheritance ——-He that is the acceptance
  who put together ———-      –the foundation I was
  referencing earlier ——–  – —actually is
  the greeting I send ———-   —dear Ephesus

   

  

  Mischa Willett is the author of two poetry collections Phases (Poiema/Cascade) and The Elegy Beta (Mockingbird). He teaches at Seattle Pacific University. This poem arises from Ephesians 1:3-11.

  Posted: 16 November 2022

• Ephesians 4:32 by Steven Searcy

  Ephesians 4:32

  Be kind as springtime sun to slender shoots,
  as kind as April rain to stretching roots.
  Be tender as a mother robin on
  her nest, as tender as the dew at dawn,
  as dogwood petals starting to unfold.

  But how can we be kind when hearts are cold
  and shriveled? How can we be tender when
  we’re filled with thorns and brittle stems, so thin
  and barren that it seems nothing could save us?
  He forgave us. He forgave us. He forgave us.

   

  

  Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta. He is an engineer in fiber optic telecommunications.

  Posted: 02 November 2022

• Poetics of Faith by Denise Levertov

  Poetics of Faith

  ‘Straight to the point’
  ——-can ricochet,
  ————–unconvincing.
  Circumlocution, analogy,
  ——-parable’s ambiguities, provide
  ————–context, stepping-stones.

  Most of the time. And then

  the lightning power
  ——-amidst these indirections,
  ————–of plain
  unheralded miracle!
  ——-For example,
  ————–as if forgetting
  to prepare them, He simply
  ——-walks on water
  ————–towards them, casually –
  and impetuous Peter, empowered,
  ——-jumps from the boat and rushes
  ————–On wave-tip to meet Him –
  a few steps, anyway –
  ——-(till it occurs to him,
  ————–‘I can’t, this is preposterous’
  and Jesus has to grab him,
  ——-tumble his weight
  ————–back over the gunwale).
  Sustaining those light and swift
  ——-steps was more than Peter
  ————–could manage. Still,
  years later,
  ——-his toes and insteps, just before sleep,
  ————–would remember their passage.

  Denise Levertov (1923—1997) is a British-born American poet. This poem is from her collection The Stream and the Sapphire and speaks of experiential ways of knowing as suggested in Ephesians 1:8-10.

  Posted: 19 October 2022

• Faithfulness by Jonathan Chan

  faithfulness

  “Jesus holding my hand has been the most powerful force in my life”
  —————― Revd. Marcus Green

  in open air by complineʼs candlelight
  where dust and darkness mingle in the mind,
  i had a quiet glimpse of love divine,
  of images that dance in warmer nights.
  descending from the dusk in paler glow,
  an arm outstretched, unknowable abyss,
  a comfort laced in having every wish
  step out from sinking sand to glistening flow.
  just as was done in sentul pasarʼs shade,
  through streams that ran by street and cul-de-sac,
  the careful walks that curve through waxy leaves.
  just as was done in lives made and remade,
  in every hug that brings the conscience back,
  and messages by night to wait, to breathe.

   

  

  Jonathan Chan lives in Singapore and is the author of the poetry collection Going Home (2022, Landmark Books) This poem is from his series on the fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5) and it relates to the first verse in Ephesians.

  Posted: 05 October 2022

• Honoring the Dishonorable Emperor by Garrett Soucy

  Honoring the Dishonorable Emperor

  Teetering on the porch,
  On the edge of another divorce,
  He wielded the pages of Scripture
  Like they were the hexagrams of the I Ching.
  Hemmed in on either side
  By a parapet of two lines
  Desperately needing to be proven complementary
  Or the relationship must end
  Or the furthering of the universe
  Would be threatened.
  How did the vertical and horizontal
  Beams of the cross not harmonize
  Opposing forces?
  Might not husbands now love unloveable wives?
  Might not Holiness reconcile sinners?
  Railing against the thought,
  He moved to the ground.
  Are you suggesting that I stand there
  And let her crucify me?
  Are you?

  

  Garrett Soucy is a pastor at Christ The King Church in Belfast, Maine. This poem relates to Ephesians 5:25.

  Posted: 21 September 2022

• Chancery by John Vigren

  Chancery

  Ephesians 1:4-5

  The Giver of life comes to you (or not)
  like a stray mortar round with your name on it:
  not fair, like family wealth or a cleft palate.
  Einstein put omnipotent God in the dock,
  a Judge of deeds who brings all deeds about.
  That genius, who saw in each planetary curve
  a dimple in smiling space, could not see love
  in the Light that foreordained the ruling light
  if God knew all along how horribly
  few of His children will not suffer always.
  Unwilling to lose any, yet He craves
  true friendship more than we crave certainty:
  random, run-dom, deliberate luck of the draw
  when Love decrees a law beyond the law.

  

  John Vigren is a New Jersey poet, landscape photographer, and a recovering addict. His verse has won awards, including the Utmost Christian Rhyming Poetry Prize.

  Posted: 07 September 2022

• Sometimes, at 3:00 a.m. by Laurie Klein

  Sometimes, at 3:00 a.m.

  —–. . . night is a rosary
  —–of unanswered hours . . .
  ——————Ariel Francisco

  One airless jolt—
  —–breath, a spasm,
  shaking me wakeful—
  —–& then what? Lie
  still, if I can;
  —–try not to obsess
  over feeling shaken
  —–in a realm
  resoundingly shrill,
  —–where foreboding
  abets chaos. Alone,
  —–in the starless hours,
  the body flails, unfit
  —–for the rugged soles
  an ascent requires,
  —–among the crags.
  Still, I muster
  —–the trusted ropes
  & pitons: psalms,
  —–hymns, my belief
  that truth begets
  —–traction, lest reason
  shear, lest the cliff
  —–where I anchored
  my little flag
  —–crumble. Rattle-shot
  thoughts collide,
  —–sinew & muscles
  seize. Tell me,
  —–who among us
  can swallow
  —–the flaring coal,
  wedged in the bell
  —–of the throat
  when love & dread
  —–liquesce, distilled
  to raw vowels? All is
  —–raveling sinus,
  the jaws, unslung.
  —–Come down,
  ageless Waker of Rain!
  —–Commandeer
  lightning’s stilts
  —–amid the reckless
  thunders we’ve loosed
  —–on your world.
  I am so small.
  —–So sorry & scared.
  Absorb & absolve
  —–my gibbering Whys,
  aimed headlong,
  —–into the gale. Come
  because heard,
  —–I can endure, graced
  for the breaking
  —–eventual dawn when
  divinely unsteadied,
  —–I kneel again,
  knowing myself
  —–saved, summoned,
  in all ways met.

  

  Laurie Klein is the author of the poetry collection Where The Sky Opens (2015, Poiema/Cascade). This poem arises from Ephesians 3:14, where Paul speaks of coming before the Father in prayer.

  Posted: 17 August 2022

• Prayer (I) by George Herbert

  Prayer (I)

  Prayer the church’s banquet, angel’s age,
  God’s breath in man returning to his birth,
  The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
  The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth
  Engine against th’ Almighty, sinner’s tow’r,
  Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
  The six-days world transposing in an hour,
  A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;
  Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,
  Exalted manna, gladness of the best,
  Heaven in ordinary, man well drest,
  The milky way, the bird of Paradise,
  Church-bells beyond the stars heard, the soul’s blood,
  The land of spices; something understood.

  George Herbert (1593—1633) is one of Britain’s great metaphysical poets. The line “Heaven in ordinary, man well drest,” has been explained to mean that in prayer God reaches down, and we, as in Ephesians 4:22-24, have put on the new self.

  Posted: 03 August 2022

• The Chapel by R.S. Thomas

  The Chapel

  A little aside from the main road,
  becalmed in a last-century greyness,
  there is the chapel, ugly, without the appeal
  to the tourist to stop his car
  and visit it. The traffic goes by,
  and the river goes by, and quick shadows
  of clouds, too, and the chapel settles
  a little deeper into the grass.

  But here once on an evening like this,
  in the darkness that was about
  his hearers, a preacher caught fire
  and burned steadily before them
  with a strange light, so that they saw
  the splendour of the barren mountains
  about them and sang their amens
  fiercely, narrow but saved
  in a way that men are not now.

  R.S. Thomas (1913-2000) has been called “the pre-eminent, Welsh poet writing in English in the second half of the twentieth century.” He served as an Anglican priest in rural Wales. This poem touches on Paul’s words concerning God mysteriously revealing himself through the church in Ephesians 3:10 & 11.

  Posted: 20 July 2022

• Mindfulness by Violet Nesdoly

  Mindfulness

  I have brightened the walls
  and enhanced the lighting
  in the rooms of my mind
  in order to see clearly
  the thoughts that come and go.

  I have put up surveillance cameras
  in each room and at the door.
  At the end of the day
  I replay the scenes
  to better understand the role
  of my thoughts in the day’s happenings.

  When doubt, fear, criticism
  self-pity, pride and all their siblings
  manage to slip in (and they do)
  I freshen the atmosphere
  With scripture balms
  of faith, hope, and love.
  The interlopers cannot stand
  the fragrance and quickly leave.

  I am working on using
  my single-purpose cubicles
  (where no media is allowed)
  for reading, listening, and praying.

  

  Violet Nesdoly is a poet and novelist living in British Columbia. She contributed poetry to the Crossings: A Journey to Easter catalogue and outdoor art exhibit in Toronto, 2022. This poem connects with Ephesians 5:20-24 ― especially with verse 23: “and be renewed in the spirit of your mind” (NKJV).

  Posted: 06 July 2022

• Children of Wrath by Brian Volck

  Children of Wrath

  ———–…tossed to and fro and blown about
  ———–by every wind of doctrine. – Ephesians 4:14

  The peace Christ preached demolished massive walls,
  sent great blocks tumbling as from a temple
  laid waste, not one stone left upon another.

  But we, who covet defensible positions
  in our bitter quarrels amid the rubble,
  rebuild the ramparts, making us aliens

  and strangers once more. That heretics thrive,
  I have no doubt, having heard my share
  in church preaching a merciless god

  in a graceless world, and if they speak
  the truth, it seems done less in love
  than in some desperate need to be right.

  Yet even these love God in their fashion,
  shaming me with the fervor of what seems
  misguided witness, and as we’re gathered

  in one body, Spirit, Lord, and faith,
  I hope to find ample forgiveness
  in the furnace of Divine mercy

  to burn away not only their
  overprized virtues and opinions
  but the several I hold far too dear.

  

  Brian Volck is a pediatrician, and a writer whose poetry collection Flesh Becomes Word (2013) was published by Dos Madras Press.

  Posted: 15 June 2022

• Predestination by Robert Herrick

  Predestination

  Predestination is the cause alone
  Of many standing, but of fall to none.

  Robert Herrick (1591―1674) served as vicar of Dean Prior in Devonshire, and is the author of Hesperides: Or, The Works Both Humane & Divine (1648). This epigrammatic poem relates to the first chapter of Ephesians.

  Posted: 01 June 2022

• Καταβολής by John C. Mannone

  Καταβολής (kataboláys)

  Before the foundations of the Earth were laid,
  even before stardust settled from the heavens
  when a myriad of suns catastrophically cast off
  their fiery shells—after their luminous bloating
  or after glorious cataclysmic explosions, supernovas—
  even before the Big Bang when there was nothing:
  no space, no matter, no energy. Not even time. Yet

  before the attempted overthrow, catalyzed by pride
  when a third of the angels fell, their wings unfolded
  and proverbially stripped off, Lucifer catapulted,

  and even before conceived in my mother’s womb,
  ———God knew me and he loved me. I was cast
  ———in his own image.

  

  John C. Mannone is the author of four poetry collections, including the forthcoming Song of the Mountains (Middle Creek Publishing, 2023). He is a retired physics professor, living in Tennessee. The poem’s Greek title means an overthrow or a violent casting down but is typically translated as the foundations of the earth (Eph 1:4 and 1 Pet 1:20). The poem plays on other kata-words.

  Posted: 18 May 2022

• And with what body do they come? by Emily Dickinson

  And with what body do they come?

  ‘And with what body do they come?’ –
  Then they do come – Rejoice!
  What Door – What Hour – Run – run – My Soul!
  Illuminate the House!

  ‘Body!’ Then real – a Face and Eyes –
  To know that it is them!
  Paul knew the Man that knew the News –
  He passed through Bethlehem –

  Emily Dickinson (1830–1886) is a poet who always wrestled with scripture. Here she is drawing hope from the promise of a physical resurrection in 1 Corinthians 15:35; This relates to passages such as Ephesians 2:6. She once wrote to a friend, “We both believe and disbelieve a hundred times an hour, which keeps Believing nimble.”

  Posted: 04 May 2022

• Love’s As Warm As Tears by C.S. Lewis

  Love’s As Warm As Tears

  Love’s as warm as tears,
  Love is tears:
  Pressure within the brain,
  Tension at the throat,
  Deluge, weeks of rain,
  Haystacks afloat
  Featureless seas between
  Hedges, where once was green.

  Love’s as fierce as fire,
  Love is fire:
  All sorts—infernal heat
  Clinkered with greed and pride,
  Lyric desire, sharp-sweet,
  Laughing, even when denied,
  And that empyreal flame
  Whence all loves came.

  Love’s as fresh as spring,
  Love is spring:
  Bird-song hung in the air,
  Cool smells in a wood,
  Whispering ‘Dare! Dare!’
  To sap, to blood,
  Telling ‘Ease, safety, rest,
  Are good; not best.’

  Love’s as hard as nails,
  Love is nails:
  Blunt, thick, hammered through
  The medial nerves of One
  Who, having made us, knew
  The thing He had done,
  Seeing (with all that is)
  Our cross, and His.

  C.S. Lewis (1898—1963) is the author of The Narnia Chronicles and dozens of other books including Poems (where this poem may be found). This poem reflects the truth Paul expresses in Ephesians 3:17-19.

  Posted: 20 April 2022

• The Living Flame of Love by John of the Cross

  The Living Flame Of Love

  O living flame of love
  that tenderly wounds my soul
  in its deepest center! Since
  now you are not oppressive,
  now consummate! if it be your will:
  tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!

  O sweet cautery,
  O delightful wound!
  O gentle hand! O delicate touch
  that tastes of eternal life
  and pays every debt!
  In killing you changed death to life.

  O lamps of fire!
  in whose splendors
  the deep caverns of feeling,
  once obscure and blind,
  now give forth, so rarely, so exquisitely,
  both warmth and light to their Beloved.

  How gently and lovingly
  you wake in my heart,
  where in secret you dwell alone;
  and in your sweet breathing,
  filled with good and glory,
  how tenderly you swell my heart with love.

  John of the Cross (1542–1591) is a Spanish poet, known for his mystical poetry. He was a Carmelite friar. The final stanza of this poem reflects Paul’s words in Ephesians 3:16 & 17.

  Posted: 06 April 2022

• The Apostle Paul Extends a Metaphor by Graham Hillard

  The Apostle Paul Extends a Metaphor

  ———–Ephesians 2:19-21

  The language seems to gather force and leap
  Into the air: divine analogy
  As spinning top. We, all of us, are those
  Whom God has “fitly framed together” as
  His holy temple. Still, Paul wonders if
  The metaphor is incomplete, as though
  A Roman mile had lost its thousandth pace.
  Might masonry alone suggest a torpor
  Or stillness unbecoming of the bride
  Of Christ? Are we not rather restive deer,
  Great leopards in a pack, or mourning doves
  Lamenting these long lives? The great man knows
  His art will be declined. Best close the scroll.
  There will be time for craft another day.

  

  Graham Hillard is the editor of The Cumberland River Review and an associate professor of English at Trevecca Nazarene University. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee, with his wife and children.

  Posted: 16 March 2022

• Collage by John Robert Lee

  Collage

  ―for Ann-Margaret Lim

  “To the saints who are in Ephesus…” (Ephesians 1:1)

  Gospelling yellow-breasts among avocado blossoms,
  butterflies cavorting round the Rose of Sharon
  a clean white flower in the morning
  tinged at noon with pink changings,
  hummingbirds probing under grapefruit,
  hens and chicks foraging brown fallen leaves,
  children on this Sabbath chanting hymns from their verandah,
  and palm tree like a winged angel under the blue, sparse-cloud sky —

  who would think
  that pestilence is ravaging our world?

  No safe zone on continent or island,
  regular routines locked-down,
  family, friends, lovers masked, distanced,
  networks obsessed with flattening curves, death statistics,
  churches and mosques closed, except for fanatics,
  beaches, bars, brothels shut, except for skeptics
  or those who want normal here, now,
  and there are us crowding long lines outside shops —

  who wrote the script
  who configured this incredible dystopia?

  Skies are clearing over megalopolitans everywhere
  Himalayas in view after decades
  I hear canals in Venice and Amsterdam are clean these days;
  in neighborhoods under curfew,
  wood-doves, various warblers clock quick-passing hours;
  crickets, breezes soughing through leaves, are the night sounds,
  no backfiring bikes or late-night dj’s. Judgement is dropping abroad
  from our mouths, our hands —

  what unbelievable drama is rolling out behind the scenes,
  Who is moving, Ephesians, to centre-stage of this cosmic scenario?

  

  John Robert Lee is a Saint Lucian writer. His Collected Poems 1975-2015 (2017) and his most-recent book Pierrot (2020) are published by Peepal Tree Press.

  Posted: 02 March 2022

• Artemis of Ephesus by Tania Runyan

  Artemis of Ephesus

  Acts 19: 23-29

  Jesus would have just smiled
  at the cluster of breasts
  cascading down her torso
  like grapes: It is true

  you have not two, but forty.
  Return to the meteor
  from which you were carved
  and fertilize no more.

  And she would start over
  as a space rock fallen
  from the sky―untouched―
  and all her silver cousins

  rescued from those sweaty
  pilgrim hands he would melt
  back to the ground where they lived
  before slaves shimmied

  down shafts to separate
  the lead from the luster
  veining the earth, running
  in the stones like his blood.

  

  Tania Runyan is the author of five poetry collections, including What Will Soon Take Place (Paraclete) and Second Sky (Poiema/Cascade). She was the first poet featured on Poems For Ephesians.

  Posted: 16 February 2022

• Pictures by Sarah Klassen

  Pictures

  Ephesians 6:13-17

  Picture the recommended pieces
  of protective armor: belt, breastplate, boots,
  shield, helmet. Objects of leather and metal,
  hand-crafted by artisans, moulded to fit.
  And also, of course, a sword. Implements
  Long since replaced–except in movies—
  by technically superior methods of defence
  and attack, all more or less amenable to metaphor,

  a poetic tool that connects what’s not connected
  as a rule. In other words, the apostle was a poet.
  So was David, who picked up from the wadi
  five smooth stones. With one he slew a giant.
  His poems picture God as Rock. As fortress.
  Shield. As shepherd with both rod and staff.

   

  

  Sarah Klassen is a Winnipeg poet whose eighth poetry collection is The Tree of Life (2020, Turnstone Press). Her first collection, Journey to Yalta (1988), won the Gerald Lampert Memorial Award.

  Posted: 02 February 2022

• And That Will Be Heaven by Evangeline Paterson

  And That Will Be Heaven

  and that will be heaven

  and that will be heaven
  at last the first unclouded
  seeing

  to stand like the sunflower
  turned full face to the sun drenched
  in light in the still centre
  held while the circling planets
  hum with an utter joy
  seeing and knowing
  at last in every particle
  seen and known and not turning
  away
  never turning away
  again

  Evangeline Paterson (1928—2000) is a poet who lived at various times in Ireland, Scotland and England. Her New and Selected poems, entitled Lucifer, with Angels was published by Dedalus in 1994. She expresses in the above poem the confidence Paul speaks of in Ephesians 3:12.

  Posted: 19 January 2022

• Lamentation by Marjorie Garvey

  Our lunch at DiCarlo’s, the same:
  I tried to connect but your
  regal moves blocked me—
  an inconsequential pawn.
  Always bad at chess, I stopped
  the clock, abandoned your game.

  Each piece you possessed
  and prized is sold off.
  The porcelain roosters
  watch the parade,
  then are swept up.

  Petals from your tired,
  red-tipped begonias fall
  to the ground as one more
  buyer brushes by
  bearing the wooden case
  of silver visitors seldom saw.
  I breathe in the emptiness.

  A tough winter rose traps
  the straggling rays of light.

   

  

  Marjorie Garvey is a Child Neurologist living in Washington, DC. She received her medical degree from Trinity College, Dublin. One early inspiration was hearing Seamus Heaney read his poetry to her high school class. “Lamentation” arises from the poet’s reading of Ephesians 4:25-32.

  Posted: 05 January 2022

• Light Is His Shadow by Peter Venable

  Light Is His Shadow

  I pause in the sanctuary, beholding
  a huge stained-glass window . . .
  Joseph leaning, watching—
  Mary in blue, sitting, cradling her baby—
  sunlight blazes through Jesus’ head,
  searing my eyes. I slam shut
  a fiery brand on my retina—

  His light so bright
  I cannot gaze upon Him.

  Must step aside
  and adore Him
  in sanctuary shade.

  

  Peter Venable lives in Winston-Salem, South Carolina, and has had poetry appear in such publications as Anglican Theological Review, Christian Century, and Ekstasis. This poem is drawn from the poet’s reflections on Ephesians 5:13.

  Posted: 15 December 2021

• The Idea of It by Brad Davis

  The Idea of It

  Ephesians 4:10

  What is good beyond
  measure has begun, is now

  and ever shall be good
  beyond all math and music, dance

  and words and drama—beyond all smoke
  and mirrors and manual acts.

  The crack in the air
  where the light shines through

  is the body of Immanuel—
  changed and raised, ascended, new—

  and in this light we see the very
  good made good beyond even all imagining.

  

  Brad Davis lives in Putnam, Connecticut. His latest book is Trespassing on the Mount of Olives (2021, Poiema/Cascade), which includes a poem which first appeared in Poems for Ephesians.

  Posted: 01 December 2021

• When Two Become One by Anne Laidlaw

  When Two Become One

  Like Mary, a woman caught slacking in serving skills, accused by assumption
  that she lost the home-coming role.

  Like she, who is bruised, so politely, behind closed doors, unable to genuflect
  on cue and her tongue bitten dry with silence.

  When two become one, he surrenders first ― his body to me and crosses my
  frozen precipice of fear and his self-death invites our vow.

  Then the loom of love weaves warp and weft. Two candles lean in and the
  kisses of our flames fuse.

  He genuflects to wash my feet and gives me time to gather what music I need
  to step towards him in our dance.

  Our melody is a waltz for two. His leading yields my feet in reassurance across
  the marriage floor.

  

  Anne Laidlaw is an artist, poet, and writer ― originally from Edinburgh, Scotland ― who lives in Sault Ste Marie, Ontario. She has taught art intermittently at the Art Gallery of Algoma. This poem relates to Paul’s teaching in Ephesians 5.

  Posted: 17 November 2021

• In Praise of the Light by Maryanne Hannan

  In Praise of the Light

  ———–Ephesians 5:13-14

  Wait for the Pauline paradox:
  All things that are reproved are made manifest by the light
  Breathe deep its depth:
  For whatsoever doth make manifest is light.
  The rounds of linguistic richness
  Which steady our shadow dwelling ways
  These words- let’s remember-
  Fishermen diction, a small supply,
  The common, vernacular, koiné
  Used and reused,
  A scarcity for the work at hand,
  Laying in layers, the paradox
  We ponder now, with fragile
  Well-worked nets, breaking under the weight
  Of subtle Substance. As we waken
  Into the light, Paul needs few words:
  ἐπιφαύσει, epiphanies on you, σοι
  ὁ Χριστός: The Christ.

  

  Maryanne Hannan is a former Latin teacher, and the author of Rocking Like It’s All Intermezzo: 21st Century Responsorial Psalms (Resource Publications, 2019).

  Posted: 03 November 2021

• Ephesus at Sunset by Paul J. Pastor

  Ephesus at Sunset

  1.
  Alkaline song in my acid mouth,
  the Christ-hymn spills, a dear free
  going of words, of praise-barks
  slung slobberwise, as if I am a dog
  who’s caught his master’s scent:
  you came you came you came,

  and I have gone all clumsy in the tongue,
  gone flop, gone adolescent in my joy, every
  limb tripping every other limb

  because I see a star come over the horizon
  just now, a star that speaks only its own name
  then mine, each syllable a prism of ground glass,
  slinging light, each syllable a humming crystal egg, a snapping diode,
  an alkaline song.

  2.
  Then I was elbow-deep in dishwater.
  I looked up
  as sunset light just caught
  a spider on her window-web, as she
  (backlit) tiptoed up her tightrope
  to a sac of eggs just at the hatch, where
  silhouetted like a shadow puppet
  from the mahogany islands, she waved
  her frontward legs, welcoming
  her dear immortal young who spilled out
  the worn and flattering bag, rejoicing, rejoicing
  we came we came we came,
  “and this,” I thought (all soapy at the wrists),
  “is a type, a revelation, this” (rinsing a chipped bowl)
  “is Christ.”

  3.
  In other ages this was not known,
  and even now is quite forgotten (how few
  words it takes to tell the Mystery),
  but it is all here, all in this first love
  from which we either fall
  or trip upon, trip on upward,
  all us eight-legged puppies come happy to the hatch,
  to our first boad glimpse of Mother-master, that star in burning web,
  that maiden-cry, that blossom and that slit,
  that sword dragged sharp on sidewalk brick,
  that soap froth shaken in a filthy cup,
  that sunset for the world, which shall turn to
  our last and backward dawn:
  ————————————————become become become.

  

  Paul J. Pastor is an Oregon writer, and author of the poetry collection Bower Lodge which will be launched by Fernwood Press in December. This poem, which first appeared in Solum, is influenced by what Pastor calls, “Paul’s colossal run-on sentence in the Greek” of  Epheisans 1:3-14.

  Posted: 20 October 2021

• Stillborn by Margo Swiss

  Stillborn

  Awake thou that sleepest. Arise from the dead,
  and Christ shall give thee light. (Ephesians 5.14)

  One dark night
  I heard You speak and knew
  that voice was none but You.
  But so dog-tired and too far gone to rise
  I beggared off pledging to write
  another night.

  Days then passed and only now
  Do I recall what I forgot that
  You so kindly all for-
  ————————-gave those precious words spilling into
  ————————-lines a little poem let go
  ————————-come to not or even worse
  ————————-what might have been in time
  ————————-a sacred verse mis-
  ———————————————–carried now
  ———————————————–your stillborn art
  ———————————————–bleeds away in tears

  ———————————————–my heart cries
  ———————————————–to rouse itself
  ———————————————–awake.

  

  Margo Swiss is a Toronto poet whose most-recent poetry book is Second Gaze (2020, St. Thomas Poetry Series). This poem is from this new collection.

  Posted: 06 October 2021

• A Dialogue, between the Resolved Soul and Created Pleasure by Andrew Marvell

  A Dialogue, between the Resolved Soul and Created Pleasure

  Courage, my Soul, now learn to wield
  The weight of thine immortal shield.
  Close on thy head thy helmet bright.
  Balance thy sword against the fight.
  See where an army, strong as fair,
  With silken banners spreads the air.
  Now, if thou be’st that thing divine,
  In this day’s combat let it shine:
  And show that Nature wants an art
  To conquer one resolvèd heart.

  PLEASURE
  Welcome the creation’s guest,
  Lord of earth, and heaven’s heir.
  Lay aside that warlike crest,
  And of Nature’s banquet share:
  Where the souls of fruits and flowers
  Stand prepared to heighten yours.

  SOUL
  I sup above, and cannot stay
  To bait so long upon the way.

  PLEASURE
  On these downy pillows lie,
  Whose soft plumes will thither fly:
  On these roses strewed so plain
  Lest one leaf thy side should strain.

  SOUL
  My gentler rest is on a thought,
  Conscious of doing what I ought.

  PLEASURE
  If thou be’st with perfumes pleased,
  Such as oft the gods appeased,
  Thou in fragrant clouds shalt show
  Like another god below.

  SOUL
  A soul that knows not to presume
  Is heaven’s and its own perfume.

  PLEASURE
  Everything does seem to vie
  Which should first attract thine eye:
  But since none deserves that grace,
  In this crystal view thy face.

  SOUL
  When the Creator’s skill is prized,
  The rest is all but earth disguised.

  PLEASURE
  Hark how music then prepares
  For thy stay these charming airs;
  Which the posting winds recall,
  And suspend the river’s fall.

  SOUL
  Had I but any time to lose,
  On this I would it all dispose.
  Cease, tempter. None can chain a mind
  Whom this sweet chordage cannot bind.

  CHORUS
  Earth cannot show so brave a sight
  As when a single soul does fence
  The batteries of alluring sense,
  And heaven views it with delight.
  —Then persevere: for still new charges sound:
  —And if thou overcom’st, thou shalt be crowned.

  PLEASURE
  All this fair, and soft, and sweet,
  —Which scatteringly doth shine,
  Shall within one beauty meet,
  —And she be only thine.

  SOUL
  If things of sight such heavens be,
  What heavens are those we cannot see?

  PLEASURE
  Wheresoe’er thy foot shall go
  —The minted gold shall lie,
  Till thou purchase all below,
  —And want new worlds to buy.

  SOUL
  Were’t not a price, who’d value gold?
  And that’s worth naught that can be sold.

  PLEASURE
  Wilt thou all the glory have
  —That war or peace commend?
  Half the world shall be thy slave
  —The other half thy friend.

  SOUL
  What friends, if to my self untrue!
  What slaves, unless I captive you!

  PLEASURE
  Thou shalt know each hidden cause;
  —And see the future time:
  Try what depth the centre draws;
  —And then to heaven climb.

  SOUL
  None thither mounts by the degree
  Of knowledge, but humility.

  CHORUS
  Triumph, triumph, victorious Soul;
  The world has not one pleasure more:
  The rest does lie beyond the Pole,
  And is thine everlasting store.

  Andrew Marvel (1621—1678) is an English Metaphysical poet. The shield, helmet and sword in the opening of this poem, and the conflict throughout, relates to Ephesians 6:13-17.

  Posted: 15 September 2021

• Blessing For Humanitarian Disaster Relief by Karen An-hwei Lee

  Blessing For Humanitarian Disaster Relief

  Dear Jesus, we survived a year in a world weary
  of its capacity for disaster— economic recession,
  a pandemic of asphyxiation, the loss of millions—
  no one knew how it began, how it would ever end,
  whether we might vanquish a virus with variants
  when our makeshift clinics run out of ventilators.
  The world and its catastrophes tilts in darkness:
  Every solo hour of the day yields enough trouble—
  we need not ever seek flame: there is famine and fire
  throughout the land flooded by a ruthless storm
  of unknowing that arrives with misery in the night.
  God put the world on pause— and for what purpose?
  To draw near to Christ, who draws near to suffering,
  who endured afflictions while ministering on earth.
  Say there comes a day after a year in the anthropause
  when Jesus shows up, yet no one is watching? Maybe
  the world will pay attention at last: righteousness
  shall blossom: the oppressor will no longer oppress:
  hungry hearts shall be fed by an avalanche of love,
  as the apostle says: for we wrestle not against flesh
  and blood but against principalities, against powers,
  against the rulers of the darkness of this world.
  We shall serve as humble agents under the mercy,
  spreading the fragrance of Christ wherever we go.
  Bless our eyes to see, our tongues to sing, our ears
  to listen, our hands to heal, and soles of our feet
  going into this world of tumult, war, and disaster.

  

  Karen An-hwei Lee is the author of Rose is a Verb: Neo-Georgics (2021, Wipf & Stock/Slant Books). The scriptural quote in this poem is from Ephesians 6:12. Her work has recently been featured on Kingdom Poets.

  Posted: 01 September 2021

• Tenebrism Again, In Relief by Desmond Kon

  Tenebrism Again, In Relief

  “Love is not consolation. It is light.”
  ——————————-― Simone Weil

  In Caravaggio’s own words: Amor Vincit Omnia.

  It must have been an ode to Virgil’s Eclogue X,
  how Virgil has returned to his home village, Andes.

  Look at the different cut and strain of logic here.

  Fact is: the unilinear is an unreasonable expectation of art.

  Virgil was his own guide,
  the long trek from Milan up north to the flatland of Mantua.

  The Latin in translation: [That] Love conquers all.

  The love has remained capitalized,
  an effect I find something of an earned appearance
  and purchase for my poetry these days.

  Did I actually just confess
  that remote intentionality, that aesthetic
  ——————denial-and-removal-turned-allowance?

  Look at Caravaggio’s Deposition of Christ.
  It hangs, like history, in the Vatican Pinacoteca.

  ———Christ’s body,
  ———luminous skin defying every working
  ——————of light, its effortless rise and fall
  ——————like nature,
  ——————its owned and abstract rhythms,
  ———the way light travels in logical directions.

  [I never minded the monologic, if it brought me Truth.]

  The fourth wall breaks,
  entire scene—descent from the Cross—foregrounded.

  Foreshortened tomb ledge, and bent elbow.

  These Baroque artists knew how to collapse
  the inside-outside within canvas
  ———with the real outside—of our evolving world.

  We watch tradition, animated through light and dark.

  Willing or not, we are involved
  ——————vis-à-vis our closed-in gaze.

  What character do we allow ourselves to become thus?

  What narrator, what person beyond the mouthed,
  the made known?

  Mere accessory-in-waiting, ready to help.

  —————————God forbid, an antagonist.

  ——————Maybe adherent and aide;
  ——————spreader of the faith
  —————————like in the good old days.

  ——————What beloved, given apostolate then?

  ——————What lyric calling for today?

  

  Desmond Francis Xavier Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé is the Singapore author of eighteen books, including his memoir The Good Day I Died (Penguin) and his most recent poetry collection Found Texts of the AAI Anon, Circa 3119 (Ethos Books, 2020). He helms Squircle Line Press, and can be found at: desmondkon.com. This poem is inspired by Ephesians 1:18-23.

  Posted: 18 August 2021

• The Loadstone by Francis Quarles

  The Loadstone

  Eternal God! O Thou that only art
  The sacred fountain of eternal light,
  And blessed loadstone of my better part,
  O Thou my heart’s desire, my soul’s delight!
  Reflect upon my soul, and touch my heart;
  And then my heart shall prize no good above Thee,
  And then my soul shall know Thee; knowing, love Thee;
  And then my trembling thoughts shall never start
  From thy commands, or swerve the least degree,
  Or once presume to move, but as they move in Thee.

   

  Francis Quarles (1592–1644) was appointed cupbearer to Princess Elizabeth — the daughter of England’s James I in 1613. The poet here expresses what is in his heart, which is what Paul desires for the church in Ephesians 3:17.

  Posted: 04 August 2021

• Apples by Andrew Lansdown

  Apples

  and the two shall become one flesh. This mystery is profound ― Ephesians 5:31-32

  She lifts her long skirt
  to cradle the windfalls.
  Her legs are very white,
  like the flesh of apples.

  Some things about women
  a woman can never know.
  Else she would not stand
  with her skirt caught up.

  Or she would more often.
  She stands in the shade
  of the laden tree, unaware
  I am aware of her legs.

  Beloved, even the apples
  are blushing in your lap.

  

  Andrew Lansdown is the author of 15 poetry books ― most recent of which is Abundance: New & Selected Poems (2020, Poiema/Cascade). He is one of Australia’s most-significant poets.

  Posted: 21 July 2021

• Church by Les Murray

  Church

  i.m. Joseph Brodsky

  The wish to be right
  has decamped in large numbers
  but some come to God
  in hopes of being wrong.

  High on the end wall hangs
  the Gospel, from before he was books.
  All judging ends in his fix,
  all, including his own.

  He rose out of Jewish,
  not English evolution
  and he said the lamp he held
  aloft to all nations was Jewish.

  Freedom still eats freedom,
  justice eats justice, love –
  even love. One retarded man said
  church makes me want to be naughty,

  but naked in a muddy trench
  with many thousands, someone’s saying
  the true god gives his flesh and blood.
  Idols demand yours off you.

  

  Les Murray (1938—2019) is considered the leading Australian poet of his generation. This poem relates to the truths found in Ephesians 4:17—24.

  Posted: 07 July 2021

• Praying by Mary Oliver

  Praying

  It doesn’t have to be
  the blue iris, it could be
  weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
  small stones; just
  pay attention, then patch

  a few words together and don’t try
  to make them elaborate, this isn’t
  a contest but the doorway

  into thanks, and a silence in which
  another voice may speak.

  

  Mary Oliver (1935—2019) is one of the best-selling contemporary poets in the United States. This poem, which is from her collection Thirst (2006,Beacon Press), works as a fine companion piece to Ephesians 3:12.

  Posted: 16 June 2021

• Paradiso by Dante Alighieri

  from Paradiso―Canto XXVIII

  (The Ninth Heaven: the Primum Mobile. The nine luminous circles of the angelic hierarchies. Their revolutions around a Point. Beatrice’s explanation. The celestial hierarchy. The correct angelology of Dionysius and the mistake of St. Gregory.)

  And she who saw my mind’s perplexities
  said: “The first circles have displayed to you
  the Seraphim and Cherubim. They follow

  the ties of love with such rapidity
  because they are as like the Point as creatures
  can be, a power dependent on their vision.

  Those other loves that circle round them are
  called Thrones of the divine aspect, because
  they terminated the first group of three;….

  The second triad—blossoming in this
  eternal springtime that the nightly Ram
  does not despoil—perpetually sings

  ‘Hosanna’ with three melodies that sound
  in the three ranks of bliss that form this triad;
  within this hierarchy there are three

  kinds of divinities: first, the Dominions,
  and then the Virtues; and the final order
  contains the Powers. The two penultimate

  groups of rejoicing ones within the next
  triad are wheeling Principalities
  and the Archangels; last, the playful Angels.

  These orders all direct—ecstatically—
  their eyes on high; and downward, they exert
  such force that all are drawn and draw to God.

  Dante Alighieri (1265—1321) has laid out here the nine ranks of angelic beings, which comes from the medieval interpretation of Ephesians 1:21, and Colossians 1:16. This translation of Paradiso is from Allen Mandelbaum.

  Posted: 02 June 2021

• The Bat by Jane Kenyon

  The Bat

  I was reading about rationalism,
  the kind of thing we do up north
  in early winter, where the sun
  leaves work for the day at 4:15

  Maybe the world is intelligible
  to the rational mind;
  and maybe we light the lamps at dusk
  for nothing…

  Then I heard the wings overhead.

  The cats and I chased the bat
  in circles—living room, kitchen,
  pantry, kitchen, living room…
  At every turn it evaded us

  like the identity of the third person
  in the Trinity: the one
  who spoke through the prophets,
  the one who astounded Mary
  by suddenly coming near.

  

  Jane Kenyon (1947―1995) is an American poet who was married to poet Donald Hall (1928―2018). She was Poet Laureate of New Hampshire when she died of leukemia. Every chapter in Ephesians speaks of the influence of the Holy Spirit, who both draws near, and yet remains a mystery.

  Posted: 19 May 2021

• A Quintina Of Crosses by Chad Walsh

  A Quintina Of Crosses

  Beyond, beneath, within, wherever blood,
  If there were blood, flows with the pulse of love,
  Where God’s circle and all orbits cross,
  Through the black space of death to baby life
  Came God, planting the secret genes of God.

  By the permission of a maiden’s love,
  Love came upon the seeds of words, broke blood,
  And howled into the Palestine of life,
  A baby roiled by memories of God.
  Sometimes he smiled, sometimes the child was cross.

  Often at night he dreamed a dream of God
  And was the dream he dreamed. Often across
  The lily fields he raged and lived their life,
  And Heaven’s poison festered in his blood,
  Loosing the passion of unthinkable love.

  But mostly, though, he lived a prentice’s life
  Until a singing in the surge of blood,
  Making a chorus of the genes of God,
  Flailed him into the tempest of a love
  That lashed the North Star and the Southern Cross.

  His neighbors smelled an alien in his blood,
  A secret enemy and double life;
  He was a mutant on an obscene cross
  Outraging decency with naked love.
  He stripped the last rags from a proper God.

  The life of God must blood this cross for love.

  

  Chad Walsh (1914—1991) taught at Beloit College for more than 30 years, and authored more than 20 books. This poem expresses truths found in Ephesians 1:4-8. A quintina is a poetic form, similar to a sestina, but with five-line stanzas featuring five required end words.

  Posted: 05 May 2021

• Siesta by George Whipple

  Siesta

  ——————― for Margaret Avison

  Infolded like a fieldmouse in warm hay
  while gnats negotiate the price of wheat,
  I grab a little shut-eye, drown
  in white delicious underworlds of sleep.

  Parched otiose two-legged lust-crazed spit,
  I whisper softly to sweet ears of corn,
  and enter ant hill churches with a slow
  sad eye explores the looking grass.

  Although I join my foster mother, earth,
  am pitchforked into dogbone-buried clay,
  I trust my rising to the Paraclete
  who mends the leaky milkpail of my soul

  ―as in some muddy ditch a shining frog
  slowly hatches in the tadpole mind of God.

  

  George Whipple (1927—2014) is a Canadian poet who authored many collections. His papers and other works are archived in the Thomas Fisher Rare Book Library, University of Toronto. The turn in this sonnet draws its authority from Ephesians 1:13.

  Posted: 21 April 2021

• Vegetable Patch by Luci Shaw

  Vegetable Patch

  “Rooted and grounded in love” ― Ephesians 3: 17

  Spring, and we are flush with the energy
  of hope. It’s growing season again, and this week,
  as I kneel in the soil next to a budding bulb,
  or even my ancient, perennial rhubarb, I find
  myself (and that word feels right: I find my self)
  as if I were as rooted and perennial as this
  living thing. When a minor underground upsurge
  shows a flourish of green leaves and stalks
  red as wine it’s as if I too am bursting free
  after a long, icy winter.

  Root is a word of promise, proof that life prepares
  to thrust itself up into the light, carrying
  the energy of hope. Jesus prefigured this
  miracle of rising—telling us that only as a small,
  dry seed dies will it thrust out its root tendril,
  its declaration of intent to grow and thrive.

  As those rhubarb stems yielded to the knife,
  may I now yield to the harvesting hand that has
  rooted me, and lifts me now from the earth.

  

  Luci Shaw is the author of 36 books ― 16 of which are her own poetry collections (by my count). She has been Writer-in-Residence at Regent College in Vancouver since 1986, and is the 2013 recipient of the Denise Levertov Award. Her most recent collection is The Generosity (2020, Paraclete Press).

  Posted: 14 April 2021

• Anguish by Henry Vaughan

  Anguish

  My God and King! to Thee
  I bow my knee;
  I bow my troubled soul, and greet
  With my foul heart thy holy feet.
  Cast it, or tread it! it shall do
  Even what thou wilt, and praise thee too.

  My God, could I weep blood,
  Gladly I would,
  Or if thou wilt give me that art,
  Which through the eyes pours out the heart,
  I will exhaust it all, and make
  Myself all tears, a weeping lake.

  O! ’tis an easy thing
  To write and sing;
  But to write true, unfeigned verse
  Is very hard! O God, disperse
  These weights, and give my spirit leave
  To act as well as to conceive!

  ———O my God, hear my cry;
  ————–Or let me die!

  Henry Vaughan (1622―1695) is a Welsh metaphysical poet. He expresses his desire here, like in Ephesians 4:12 and the surrounding verses, that he would be equipped to serve God and his people through the gift God has given to him.

  Posted: 07 April 2021

• On Old Women by Czeslaw Milosz

  On Old Women

  Invisible, dressed in clothes too big for me,
  I take a walk, pretending I am a detached mind.

  What country is this? Funeral wreaths, devalued medals,
  a general avoidance of remembering what happened.

  I think of you, old women, silently fingering past days
  of your lives like the beads of your rosaries.

  It had to be suffered, endured, managed.
  One had to wait and not wait, one had to.

  I send my prayers for you to the Highest, helped
  by your faces in old photographs.

  May the day of your death not be a day of hopelessness,
  but of trust in the light that shines through earthly forms.

  

  Czeslaw Milosz (1911—2004) is a Polish poet who won the Nobel Prize in 1980. This poem is from his collection Second Space and relates to Paul’s prayer in Ephesians 1:18.

  Posted: 31 March 2021

• The Power to Grasp by Rena Ong

  The Power to Grasp

  The giant Octopus, tentacles unfolding
  in its inky blackness, dwells in
  the sonar-calculated depths, stretching its skin,
  umbrella-like as if towards infinity.

  The universe itself, with its cloak of stars
  expands throughout space, where Hubble’s law
  and telescope try to measure its height and breadth.

  How does one measure the unfathomable,
  the One with no beginning or end, with whom
  all known measurements are irrelevant, for whom
  time itself does not exist?

  

  Rena Ong is from England, yet has lived in Singapore for many years with her Singaporean husband. She has poetry forthcoming in Ekstasis. This poem arose from Paul’s words in Ephesians 3:18.

  Posted: 24 March 2021

• Letter to Lewis Smedes about God's Presence by Rod Jellema

  Letter to Lewis Smedes about God’s Presence

  I have to look in cracks and crevices.
  Don’t tell me how God’s mercy
  is as wide as the ocean, as deep as the sea.
  I already believe it, but that infinite prospect
  gets farther away the more we mouth it.
  I thank you for lamenting his absences —
  from marriages going mad, from the deaths
  of your son and mine, from the inescapable
  terrors of history: Treblinka. Viet Nam.
  September Eleven. It’s hard to celebrate
  his invisible Presence in the sacrament
  while seeing his visible absence from the world.

  This must be why mystics and poets record
  the slender incursions of splintered light,
  echoes, fragments, odd words and phrases
  like flashes through darkened hallways.
  These stabs remind me that the proud
  and portly old church is really only
  that cut green slip grafted into a tiny nick
  that merciful God himself slit into the stem
  of His chosen Judah. The thin and tenuous
  thread we hang by, so astonishing,
  is the metaphor I need at the shoreline
  of all those immeasurable oceans of love.

  Adapted from an e-mail discussion, Summer 2002

  

  Rod Jellema (1927—2018) founded the Creative Writing Program at the University of Maryland, and is the author of Incarnality: The Collected Poems (2010, Eerdmans). This poem echoes Ephesians 2:4.

  Posted: 17 March 2021

• The Other by R.S. Thomas

  The Other

  There are nights that are so still
  that I can hear the small owl calling
  far off and a fox barking
  miles away. It is then that I lie
  in the lean hours awake listening
  to the swell born somewhere in the Atlantic
  rising and falling, rising and falling
  wave on wave on the long shore
  by the village that is without light
  and companionless. And the thought comes
  of that other being who is awake, too,
  letting our prayers break on him,
  not like this for a few hours,
  but for days, years, for eternity.

  

  PIC BY HOWARD BARLOW
  POET – RS THOMAS at his home on the LLYN PENINSULA
  sept 97

  R.S. Thomas (1913―2000) is a Welsh poet and Anglican priest who spent his life in the rural parishes of the hill country in Wales. In 1964 he won the Queen’s Gold Medal for poetry. This poem reflects the truth of Ephesians 3:12.

  Posted: 10 March 2021

• Some Words by Violet Nesdoly

  Some Words

  I can think a thing a long time
  with the words going
  round and round
  inside my head
  like the gray gruel
  mixing in a cement truck

  but once I say those thoughts
  once those words
  escape my mouth
  pour out
  become exposed to air
  everything changes.

  The minute they’re out
  they start to solidify.
  Too late now
  to scoop them up
  shove them back
  into the place they came from

  for they’ve already begun
  to work their alchemy
  changing the elements
  inside me, inside you

  hardening—
  a shameful statue
  a concrete wall
  a sad gray memorial
  between us.

  

  Violet Nesdoly is a poet, writer, and visual artist living in Langley, British Columbia. This poem is from her 2004 chapbook Calendar (now a free download from Smashwords). Ephesians 4:31 (NKJV) – “Let all bitterness, wrath, anger, clamour, and evil speaking be put away from you, with all malice.” Violet’s newest novel Under the Cloud appeared in 2020.

  Posted: 03 March 2021

• Apology by Vassar Miller

  Apology

  My mortal love’s a rabbit skin
  That will not reach around your bones
  To charm the chill, to wrap you in
  Against the wind whose undertones
  Are death, or snow whose flakes are stones.
  My word will never do for thread
  To knit you garments snug and tight
  Though I would fold you foot and head
  Against the frost-fangs of the night
  Killing whatever rose they bite.
  My will is not enough to stretch
  The tattered pelt around us two.
  Pity, with each of us a wretch,
  Comes dyed my hurt’s deceitful hue
  As rag for me, not robe for you.
  The only comfort under which
  Our naked souls may crouch together
  Only immortal love, all-rich
  In warmer wool than fleece, can stitch.

  

  Vassar Miller (1924–1998) twice served as Poet Laureate of Texas. She lived her whole life with cerebral palsy. This poem reflects scriptural teaching on love, including that in Ephesians 3:17-19. This poem is from her first book, Adam’s Footprint (1956).

  Posted: 24 February 2021

• Love (1) by George Herbert

  Love (1)

  Immortal Love, author of this great frame,
  Sprung from that beauty which can never fade,
  How hath man parcel’d out Thy glorious name,
  And thrown it on that dust which Thou hast made,
  While mortal love doth all the title gain!
  Which siding with Invention, they together
  Bear all the sway, possessing heart and brain,
  (Thy workmanship) and give Thee share in neither.
  Wit fancies beauty, beauty raiseth wit;
  The world is theirs, they two play out the game,
  Thou standing by: and though Thy glorious name
  Wrought our deliverance from th’ infernal pit,
  Who sings Thy praise? Only a scarf or glove
  Doth warm our hands, and make them write of love.

  George Herbert (1593—1633) is an influential metaphysical poet, whose collection The Temple appeared shortly after his death. The word “workmanship” (the Greek word poiema meaning “the thing made”) refers to Ephesians 2:10 as it appears in the King James Version.

  Posted: 17 February 2021

• Paul by Fred Allen

  Paul

  Crystalline intellect!
  Diamond sheer clarity!
  Dynamo-drive engine
  —————-of the Almighty!
  What forces intersect,
  What electricity,
  That you convulse to win—
  —————-no, to wrench us free?

  Magnificent torrent!
  Brilliant bright ascension!
  Incandescent cloudburst
  —————-of apprehension!
  Dazzling brainstorms torment
  Thorny flesh, spark tension—
  Turbulent truth dispersed
  —————-flaring like the sun!

  Such joy to be devoured
  By a voracious God!
  Wrung empty, shell shattered
  —————-by his ruthless claim!
  Broken and empowered,
  Budded like Aaron’s rod,
  You badger the scattered
  —————-felons toward the flame.

  

  Fred Allen lives in Salem, Oregon, and taught for many years at George Fox University. He has just published his new poetry collection Fool’s Gold through Lulu. This poem was inspired through the poet’s reading of Ephesians.

  Posted: 10 February 2021

• Paul Discusses His Healings at Ephesus by Tania Runyan

  Paul Discusses His Healings at Ephesus

  Acts 19:11-12

  The dove that descended on Christ
  and now makes his nest in my body

  strains his wings against the walls
  of my chest. I coax him out

  of my fingertips―flight of heaven,
  come―until he blazes through

  with my skin on his claws.
  People thrust fabric before me,

  and when the Spirit sweeps down
  I feel myself enter the wave:

  the handkerchief a woman will wrap
  around her husband’s palsied hand,

  the blanket the mother will press
  to her baby’s violet lips. A child falls

  at my feet with his mother’s apron.
  She is trying to get the baby out

  but only blood is coming.
  I hold this cloth to my face and weep

  Into the birth fluid and blood,
  the smoke from last night’s meal.

  As night falls, I feel it is I in their home―
  not the apron, but my own hands draped

  over the whimpering pulse in her wrists
  as the baby screams in the corner for milk

  and the father splits me with his stares,
  wondering, Spirit, if we will come through.

  

  Tania Runyan is the author of five poetry collections, including What Will Soon Take Place (Paraclete) and Second Sky (Poiema/Cascade). She was the first poet featured on Poems For Ephesians.

  Posted: 03 February 2021

• Blue Jay Scamper by Pier Giorgio Di Cicco

  Blue Jay Scamper

  Thank you for this day
  in which I am not dead

  but figuring
  how to be in a hostile world
  by an act of faith.

  Thank you then for ageing sunlight
  and dandelions that look northward to my eyes

  and for the plain look of me.

  Between gratitude and peacelessness I sally,
  abandoning one music for another.

  Though I seek to be safe in
  the furniture of the world,
  I wish to speak
  your heart;

  to know simply
  Your presence
  among us.

  

  Pier Giorgio Di Cicco (1949―2019) is the former Poet Laureate of Toronto. This poem is from his collection Names of Blessing, and reflects Paul’s words in Ephesians 2:4 ff.

  Posted: 27 January 2021

• Come, My Soul, Thy Suit Prepare by John Newton

  Come, My Soul, Thy Suit Prepare

  Come, my soul, thy suit prepare;
  Jesus loves to answer prayer:
  He Himself has bid thee pray,
  Therefore will not say thee nay.

  Thou art coming to a King,
  Large petitions with thee bring;
  For his grace and power are such,
  None can ever ask too much.

  With my burden I begin;
  Lord, remove this load of sin;
  Let Thy blood, for sinners spilt,
  Set my conscience free from guilt.

  Lord, I come to Thee for rest;
  Take possession of my breast;
  There Thy blood-bought right maintain,
  And without a rival reign.

  As the image in the glass
  Answers the beholder’s face;
  Thus unto my heart appear,
  Print Thine own resemblance there.

  While I am a pilgrim here,
  Let Thy love my spirit cheer;
  As my Guide, my Guard, my Friend,
  Lead me to my journey’s end.

  Show me what I have to do,
  every hour my strength renew:
  let me live a life of faith,
  let me die thy people’s death.

  John Newton (1725–1807) wrote perhaps the world’s most-famous hymn, “Amazing Grace.” He went from being a slave ship captain to being a prominent abolitionist. The above hymn reflects Paul’s thoughts from Ephesians 3:8.

  Posted: 20 January 2021

• Hierarchy by Marjorie Maddox

  Hierarchy

  ———-Ephesians 1:2; 3:7, 8, 13-15, 20

  Less than
  Paul’s less than
  the least of all saints,

  I full-swoon tribulations,
  melodramatically tumble off
  the pedestals of grace,

  arrive sprawled and spread-eagled
  in the Victorian-style parlor
  of “Peace be with you.”

  Cut off at my once-bowed knees,
  I’ve lost sight of any inner woman
  in need of strengthening what once

  was Sabbath-strong by the effectual power
  of His working but now in need
  of stones and less than

  ———-his less than
  ——————–the least of all saints
  full swoon——————tumbling

  ———-cut off
  less than
  ———-Paul’s less than

  unable to do exceeding abundantly
  ———-the least.
  ——————–Peace be with

  all the less than’s,
  grace fainting daily
  into Amen,

  ———-into above all
  that we ask,
  ———-cry, think;

  grace be to you the less-than’s, the
  broken, and daily pieces of peace.

  

  Marjorie Maddox is director of Loch Haven University’s Creative Writing Program. Her most-recent books include Inside Out: Poems on Writing and Reading Poems (2020, Kelsay), and the children’s book I’m Feeling Blue, Too! (2020, Wipf & Stock). This poem previously appeared in Mockingbird.

  Posted: 13 January 2021

• Soldiers of Christ, Arise by Charles Wesley

  Soldiers Of Christ, Arise

  Soldiers of Christ, arise,
  and put your armour on,
  strong in the strength which God supplies
  through his eternal Son.
  Strong in the Lord of hosts,
  and in his mighty power,
  who in the strength of Jesus trusts
  is more than conqueror.

  Stand then in his great might,
  with all his strength endued;
  but take, to arm you for the fight,
  the panoply of God.
  Leave no unguarded place,
  no weakness of the soul;
  take every virtue, every grace,
  and fortify the whole.

  To keep your armour bright,
  attend with constant care;
  still walking in your Captain’s sight,
  and watching unto prayer.
  From strength to strength go on;
  wrestle and fight and pray;
  tread all the powers of darkness down,
  and win the well-fought day.

  Charles Wesley (1707–1788) was the most-popular hymn writer of his day. Together with his brother John, they were central figures in the Methodist movement which swept Britain. These lyrics rose out of Ephesians 6:10-18.

  Posted: 06 January 2021

• O God Of Earth And Altar by G.K. Chesterton

  O God Of Earth And Altar

  O God of earth and altar,
  bow down and hear our cry,
  our earthly rulers falter,
  our people drift and die;
  the walls of gold entomb us,
  the swords of scorn divide,
  take not thy thunder from us,
  but take away our pride.

  From all that terror teaches,
  from lies of tongue and pen,
  from all the easy speeches
  that comfort cruel men,
  from sale and profanation
  of honour, and the sword,
  from sleep and from damnation,
  deliver us, good Lord!

  Tie in a living tether
  the prince and priest and thrall,
  bind all our lives together,
  smite us and save us all;
  in ire and exultation
  aflame with faith, and free,
  lift up a living nation,
  a single sword to thee.

  

  G.K. Chesterton (1874―1936) is an important Christian intellectual, known for his fiction including The Man Who Was Thursday (1908), and his popular mystery stories featuring Father Brown (a character misappropriated by a recent TV series). This poem echoes Ephesians 5:6-14, and many other passages.

  Posted: 30 December 2020

• First Coming by Madeleine L’Engle

  First Coming

  He did not wait till the world was ready,
  till men and nations were at peace.
  He came when the Heavens were unsteady,
  and prisoners cried out for release.

  He did not wait for the perfect time.
  He came when the need was deep and great.
  He dined with sinners in all their grime,
  turned water into wine.

  He did not wait till hearts were pure.
  In joy he came to a tarnished world of sin and doubt.
  To a world like ours, of anguished shame
  he came, and his Light would not go out.

  He came to a world which did not mesh,
  to heal its tangles, shield its scorn.
  In the mystery of the Word made Flesh
  the Maker of the stars was born.

  We cannot wait till the world is sane
  to raise our songs with joyful voice,
  for to share our grief, to touch our pain,
  He came with Love: Rejoice! Rejoice!

  

  Madeleine L’Engle (1918—2007) is best known for her Newbery Medal winning novel A Wrinkle in Time. Although she may not have been specifically thinking of Ephesians 3:4-6 when she wrote this poem, the “mystery” spoken of here is one and the same.

  Posted: 23 December 2020

• Eternal by Pat Connors

  Eternal

  “…and grace will lead me home.”
  Amazing Grace, John Newton

  Under grey November skies
  which winter follows close behind

  the leader of the free world
  will not admit he lost the election

  the premier of Ontario sacrifices
  our health to feed the machine

  and a 12-year-old boy out with his mother
  is shot dead in gangster crossfire.

  For the love of God, which we can’t earn
  we must resist the powers of darkness

  until the end of their unfolding
  becomes the beginning of true light.

  In a world where a beautiful boy
  paid for sins he didn’t commit

  let us hold him close in our hearts
  and leave the rest to the Lord.

  

  Pat Connors’ first chapbook, Scarborough Songs, was published by Lyricalmyrical Press in 2013. His first full manuscript, The Other Life, is about to be released by Mosaic Press. He mentions several Ephesians passages as having influenced “Eternal” (1:7, 2:2, 4:18, 5:2, and 5:8).

  Posted: 16 December 2020

• Prayer by Andrew Lansdown

  Prayer

  remembering you in my prayers – Ephesians 1:16

  Oh, for my mother in her pain,
  Almighty and all-loving Lord,
  I come to plead with you again.

  For years her body’s been a bane
  That’s put all gladness to the sword:
  Oh, for my mother in her pain!

  Too much misery makes a stain
  To black all light and block all laud:
  I come to plead with you again.

  Today at least relieve the strain
  And give reprieve as a reward,
  Oh, for my mother in her pain.

  I know there is no other Name.
  Despite the fact my faith is flawed,
  I come to plead with you again.

  Although my many sins maintain
  That I deserve to be ignored—
  Oh, for my mother in her pain
  I come to plead with you again!

  

  Andrew Lansdown is a major Australian poet. This poem appears in his new book Abundance: New & Selected Poems (Poiema/Cascade) which just appeared on December 1st. I am honoured to have worked with Andrew on editing this collection.

  Posted: 09 December 2020

• Even So, God by Kaitlyn Hogeterp

  Even So, God

  am i dead,
  suffocated
  stiff &
  still?

  am i paralyzed,
  senseless
  stolid &
  enslaved?

  am i a stone,
  lifeless
  callous &
  chilled?

  full of error,
  empty of truth,
  a shrivelling shell—

  am i?

  even so, God breathes &
  lifeless souls
  waken,
  ready
  as he calls them
  by name.

  am i?

  

  Kaitlyn Hogeterp is a 4th year English Writing student at Redeemer University, in Ancaster, Ontario. She was born and raised in rural Nova Scotia ― and has been forced by the pandemic to pursue her studies online. “Even so, God” is based on Ephesians 2:1-6.

  Posted: 02 December 2020

• Religio Laici by John Dryden

  from Religio Laici or A Layman’s Faith

  Dim, as the borrow’d beams of moon and stars
  To lonely, weary, wand’ring travellers,
  Is reason to the soul; and as on high,
  Those rolling fires discover but the sky
  Not light us here; so reason’s glimmering ray
  Was lent not to assure our doubtful way,
  But guide us upward to a better day.
  And as those nightly tapers disappear
  When day’s bright lord ascends our hemisphere
  So pale grows reason at religion’s sight:
  So dies, and so dissolves in supernatural light.
  Some few, whose lamp shone brighter, have been led
  From cause to cause, to Nature’s secret head;
  And found that one first principle must be:
  But what, or who, that Universal He;
  Whether some soul incompassing this ball
  Unmade, unmov’d; yet making, moving all;
  Or various atoms’ interfering dance
  Leapt into form (the noble work of chance;)
  Or this great all was from eternity;
  Not even the Stagirite himself could see;
  And Epicurus guess’d as well as he:
  As blindly grop’d they for a future state;
  As rashly judg’d of Providence and Fate:
  But least of all could their endeavours find
  What most concern’d the good of human kind.
  For happiness was never to be found;
  But vanish’d from ’em, like enchanted ground.
  One thought content the good to be enjoy’d:
  This, every little accident destroy’d:
  The wiser madmen did for virtue toil:
  A thorny, or at best a barren soil:
  In pleasure some their glutton souls would steep;
  But found their line too short, the well too deep;
  And leaky vessels which no bliss could keep.
  Thus anxious thoughts in endless circles roll,
  Without a centre where to fix the soul:
  In this wild maze their vain endeavours end:
  How can the less the greater comprehend?
  Or finite reason reach infinity?
  For what could fathom God were more than He.

  John Dryden (1631―1700), the leading poet and literary critic of Restoration England, in Religio Laici (1682) expresses our reason’s insufficiency to lead us to salvation, which is expressed well in Ephesians 1:9. These are the first 41 lines of Dryden’s 456-line poem.

  Posted: 25 November 2020

• A Helpmeet For Him by Christina Rossetti

  A Helpmeet For Him

  Woman was made for man’s delight,―
  Charm, O woman! Be not afraid!
  His shadow by day, his moon by night,
  Woman was made.

  Her strength with weakness is overlaid;
  Meek compliances veil her might;
  Him she stays, by whom she is stayed.

  World-wide champion of truth and right,
  Hope in gloom, and in danger aid,
  Tender and faithful, ruddy and white,
  Woman was made.

  Christina Rossetti (1830—1894) is one of the best-known English poets of the nineteenth century. This poem embodies the poet’s wrestling with Paul’s teaching on women in Ephesians 5.

  Posted: 18 November 2020

• The Whole Shebang by Helen Freeman

  The Whole Shebang

  Ephesians 1:9-10

  rococo sky puzzle
  with no missing pieces
  Grandma’s orange opals
  regathered and restrung
  all my broken bones
  fused into wholeness
  off-tone trombonist
  harmonious again
  in full-blown orchestra
  excelling in her solo
  savannah species
  at the waterhole lapping
  surprisingly together
  not red in tooth or claw
  tapestry threads sown
  knotted and turned
  over for the noble reveal
  a warm coat shackles
  sprung vision in focus
  clearer than a telescope
  the whole household
  aligned with places set
  not one missing not one
  tension cream lavished
  on exotic fruit salads
  no weeds in wheat fields
  no riverbanks bursting
  enemies shaking hands
  the entire world kneeling
  the whole-hearted yes

  

  Helen Freeman was born in Kenya and spent many years in East Africa and the Arabian Gulf. She recently moved to Durham, England. Her poetry has appeared in Red River Review, Barren Magazine, Ekphrastic Review and other publications. Her instagram page is @chemchemi.hf

  Posted: 11 November 2020

• anniversary by Marianne Jones

  anniversary

  Ephesians 5:25

  his love
  the air I breathe
  permeates my clothing
  skin absorbs
  like perfume
  droplets cling, liquid
  and flesh commingling.
  he floats over me, wraps like warm mist.

  my house sings jazz.

  

  Marianne Jones lives in Thunder Bay, Ontario, and was named Christian Poet Laureate 2012 by Utmost Christian Writers. Her poetry collection Here, on the Ground was a winner at the 2011 Word Awards. Her literary novel, Maud and Me, is slated for publication in 2021 by Crossfield Publishing.

  Posted: 04 November 2020

• This Present Darkness by Catherine Chandler

  This Present Darkness

  This present darkness
  has so far devoured three seasons.
  It hovers still. It looms.

  It is poised and ready
  to swallow another—
  the imminent winter.

  And so . . .

  I don the belt of truth
  and see grace
  in the geese’s awkward descent
  onto the sand-pit pond.

  I don the breastplate of righteousness
  and find harmony
  in the rusty-wheel screeching
  of the blue jays.

  I don the shield of faith
  and sense peace
  in the earthy smell
  of a leaf pile.

  I don the helmet of salvation
  and taste beauty
  in the first snowflakes melting
  on my tongue.

  I don the sword of the Spirit
  and feel the immeasurable love
  of a grandchild’s kiss
  through a cell phone screen.

  This present darkness
  cannot last forever.
  I have put on the full armor
  of God.

  — Saint-Lazare, Québec, October 26, 2020

  

  Catherine Chandler is a Canadian poet whose latest collection Pointing Home came out in 2019. She wrote this poem this week for Poems For Ephesians based on Ephesians 6. This week’s post at Kingdom Poets also features Catherine Chandler.

  Posted: 28 October 2020

• The Puzzle by Tehillah Presado

  The Puzzle

  Sun beams
  into the living room
  where jigsaw pieces are scattered
  across the floor.

  Colour schemes and corners
  purposefully placed
  in sections where most
  understood.

  Some pieces have
  splashes of fuchsia, rose and golden yellow,
  others with hints of greens
  or stone silver with blues.

  A rich Victorian garden,
  abundant in daisies and lilies
  dances across the box cover.
  Vines have wrapped around benches,
  where a couple chats and laughs.

  A stone fountain stands center
  flowing diligently.
  The blues of the water
  reflect the fairness of the sky,
  without a cloud in sight.

  Each piece has its own place,
  contributing to the unity,
  the complete picture,
  like the body of Christ.

  

  Tehillah Presado is a recent graduate from Université de Saint-Boniface with a double major in French and Psychology. She lives with her family in Winnipeg. Her poem is based on Ephesians 4 emphasising the unity of the body of Christ. She completed a writing intensive in August through The Word Guild with D.S. Martin.

  Posted: 21 October 2020

• from Jerusalem ― The Emanation of the Giant Albion by William Blake

  from Jerusalem ― The Emanation of the Giant Albion

  I see the Four-fold Man. The Humanity in deadly sleep
  And its fallen Emanation. The Spectre & its cruel Shadow.
  I see the Past, Present & Future, existing all at once
  Before me; O Divine Spirit sustain me on thy wings!
  That I may awake Albion from his long & cold repose.
  For Bacon & Newton sheathd in dismal steel, their terrors hang
  Like iron scourges over Albion. Reasonings like vast Serpents
  Infold around my limbs, bruising my minute articulations

  I turn my eyes to the Schools & Universities of Europe
  And there behold the Loom of Locke whose Woof rages dire
  Washed by the water-wheels of Newton. black the cloth
  In heavy wreathes over every Nation; cruel Works
  Of many Wheels I view, wheel without wheel, with cogs tyrannic

  Moving by compulsion each other: not as those in Eden: which
  Wheel within Wheel in freedom revolve in harmony & peace.

  Awake! Awake O sleeper in the land of shadows, wake! expand!
  I am in you and you in me, mutual in love divine:
  Fibres of love from man to man thro Albions pleasant land.

  But the perturbed Man away turns down the valleys dark;
  Phantom of the over heated brain! Shadow of immortality!
  Seeking to keep my soul a victim to thy Love! Which binds
  Man the enemy of man into deceitful friendships;
  Jerusalem is not! Her daughters are indefinite;
  By demonstration, man alone can live, and not by faith.

  In this extended poem, Blake represents England as Albion ― a sleeper in the grips of industrialism and imperialism ― who needs to awake to Jesus. According to Malcolm Guite, this is a call for national repentance, which echoes Ephesians 5:14. However, at this point in the poem, Albion turns away. Later, it’s foretold how Albion repents and bows before Christ.

  Posted: 14 October 2020

• Beloved by Bonnie Beldan-Thomson

  Beloved

  “…the riches of his grace that he lavished on us…” Ephesians 1:7b, 8a

  My friend’s garden rabbits were birthed
  behind her deck in the shelter
  of scented geraniums. She watched
  them, all eight of them, kicking
  their little legs as they nursed.

  Mine descended like a scruffy plague, eating
  my euonymous down to dry twigs,
  decimating emerging daffodils,
  stalking my bean stalks, waiting
  for a delicious surge of maturity
  before devouring, then
  waiting for leaves to grow
  into another good meal.
  I shouted Go away, envying
  Mr MacGregor’s solution.
  Finally, the plants gave up
  and so did I.

  But an adolescent amused me,
  practicing laps around my asparagus
  before taking off after a chipmunk.
  Others disarmed me, hopping, then stopping
  to be sure I was still chasing them.

  Babies snuggled under hosta leaves.
  Adults snoozed in my potato patch,
  shaded by gooseberry and josta,
  legs outstretched, head resting,
  rousing after awhile for a dirt bath,
  scattering earth onto the lawn.

  Then one evening, as I admired
  scarlet bee balm and a thicket
  of yellow, orange and red echinacea,
  planning plants to complete my creation,
  a young rabbit kept its eyes on me
  as it crept closer, then settled down,
  an arms’ length away, to nibble grass.
  I surrendered.

  

  Bonnie Beldan-Thomson lives near Toronto. Her poetry, fiction and non-fiction have appeared in a variety of publications throughout North America and internationally. She is a recent participant in a writing intensive with D.S. Martin, as part of The Word Guild’s annual conference ― Write Canada.

  Posted: 07 October 2020

• Walking the Dog on Windy Night under a Full Moon by Susan Alexander

  Walking the Dog on Windy Night under a Full Moon

  The trees are wrestling.
  Their hinges creak open and closed.
  On the white road under our feet,

  shadows brawl and we are pushed
  towards the cul-de-sac –
  the turning point.

  What is it
  to fill, to be filled into fullness?
  Moon face glares down

  while a hundred arms thrash.
  Black fingers rake
  the lit road, search for troubled

  creeds to buffet and twist,
  to sift, rattle and split,
  to explode

  prodigiously –
  schema of sky littered
  on blacktop just behind.

  

  Susan Alexander lives on Bowen Island, B.C. Her second poetry collection, Nothing You Can Carry is newly launched this fall from Thistledown Books. In 2019 she won the prestigious Mitchell Poetry Prize. This poem arises from Paul’s phrase “every wind of doctrine” in Ephesians 4:14.

  Posted: 30 September 2020

• This Battle Born by Lynne Collier

  This Battle Born

  Ephesians 6:12-18, NIV

  We fight not flesh and blood—
  crashing swords crushing our shields,
  severing bone from sinew.

  This battle is born from the depths of the earth
  where scheming demons scream eternal damnation.
  We rage against the rulers authorities
  and dark powers of this world
  against spiritual forces of evil in heavenly realms.

  The armour of man cold and lifeless
  frays decays to a whisper
  against such foes.

  Truth holds battle gear in place for virtuous warriors
  who stand ready to fight for peace—
  their shields extinguish flaming arrows
  as their faithful hearts call out like a sweet aroma rising.
  These more powerful weapons
  prevail for their king.

  

  Lynne Collier was born in West Yorkshire, and now lives near Bowmanville, Ontario. Her memoir about raising a child with autism is called, Raising Benjamin Frog. She is a recent participant in a writing intensive with D.S. Martin.

  Posted: 23 September 2020

• Crucifixion: Jesus is nailed to the cross by Malcolm Guite

  Crucifixion: Jesus is nailed to the cross

  See, as they strip the robe from off his back
  And spread his arms and nail them to the cross,
  The dark nails pierce him and the sky turns black,
  And love is firmly fastened onto loss.
  But here a pure change happens. On this tree
  Loss becomes gain, death opens into birth.
  Here wounding heals and fastening makes free
  Earth breathes in heaven, heaven roots in earth.
  And here we see the length, the breadth, the height
  Where love and hatred meet and love stays true
  Where sin meets grace and darkness turns to light
  We see what love can bear and be and do,
  And here our saviour calls us to his side
  His love is free, his arms are open wide.

  

  Malcolm Guite teaches at the Faculty of Divinity at Cambridge University, and is chaplain at Girton College. This poem is from the series The Stations of the Cross from his book Sounding the Seasons (2012, Canterbury Press). Besides the imagery of Christ’s crucifixion, it alludes to Ephesians 3:18. It is included here with the author’s permission. (malcolmguite.wordpress.com)

  Posted: 16 September 2020

• Noise by Jane Harris

  Noise

  Based on Ephesians 4:17-19

  Crows mock each other on the fence
  like radio prophets or tweeting activists,
  caw, caw, cawing:

  You’ll never be what you hoped,
  that unspeakable thing still cages you
  like a wren trapped in a gardener’s net,
  staring at strawberries forever outside your reach.

  So much noise.

  They don’t know
  since the day the wind’s singing set elm leaves dancing,
  like puppies set free in a park,
  I’ve climbed over cactusy hills, picking my own wildberries,

  I wrap myself in a white wool coat to hike to the river when
  —–the snowflakes fly,
  and I dance through the winter like young coyotes do:
  Boundless.

  

  Jane Harris lives in Lethbridge, Alberta. She is the author of Finding Home in the Promised Land: A Personal History of Homelessness and Social Exile (J Gordon Shillingford, 2015, Signature Editions, 2016). She is a recent participant in a writing intensive with D.S. Martin.

  Posted: 09 September 2020

• Q&A with Clock by Greg Huteson

  Q&A with Clock

  Cuckoo, time’s monger,
  raucously hawking your wares,
  why crack the stifling air
  with your close-reckoned cries,
  your minute ticks and chittering?
  Whistling while you work,
  you jar our sheltered days.
  Are you a tocsin of tedium’s terrors
  or a harbinger of the eighth day
  and a new winding?

   

  

  Greg Huteson’s poems have appeared in or are forthcoming from The Road Not Taken, Modern Age, the Saint Katherine Review, Better Than Starbucks, The Honest Ulsterman and various other journals. He’s worked in East Asia as a missionary for more than twenty years. This poem was influenced by Ephesians 5:16’s “redeeming the time.”

  Posted: 02 September 2020

• Wilt Thou Love God as He Thee? by John Donne

  Wilt Thou Love God as He Thee?

  Wilt thou love God as He thee? Then digest,
  My soul, this wholesome meditation,
  How God the Spirit, by angels waited on
  In heaven, doth make His temple in thy breast.
  The Father having begot a Son most blest,
  And still begetting—for he ne’er begun—
  Hath deign’d to choose thee by adoption,
  Co-heir to His glory, and Sabbath’s endless rest.
  And as a robb’d man, which by search doth find
  His stolen stuff sold, must lose or buy it again,
  The Sun of glory came down, and was slain,
  Us whom He had made, and Satan stole, to unbind.
  ’Twas much, that man was made like God before,
  But, that God should be made like man, much more.

  John Donne (1572—1631) although not esteemed enough in his own day, has now been established as one of the English language’s greatest poets. This poem, known as Holy Sonnet #15, links with passages in Paul’s epistles such as Ephesians 1:5, and Ephesians 3:6.

  Posted: 26 August 2020

• Ode to the Pulse by Crystal Hurd

  Ode to the Pulse

  Ephesians 2:10: “For we are God’s workmanship”

  Gentle throb,
  tributaries of turquoise,
  veins, poetic
  meters of stressed
  syllables buried inside
  temples and neck,
  wrists and elbows,
  groin and knees,
  down to the tops of your feet.
  Throughout the complete
  territory of your body,
  below strata of skin and bone,
  is this sacred tempo.
  Beloved metronome,
  pacing an arc through
  air, like through body,
  subtle thump and
  reassurance. Remember
  the blackness of unconsciousness
  and the hard grasp of your wrist,
  the shriek of voices and the
  calm when the stranger found it,
  the dull rhythm of existence,
  the percussion in your chest,
  Still present.
  It thrums on uninterrupted.
  Through light and darkness,
  feel this small reminder
  of your place on a large, weary planet.
  And in your final hours,
  place two wrinkled fingers
  aside the stem of your neck
  and find it there,
  consistent carotid beneath
  the wild maze of your fingertips.

  And be satisfied.

  

  Crystal Hurd has just been awarded the 2020 Clyde S. Kilby Research Grant by the Marion E. Wade Center at Wheaton College to complete research for her book on the artistic impact of C. S. Lewis’s family titled Bookish, Clever People. She has written extensively about C.S. Lewis, and is Reviews Editor for Sehnsucht: The C. S. Lewis Journal.

  Posted: 19 August 2020

• Yet Do I Marvel by Countee Cullen

  Yet Do I Marvel

  I doubt not God is good, well-meaning, kind
  And did He stoop to quibble could tell why
  The little buried mole continues blind,
  Why flesh that mirrors Him must some day die,
  Make plain the reason tortured Tantalus
  Is baited by the fickle fruit, declare
  If merely brute caprice dooms Sisyphus
  To struggle up a never-ending stair.
  Inscrutable His ways are, and immune
  To catechism by a mind too strewn
  With petty cares to slightly understand
  What awful brain compels His awful hand.
  Yet do I marvel at this curious thing:
  To make a poet black, and bid him sing!

  

  Countee Cullen (1903—1946) is one of the most important poets of the 1920s’ Harlem Renaissance. In this poem he demonstrates the same confidence in God’s inscrutable wisdom that Paul does in Ephesians 1:3-10.

  Posted: 12 August 2020

• patience by Jonathan Chan

  patience

  i sat in quiet so i could learn to pray
  to learn again a native eloquence
  the gaps in what is said and left unsaid
  the wordless groans that could not find their shape.
  i sat in stillness for i tried to tame
  the errant flickers of a wandering mind,
  to quell the fidgeting of anxious flesh,
  to learn again to hear His still small voice.
  when silence was the crucible of doubt
  and prayers wafted loftily like smoke,
  when starlight painted avenues to home
  and aching feet tread on a patchy road,
  i learned that waiting was in the becoming
  and held the words that never were my own.

  

  Jonathan Chan is a recent graduate of the University of Cambridge where he read for a degree in English. He was raised, and is currently based, in Singapore. This poem is from a series he has written about the Fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5) and it relates to Ephesians 4:2.

  Posted: 05 August 2020

• Lack of Faith by Anna Kamieńska

  Lack Of Faith

  Yes
  even when I don’t believe
  there is a place in me
  inaccessible to unbelief
  a patch of wild grace
  a stubborn preserve
  impenetrable
  pain untouched sleeping in the body
  music that builds its nest in silence

  Anna Kamieńska (1920–1986) is a Polish poet. In this poem she touches on the mysterious contribution Christ himself provides for us in stirring up faith within us, as suggested by Ephesians 4:7 and 13.

  Posted: 29 July 2020

• Struck by Rena Ong

  Struck

  Ephesians 2:4-6

  The lightning bolt of mercy
  surges through the darkened soul.
  Its current seeks and transforms, pulsating,
  to change the What Was to the realms of What Can Be.
  Nerves tingle and prickle, and in a flash,
  the sparkling soul is raised within its atmospheric glory,
  full of light and truly alive.

  

  Rena Ong is from England, yet has lived in Singapore for many years with her Singaporean husband. Their adult son lives in Australia. In recent years, God has renewed her love of Christ and has grown a creative spirit within her.

  Posted: 22 July 2020

• Battle Prep by Chris Barnes

  Battle Prep

  Trumpets blare, alarms sound, bells ring; enemy at the threshold.

  Praying for serenity calms my anxiety at the call to arms.

  Swinging legs over cot sides, my feet slide into combat boots made ready with laces undone, tongues out for a hasty departure. Boots, foundations of armor, bring restless minds to peaceful focus for the coming battle.

  Praying for quiet understanding concentrates my energy.

  Swaying my hips side to side, tactical straps laden with tools weave rapidly through fabric loops. Belts maintain a sturdy core, presenting a disciplined truth.

  Praying for certainty ensures my confidence for action.

  Flinging arms overhead, my shoulders accept the bulky, bulletproof guardian prepped with combat equipment. Body armor, defender of vital organs and morality, conveys the significance of our just and righteous stance.

  Praying for honorable conflict helps me face issues of right and wrong.

  Steadying my neck muscles, a concave protector settles to the crown, held tight by jawline straps. The helmet offers timely rescue from unruly fragments; salvation shelters the brain and soul.

  Praying for deliverance rests my soul after long days of fighting.

  Beseeching physical strength, my weary hands overload with protective gear. The spiritual melee is only met and turned back by the faithful shield and slashing sword.

  Praying for swift resolution diminishes swirling thoughts that entangle me in constant conflict.

  Accepting light to fight darkness, my soul safeguarded from the Devil’s onslaught, my vanguard dispensing spiritual defeat upon the adversary;

  Stand firm, stand steady, stand strong – and pray continuously.

  

  Chris Barnes is transitioning from nearly 20 years of service in the U.S. Air Force. He began writing as a means to moderate his combat-related Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, and has continued this as a passion, to relay life experiences through poetry. “Battle Prep” relates to Ephesians 6: 10-18.

  Posted: 15 July 2020

• Footnote To All Prayers by C.S. Lewis

  Footnote To All Prayers

  He whom I bow to only knows to whom I bow
  When I attempt the ineffable Name, murmuring Thou,
  And dream of Pheidian fancies and embrace in heart
  Symbols (I know) which cannot be the thing Thou art.
  Thus always, taken at their word, all prayers blaspheme
  Worshipping with frail images a folk-lore dream,
  And all men in their praying, self-deceived, address
  The coinage of their own unquiet thoughts, unless
  Thou in magnetic mercy to Thyself divert
  Our arrows, aimed unskilfully, beyond desert;
  And all men are idolaters, crying unheard
  To a deaf idol, if Thou take them at their word.

  Take not, O Lord, our literal sense. Lord, in thy great
  Unbroken speech our limping metaphor translate.

   

  C.S. Lewis (1898―1963) just might be the most influential Christian of the twentieth century. This poem adds an insightful accompaniment to what Paul says in Ephesians 3:12, and to other instructions in the epistle.

  Posted: 08 July 2020

• from Choruses from ‘The Rock’ ― I by T.S. Eliot

  from Choruses from ‘The Rock’ ― I

  The Eagle soars in the summit of Heaven,
  The Hunter with his dogs pursues his circuit.
  O perpetual revolution of configured stars,
  O perpetual recurrence of determined seasons,
  O world of spring and autumn, birth and dying!
  The endless cycle of idea and action,
  Endless invention, endless experiment,
  Brings knowledge of motion, but not of stillness;
  Knowledge of speech, but not of silence;
  Knowledge of words, and ignorance of the Word.
  All our knowledge brings us nearer to our ignorance,
  All our ignorance brings us nearer to death,
  But nearness to death no nearer to God .
  Where is the Life we have lost in living?
  Where is the wisdom we have lost in knowledge?
  Where is the knowledge we have lost in information?
  The cycles of Heaven in twenty centuries
  Bring us farther from God and nearer to the Dust.

  T.S. Eliot (1888—1965) is one of the most influential poets of the twentieth century. The preceding is the opening of the first section of his 1934 book Choruses from ‘The Rock.’ The loss of wisdom in the pursuit of knowledge and information, as expressed by Eliot, is the hollow reversal of what Paul says in Ephesians 1:7-10 ― “With all wisdom and understanding, [God] made known to us the mystery of his will according to his good pleasure, which he purposed in Christ…”

  Posted: 01 July 2020

• Sabbaths 1985 ― II by Wendell Berry

  Sabbaths 1985 ― II

  A gracious Sabbath stood here while they stood
  Who gave our rest a haven.
  Now fallen, they are given
  To labor and distress.
  These times we know much evil, little good
  To steady us in faith
  And comfort when our losses press
  Hard on us, and we choose,
  In panic or despair or both,
  To keep what we will lose.

  For we are fallen like the trees, our peace
  Broken, and so we must
  Love where we cannot trust,
  Trust where we cannot know,
  And must await the wayward-coming grace
  That joins living and dead,
  Taking us where we would not go –
  Into the boundless dark.
  When what was made has been unmade
  The Maker comes to His work.

  

  Wendell Berry is a poet, essayist, novelist, environmentalist, professor and farmer living in Port Royal, Kentucky. His Sabbath poems are an extensive series arising from his habit of taking solitary Sunday walks. This poem reflects what Paul says in Ephesians 6:23

  Posted: 24 June 2020

• Dusting by Marilyn Nelson

  Dusting

  Thank you for these tiny
  particles of ocean salt,
  pearl-necklace viruses,
  winged protozoans:
  for the infinite,
  intricate shapes
  of submicroscopic
  living things.

  For algae spores
  and fungus spores,
  bonded by vital
  mutual genetic cooperation,
  spreading their
  inseparable lives
  from equator to pole.

  My hand, my arm,
  make sweeping circles.
  Dust climbs the ladder of light.
  For this infernal, endless chore,
  for these eternal seeds of rain:
  Thank you. For dust.

  

  Marilyn Nelson is a former Connecticut poet laureate. This poem reminds us in an insightful, over-the-top, way of what Paul says in Ephesians 5:20. “Dusting” is from her 1994 collection Magnificat.

  Posted: 17 June 2020

• The One by Patrick Kavanagh

  The One

  Green, blue, yellow and red –
  God is down in the swamps and marshes
  Sensational as April and almost incred-
  ible the flowering of our catharsis.
  A humble scene in a backward place
  Where no one important ever looked
  The raving flowers looked up in the face
  Of the One and the Endless, the Mind that has baulked
  The profoundest of mortals. A primrose, a violet,
  A violent wild iris – but mostly anonymous performers
  Yet an important occasion as the Muse at her toilet
  Prepared to inform the local farmers
  That beautiful, beautiful, beautiful God
  Was breathing His love by a cut-away bog.

  Patrick Kavanagh (1904―1967) sought in his poetry of the particular the connection between the spiritual with the things seen in this world ― as beautifully expressed in Ephesians 1:10, and in this poem.

  Posted: 10 June 2020

• Paradise Lost by John Milton

  from Paradise Lost Book X Lines 183―191

  When Jesus, son of Mary, second Eve,
  Saw Satan fall like lightning down from heaven,
  Prince of the air; then, rising from his grave,
  Spoiled Principalities and Powers, triumphed
  In open shew, and, with ascension bright,
  Captivity led captive through the air,
  The realm itself of Satan, long usurped,
  Whom he shall tread at last under our feet;⁠
  Even he who now foretold his fatal bruise…

  John Milton (1608–1674) in his masterpiece Paradise Lost keeps the concept from Ephesians 2:2 of Satan as “prince of the power of the air” central to his understanding. Notice here, how Christ leads captives through “the air, / The realm itself of Satan” to demonstrate his over-powering defeat of the devil. There is also a reference to Ephesians 6:12.

  Posted: 03 June 2020

• The Missionary by Charlotte Brontë

  from The Missionary

  …Protected by salvation’s helm,
  Shielded by faith–with truth begirt,
  To smile when trials seek to whelm
  And stand ‘mid testing fires unhurt!
  Hurling hell’s strongest bulwarks down,
  Even when the last pang thrills my breast,
  When Death bestows the Martyr’s crown,
  And calls me into Jesus’ rest.
  Then for my ultimate reward–
  Then for the world-rejoicing word–
  The voice from Father–Spirit–Son:
  “Servant of God, well hast thou done!”

  Charlotte Brontë (1816―1855) is the eldest of the three famous Brontë sisters. She is best remembered as the author of the novel Jane Eyre (1847). This is the conclusion of a 159-line poem, “The Missionary, which celebrates those on foreign fields, and includes lines clearly inspired by Ephesians 6:14-16.

  Posted: 27 May 2020

• The Predestined by Katharine Tynan

  The Predestined

  Dear, we might have known you were
  To die young—and were we blind
  To the light on face and hair?
  Dear, so simple and so kind.

  You were clean as your own sword
  And as straight too and steel true.
  In the Army of the Lord
  What promotion waits for you!

  I can see you where you stand,
  Knightly soul, so clean, so brave.
  With a new sword in your hand
  Where the lilied banners wave.

  Flower of simple chivalry,
  Marked for honour and for grace;
  It was very plain to see
  The clear shining of your face.

  You are gone now: it’s turned cold:
  Very good you were and dear.
  Wear the looks you wore of old
  When we meet, —some other year.

  Katharine Tynan (1859—1931) is the most prominent female writer associated with the Irish Revival which began in the 1880s. “The Predestined” demonstrates her confidence in Paul’s words from Ephesians 1:5.

  Posted: 20 May 2020

• The Second Nun’s Tale by Geoffrey Chaucer

  from The Second Nun’s Tale (Lines 169―210)

  Cecile answered immediately in this manner:
  “If you wish, you shall see the angel,
  Provided that you believe in Christ and have yourself baptized.
  Go forth to the Appian Way,” said she,
  “That from this town stands no more than three miles,
  And to the poor folks that dwell there,
  Say to them exactly thus, which I shall tell you.

  “Tell them that I, Cecile, sent you to them
  To show you the good Urban the old,
  For secret needs and for a good purpose.
  And when you have beheld Saint Urban,
  Tell him the words which I told to you;
  And when he has cleansed you of sin (by baptism),
  Then you shall see that angel, ere you depart.”

  Valerian has gone to the place,
  And just as he was taught by his learning (from Cecilie),
  He immediately found this holy old Urban
  In hiding among the saints’ burial places.
  And he immediately without delay
  Said his message; and when he told it,
  Urban for joy did hold up his hands.

  He let the tears fall from his eyes.
  “Almighty Lord, O Jesus Christ,” said he,
  “Sower of chaste counsel, shepherd of us all,
  The fruit of that same seed of chastity
  That thou hast sown in Cecile, take to thee!
  Lo, like a busy bee, without guile,
  Always thine own servant Cecile serves Thee.

  “For that same spouse that she took just now
  Very like a fierce lion, she sends here,
  As meek as ever was any lamb, to you!”
  And with that word anon there did appear
  An old man, clad in clear white clothes,
  Who had in hand a book with lettering of gold ,
  And did stand before Valerian.

  Valerian as if dead fell down for fear
  When he saw him, and the old man picked him up then,
  And from his book right thus he began to read:
  “One Lord, one faith, one God, without more,
  One baptism, and Father of all also,
  Above all and over all everywhere.”
  These words were written all with gold.

   

  Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1340―1400) included “The Second Nun’s Tale” in his collection The Canterbury Tales. It tells the legend of Saint Cecilia (Cecile). She revealed to her new Roman husband that an angel guarded her virginity. To see the angel, Valerian, had to declare faith in Christ, and seek out Urban who would baptise him. The passage Urban reads to Valerian is from Ephesians 4:6.

  Posted: 13 May 2020

• Clear Evening by Mary Willis

  Clear Evening

  I signal over stretched silence,
  a shared road, the social distance
  that should save us:
  Are you well?
  And neighbours wave back,
  we all try to keep the far
  near.

  This morning was dark
  with the latest death counts.
  This evening I sat watching reflections
  through glass, our dislocated world.
  I didn’t expect much from a flock of grackles
  arrested in a beech tree. They shone
  with the separate lights that were leaving
  small streams, their neck feathers rippling,
  indistinct like itinerant waves.

  I looked away and almost missed the moment
  when they rose as one
  uprooted river flinging something distinct
  in iridescent ink across a bleached sky.

  Who is ever prepared to catch grace
  and hold a rare flourish?

  Paul in prison, staring into absence,
  writing to the Ephesians,
  stopped sometimes, wordless,
  startled by light so quickly drying
  to afterlife in a mind.
  He closed his eyes,
  refused to look back or ahead
  but just sat there to find
  light coursing, present still.

  

  Mary Willis lives in London, Ontario. Her poems have appeared in Canadian Literature, The Fiddlehead, and Faith Today. Her work has been included in anthologies, most recently in In a Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (Poiema Poetry Series, 2019). She has also published three chapbooks through Fiddlehead Poetry Books.

  Posted: 06 May 2020

• Ambassador by Violet Nesdoly

  Ambassador

  Though my position is disguised
  by my ordinary appearance
  I am a diplomat
  of the King of Kings.

  Though my embassy is a simple house
  on an obscure street
  it is a dispatch station for communiqués
  from the Lord of the Universe.

  Though I have lived in this land all my life
  and furloughs are never granted
  my real citizenship is in another place
  and someday I shall be called home.

  Until then I remain
  an Ambassador of the Kingdom of Heaven
  proclaiming to hungry, thirsty, bruised and broken
  “Asylum-seekers welcome!”

  

  Violet Nesdoly is a poet, writer, and visual artist living in Langley, British Columbia. She has written extensively: articles, devotionals, poetry, and fiction; her novel Destiny’s Hands appeared in 2012. This poem’s image arises from Ephesians 6:20, where Paul refers to himself as an “ambassador in chains.”

  Posted: 29 April 2020

• Sonnet #43 by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

  Sonnet #43

  How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
  I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
  My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
  For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
  I love thee to the level of every day’s
  Most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
  I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
  I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
  I love with a passion put to use
  In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
  I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
  With my lost saints, — I love thee with the breath,
  Smiles, tears, of all my life! — and, if God choose,
  I shall but love thee better after death.

  Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806–1861) wrote this ever-so-famous love sonnet, to her husband, Robert Browning. In 1846 the couple eloped and moved to Italy because of her ill health. She uses the same language here in speaking of her love for him, as Paul uses in Ephesians 3:18 to describe the love of Christ. This is not a secularizing of scripture, for as can be seen at the poem’s end, she willingly submits their love to God’s will.

  Posted: 22 April 2020,

• Henry IV Part 1 by William Shakespeare

  from Henry IV Part 1 ― Act 1, Scene 2

  I know you all, and will awhile uphold
  The unyoked humour of your idleness:
  Yet herein will I imitate the sun,
  Who doth permit the base contagious clouds
  To smother up his beauty from the world,
  That, when he please again to be himself,
  Being wanted, he may be more wonder’d at,
  By breaking through the foul and ugly mists
  Of vapours that did seem to strangle him.
  If all the year were playing holidays,
  To sport would be as tedious as to work;
  But when they seldom come, they wish’d for come,
  And nothing pleaseth but rare accidents.
  So, when this loose behaviour I throw off
  And pay the debt I never promised,
  By how much better than my word I am,
  By so much shall I falsify men’s hopes;
  And like bright metal on a sullen ground,
  My reformation, glittering o’er my fault,
  Shall show more goodly and attract more eyes
  Than that which hath no foil to set it off.
  I’ll so offend, to make offence a skill;
  Redeeming time when men think least I will.

  William Shakespeare (1564―1616) “Reading further in Ephesians with the Henry IV plays in mind amply confirms [the allusion in the final line of this soliloquy to Ephesians 5:15-16 and] almost gives one the illusion that Shakespeare set out to confirm St. Paul’s epistle.” (Shakespeare scholar, J.A. Bryant Jr. ― “Prince Hal and the Ephesians” in Hippolyta’s View: Some Christian Aspects of Shakespeare’s Plays)

  Posted: 15 April 2020

• The Word[s] by John C. Mannone

  The Word[s]

  ———We are his workmanship, his poetry
  ———― After Ephesians 2:10

  You are the Word and speak
  of stories made flesh
  ——————and bone, lines
  breaking like a poem;
  ——————your skin, pierced
  by our unholiness.

  One body of work,
  coherent, harmonious, clear
  as your soul, not fragmented
  like mine.

  You created all things
  by your word, including me.
  I am your workmanship, your poem,
  ———which I messed up
  ———with a sloppy rewrite.

  I repent and I am desperate
  for your revision.

  ———I worship you,

  yet before the ink of those words
  has dried, I blot my soul with disgrace.

  I should decrease,
  so you can increase.
  That will give me new
  literary depth. I would be
  less self-aware, know
  you more.

  You knew me
  before I entered
  my mother’s womb.

  You know the words of me,
  the syllables, my very letters
  knitted together in my DNA.
  And your name is written there, too.
  You signed me, your workmanship,
  as yours.

  Revise me, O Lord, into a new song,

  a new poem.

  

  John C. Mannone is the author of three poetry collections, including the forthcoming Flux Lines (2020, Linnet’s Wings Press), and is the president of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild. He is a retired physics professor, living in Tennessee. His poetry won the 2020 Impressions of Appalachia Creative Arts Contest.

  Posted: 08 April 2020

• Her Little Parasol to Lift by Emily Dickinson

  Her Little Parasol to Lift (Poem 1038)

  Her little Parasol to lift
  And once to let it down
  Her whole Responsibility –
  To imitate be Mine.

  A Summer further I must wear,
  Content if Nature’s Drawer
  Present me from sepulchral Crease
  As blemishless, as Her.

  Emily Dickinson (1830―1886) is early-America’s great poet of faith and questioning. In this poem she speaks of the morning glory that opens in the morning and closes in the afternoon. She desires to be content to live her life, and then when she’s raised to heaven to be blemishless ― as the church will be in glory according to Ephesians 5:27 ― and as the morning glory is.

  Posted: 01 April 2020

• Redeemed by Fanny J. Crosby

  Redeemed

  Redeemed—how I love to proclaim it!
  Redeemed by the blood of the Lamb;
  Redeemed through His infinite mercy,
  His child, and forever, I am.

  Redeemed, redeemed,
  Redeemed by the blood of the Lamb;
  Redeemed, redeemed,
  His child, and forever, I am.

  Redeemed and so happy in Jesus,
  No language my rapture can tell;
  I know that the light of His presence
  With me doth continually dwell.

  I think of my blessed Redeemer,
  I think of Him all the day long;
  I sing, for I cannot be silent;
  His love is the theme of my song.

  I know I shall see in His beauty
  The King in whose way I delight;
  Who lovingly guardeth my footsteps,
  And giveth me songs in the night.

  Fanny J. Crosby (1820—1915) is a poet who published four collections, and the writer of more than 9,000 hymns and gospel songs. She was blind from six years of age. This well-known hymn is drawn from scriptures such as Ephesians 1:7.

  Posted: 25 March 2020

• The Person by Thomas Traherne

  from The Person

  IV

  Let verity
  Be thy delight; let me esteem
  True wealth far more than toys:
  Let sacred riches be,
  While falser treasures only seem,
  My real joys.
  For golden chains and bracelets are
  But gilded manacles, whereby
  Old Satan doth ensnare,
  Allure, bewitch the eye.
  Thy gifts, O God, alone I’ll prize,
  My tongue, my eyes,
  My cheeks, my lips, my ears, my hands, my feet;
  Their harmony is far more sweet;
  Their beauty true. And these in all my ways
  Shall themes become and organs of Thy praise.

  Thomas Traherne (1637—1674) is an English metaphysical poet whose work was largely not discovered until 200 years after his death. The words “far more” are common in Traherne, and allude to Ephesians 3:20 ― praising “him who is able to do far more abundantly than all we ask or think”.

  Posted: 18 March 2020

• His Power that is at Work Within Us by Carolyn Weber

  His Power that is at Work Within Us

  God’s power works through all things:
  in the lowering of the casket
  and the rising of the sun,
  in the unimaginable
  birthing of a dying earth:
  the autumn trees’ beauty beyond describing,
  aflame with memories
  along fields gleamed bare,
  their counterparts burning
  with branches yearning,
  rooted deep within my being:
  flare!

  The infant clutch of my forefinger
  rivals any mystery of the vastest cosmos.
  Daylight slips behind the white-haired head
  I kiss in the hospital bed, and from the same
  immeasurable darkness now, stars spill
  sifting over
  moonlit waters
  shifting to fill me to the measure of all the fulness of God.

  I cannot bear the weight of such glory and live:
  bleeding through this crowd of daily distractions –
  I cannot open my eyes to such shining –
  remembering is the most I can carry, and even then, I stumble …
  from my knees, I grasp for the hem …
  and somehow, surpassingly,
  understand in the grazing of such grace
  this reaching –
  this touch is
  enough.

  

  Carolyn Weber has served as faculty at Oxford University, Seattle University, University of San Francisco and Westmont College, and was the first female dean of St. Peter’s College, Oxford. She currently teaches at Heritage College and Seminary, and at Brescia University College (both in Ontario). Her first memoir, Surprised by Oxford, won among other distinctions the Grace Irwin Award, the largest award for Christian writing in Canada. This poem was inspired by Ephesians 4:6.

  Posted: 11 March 2020

• Kairos and Logos by W.H. Auden

  from Kairos and Logos

  I

  Around them boomed the rhetoric of time,
  The smells and furniture of the known world
  Where conscience worshipped an aesthetic order
  And what was unsuccessful was condemned;
  And, at the centre of its vast self-love,
  The emperor and his pleasures, dreading death.

  In lovely verse that military order,
  Transferring its obsession onto time,
  Besieged the body and cuckolded love;
  Puzzling the boys of an athletic world,
  These only feared another kind of Death
  To which the time-obsessed are all condemned.

  Night and the rivers sang a cationic love,
  Destroyer of cities and the daylight order,
  But seemed to them weak arguments for death;
  The apple tree that cannot measure time
  Might taste the apple yet not be condemned;
  They, to enjoy it, must renounce the world.

  Friendly to what the sensual call death,
  Placing their lives below the dogs who love
  Their fallen masters and are not condemned,
  They came to life within a dying order;
  Outside the sunshine of its civil world
  The savage waited their appointed time.

  Its brilliant self-assertions were condemned
  To interest the forest and draw death
  On aqueducts and learning; yet the world,
  Through them, had witnessed, when predestined love
  Fell like a daring meteor into time,
  The condescension of eternal order.

  So, sown in little clumps about the world,
  The fair, the faithful and the uncondemned
  Broke out spontaneously all over time,
  Setting against the random facts of death
  A ground and possibility of order,
  Against defeat the certainty of love.

  And never, like its own, condemned the world
  Or hated time, but sang until their death:
  “O Thou who lovest, set its love in order.”

  W.H. Auden (1907—1973) is an important British poet who moved to the United States in 1939. He received the 1948 Pulitzer Prize, The Bollingen Prize (1953) and the National Book Award (1956). This poem relates to Paul’s concerns in Ephesians 5:16 ― “Redeeming the time, because the days are evil.” The selection’s final quotation is from Francis of Assisi’s “Cantica ― Our Lord Christ: of order”

  Posted: 04 March 2020

• Celestial Bodies by Jody Collins

  Celestial Bodies

  ——–Ephesians 1:18 &19

  My weary eyes need reminders to
  view the galaxies aright. Focused on
  the sliver of moon, they forget an
  entire orb hides in the dark.
  I gaze at dull concrete, traipse
  around the observatory, past
  an entrance where God stands in the
  doorway beckoning me to peer,
  Galileo-like, past roofs, across
  trees, into velvet sky.

  As feet pause on sure ground,
  a whisper beckons to dream
  above, beyond to distant beauty.
  Consider the immeasurable
  heavens inside, reckon my
  need as I’m handed a telescope.

  Brightened eyes rest and remember.

  

  Jody Collins is a Seattle-area writer, speaker and retreat facilitator. She is the author of Living the Season Well: Reclaiming Christmas (2017, Newport Press). Her essays and poetry have appeared in such publications as The High Calling, and Grace Table. Visit her website: www.jodyleecollins.com

  Posted: 26 February 2020

• A Prayer by Thomas Ken

  A Prayer

  I Bow my knee to God on high,
  Father of Filial Deity,
  To whom the blessed owe their birth,
  Inhabiting or heaven or earth,
  That from his gracious glories He
  Would dart one pardoning ray on me:
  That by his Holy Spirit’s aid,
  My soul may be his temple made:
  That He by faith may in me dwell,
  And all terrestrial joys expel:
  That I in love may deeply root;
  And may with all the saints compute
  All measures, length, breadth, depth, and height,
  Of his benign, all-saving might;
  That I his loves may comprehend,
  Which intellectual force transcend,
  Filled with all plenitude divine,
  Derivable from Godhead Trine.

  Thomas Ken (1637―1711) served as Royal Chaplain to Charles II, and later as the Bishop of Bath. This poem is a reworking of Paul’s prayer for the believers, in Ephesians 3:14-19, into rhyming couplets and iambic tetrameter.

  Posted: 19 February 2020

• To Live in the Mercy of God by Denise Levertov

  To Live in the Mercy of God

  To lie back under the tallest
  oldest trees. How far the stems
  rise, rise
  ———–before ribs of shelter
  ——————————–open!

  To live in the mercy of God. The complete
  sentence too adequate, has no give.
  Awe, not comfort. Stone, elbows of
  stony wood beneath lenient
  moss bed.

  And awe suddenly
  passing beyond itself. Becomes
  a form of comfort.
  —————–Becomes the steady
  air you glide on, arms
  stretched like the wings of flying foxes.
  To hear the multiple silence
  of trees, the rainy
  forest depths of their listening.

  To float, upheld,
  ————as salt water
  ————would hold you,
  ——————————once you dared.

  To live in the mercy of God.

  To feel vibrate the enraptured

  waterfall flinging itself
  unabating down and down
  ———————–to clenched fists of rock.
  Swiftness of plunge,
  hour after year after century,
  ————————————-O or Ah
  uninterrupted, voice
  many-stranded.
  ———————–To breathe
  spray. The smoke of it.
  ———————–Arcs
  of steelwhite foam, glissades
  of fugitive jade barely perceptible. Such passion—
  rage or joy?
  ———————–Thus, not mild, not temperate,
  God’s love for the world. Vast
  flood of mercy
  ——————flung on resistance.

  Denise Levertov (1923―1997) is a British-born American poet who authored more than two dozen collections. Across her career, her gradual progression from agnosticism to Christian faith is evident. This poem is from her collection Sands from the Well. (1996, New Directions), and relates well to Paul’s theme in Ephesians 2:4 and 5.

  Posted: 12 February 2020

• Round Trip by Marjorie Maddox

  Round Trip

  —–“He that descended is the same
  —–also that ascended…” Ephesians 4:8-10

  And the descending and the rising
  was three days, and it was good.

  And the descending to the not-good—
  where the rising and the conquering
  were proclaimed throughout Hades—
  was good.

  Or
  the descending to the good-gone-
  before-Him was very good, and
  the proclaiming was their rising, too.

  And His rising was their rising,
  and their rising was ours.
  And the descending and the rising
  was three days of proclaiming good.
  And it was eternity. And it was very good.

  

  Marjorie Maddox is professor of English at Loch Haven University in Pennsylvania, the director of their Creative Writing Program, and the author of True, False, None of the Above (Poiema/Cascade). This poem, which first appeared in Anglican Theological Review, is her second poem at Poems For Ephesians.

  Posted: 05 February 2020

• One Flesh by Elizabeth Jennings

  One Flesh

  Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,
  He with a book, keeping the light on late,
  She like a girl dreaming of childhood,
  All men elsewhere ― it is as if they wait
  Some new event: the book he holds unread,
  Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

  Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
  How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
  Or if they do, it is like a confession
  Of having little feeling ― or too much.
  Chastity faces them, a destination
  For which their whole lives were a preparation.

  Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
  Silence between them like a thread to hold
  And not wind in. And time itself’s a feather
  Touching them gently. Do they know they’re old,
  These two who are my father and my mother
  Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

  

  Elizabeth Jennings (1926―2001) is an Oxford poet. She received a C.B.E. (Commander of the Order of the British Empire) in 1992. This poem strikes me as a sad backspin on the truth spoken in Genesis 2 ― and echoed in Ephesians 5:31 ― of husband and wife becoming “one flesh.”

  Posted: 29 January 2020

• Ephesus by Sarah Klassen

  Ephesus

  Rev: 2:1-7

  i.
  Here’s where a thing gets turned on its head in the mind
  of a man self-named a sinner. He deciphers titles
  inscribed on gates to the Agora: Son of Caesar. High Priest.
  Lord. Titles claimed by VIPs of empire. Divinity a thing
  to be grasped. Gloated on. Devotion wrought by drawn swords,
  glint of steel helmets, great snorting horses.

  The apostle, unconvinced, squints at the flattery
  carved on gates designed and built by slaves once chained
  to masters they served with loyalty, intelligence,
  engineering skills. Qualities they possessed in measure
  greater than those who owned them. The slaves,
  set free, paid the debt of gratitude they did not owe. In Paul’s mind

  honor belongs to a man he never sat at table with
  yet knows by heart. A victim of empire, arrested, taunted,
  executed. Who with his last breath said to a sinner:
  Today you will be with me in paradise.
  Friends around the table call him master, priest, prince.
  They believe his kingdom has begun to turn
  the whole damned empire upside down.

  ii.
  Wisdom, in the book of Proverbs, stands like any shameless woman
  at the entrance to the city, raises her voice in the street:
  instructions to the simple, precepts for pilgrims, the hungry
  ushered to a table set with meat and drink. In Ephesus

  Sophia stands restored between two pillars,
  shoulders wrapped in a stone shawl, stone eyes fixed
  on the unstoppable tsunami: tourists and time
  stream past the excavated, reconstructed Celsus library,

  empty of books. A ghost-filled haven.
  Croesus who had gold enough to fund construction of a temple
  honoring Artemis. Demetrius the silversmith
  made money making shrines for her.

  The wise know speech is silver, silence, gold
  and those with ears can hear wind blowing in the streets
  of Ephesus. Dust fills the air. Cypress trees are shaken.
  Leaves on the tree of life glow green.

  

  Sarah Klassen is a Winnipeg-based writer who’s won numerous awards, including The Canadian Authors Association Award for Poetry for her collection A Curious Beatitude. Her eighth and most-recent collection is Monstrance (2012, Turnstone Press). This is the second post here about Sarah Klassen. These poems first appeared in Image.

  Posted: 22 January 2020

• A Prayer for Setting the Table by Annabelle Moseley

  A Prayer for Setting the Table

  In memory of Annabelle Black

  “…praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit, and watching thereunto with all perseverance and supplication for all saints…” Eph 6:17-18

  As the tablecloth unfurls like an altar linen—
  as napkins are folded and cups are placed
  with the dishes of ordinary time—
  we pray for you, to be like you.
  It isn’t always in words.

  Sometimes, the motion of our fingers is the prayer
  leafing through the hymnal of daily tasks—
  smoothing folds of fabric, scraping pots,
  singing kitchen psalms.

  You know the way a room breathes—
  as bowls are taken out and put away?
  You lived this well, the daily push of it all—
  doing, serving, pursuing, moving.
  Yet you were our table, and we sat around you.

  So now, as our tablecloth unfurls like an altar linen,
  as napkins are folded and cups are placed
  with the dishes of ordinary time—
  We pray to nourish others the way you nourished us:

  May we always have as much.
  May our tables welcome,
  May our food sustain,
  may we have enough for the guests we do not expect—

  May we supplicate. May we persevere.
  May we keep watch for saints.
  May our words anoint like oil.
  We pray for you, to be like you. It isn’t always in words.

  

  Annabelle Moseley is an award-winning poet and an author of ten books, most recently Sacred Braille (En Route, 2019). She has served as the Writer-in-Residence of the Walt Whitman Birthplace in New York and 2014 Long Island Poet of the Year. Twelve of her poems are included in the anthology Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse. Her work as a poet of faith is featured in the documentary film, Masterpieces, now available to view on Amazon Prime.

  Posted: 15 January 2020

• For the Unknown Sculptor by James A. Zoller

  For the Unknown Sculptor

  I have imagined the body of Christ
  in the presence of the Venus de Milo
  in a sanctuary jammed with self-devoted pilgrims.

  I have considered the glorious conception
  abused by time, cold. Abused by antagonisms.

  Raised on her plinth above the throng, she
  stands where we can regard her irenic sobriety,
  her face unmoved by the beauty of her form.

  What gifts of God might possibly survive our obsessions
  with nakedness, with celebrity, with self-righteousness?

  She leans forward as if to embrace those who seek.
  Before we leave, in turn, we would beg her blessing,
  were she able, now, to raise her arms in peace.

  

  James A. Zoller is Professor of Writing and Literature at Houghton College in New York State. His most recent poetry collection is Ash & Embers (2018, Poiema/Cascade). Among other passages in the epistle, Ephesians 1:22,23; and 4:16, have influenced this poem.

  Posted: 08 January 2020

• Disciples by Philip C. Kolin

  Disciples

  ———-after Ephesians 1:13-14; 6:15

  Apprentices to the master
  of wood and nails

  they follow him to the corners
  of the world lacing their sandals

  for the journey. Dressed in red
  banners, christened with

  birth certificates signed by
  a whirling wind that whispers

  as soft as smoldering embers–
  they go forth, fishermen

  without boats, unlevying
  publicans, dismounted

  cameleers, a tentmaker folding
  spools of haircloth away.

  Twelve first, then seventy
  all with tongues on fire now

  to spread the light to cold
  hollow bones. Across the centuries

  when a famine of faith struck,
  these gifted garners filled empty souls

  from a storehouse of God’s plenty.
  When the night terrors descended

  they hid themselves in his blood
  and thorns until they too

  were ready to fare toward
  that world without end.

  

  Philip C. Kolin is the author of several poetry collections, most-recently Reaching Forever (2018, Poiema/Cascade). He is the Distinguished Professor of English (Emeritus) at the University of Southern Mississippi. This is his second poem to appear at Poems For Ephesians.

  Posted: 01 January 2020

• O Holy Night by Marjorie Stelmach

  O Holy Night

  ———-Ephesians 4:31 – Let all bitterness and wrath
  ——————–and anger…be put away from you…

  In the easement,
  stripped trees daven apathetically
  under a skull-cap sky.
  ——————–Oh, Child,
  are you sure? This world?
  This bleak winter?
  These unconscionable times?

  The last of the day’s feeble sun
  steeps the holly,
  staining its berries a rich
  ——————–crimson
  as bright and slick
  as a seasoned trickster, then
  slips off the edge of the earth,

  leaving to us this night,
  first among too many nights
  we’ve marked
  ——————–and mean,
  every year, to find holy.
  It’s getting old, this act.
  Or maybe it’s me. Lately,

  I’m all lapse and misstep.
  And yet, love’s tiny fist seeks out
  my heart with the old entreaty,
  ———————and yearly
  I somehow let in love enough
  to try again: to call our people
  decent, our planet worthy.

  

  Marjorie Stelmach is the author of five poetry collections, including Falter (Poiema Poetry Series). She is the winner of the Chad Walsh Prize, and has had poems appear in Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse, and in The Turning Aside: The Kingdom Poets Book of Contemporary Christian Poetry. She lives in Manchester, Missouri, and has served as director of the Howard Nemerov Writing Scholars Program at Washington University.

  Posted: 25 December 2019

• Dear Christians, One and All, Rejoice by Martin Luther

  Dear Christians, One and All, Rejoice

  Dear Christians, one and all, rejoice,
  With exultation springing,
  And, with united heart and voice
  And holy rapture singing,
  Proclaim the wonders God hath done,
  How His right arm the victory won;
  Right dearly it hath cost Him.

  Fast bound in Satan’s chains I lay,
  Death brooded darkly o’er me,
  Sin was my torment night and day,
  In sin my mother bore me;
  Yea, deep and deeper still I fell,
  Life had become a living hell,
  So firmly sin possessed me.

  My own good works availed me naught,
  No merit they attaining;
  Free will against God’s judgment fought,
  Dead to all good remaining.
  My fears increased till sheer despair
  Left naught but death to be my share;
  The pangs of hell I suffered.

  But God beheld my wretched state
  Before the world’s foundation,
  And, mindful of His mercies great,
  He planned my soul’s salvation.
  A father’s heart He turned to me,
  Sought my redemption fervently:
  He gave His dearest Treasure.

  He spoke to His beloved Son:
  ‘Tis time to have compassion.
  Then go, bright Jewel of My crown,
  And bring to man salvation;
  From sin and sorrow set him free,
  Slay bitter death for him that he
  May live with Thee forever.

  This Son obeyed His Father’s will,
  Was born of virgin mother,
  And God’s good pleasure to fulfill,
  He came to be my Brother.
  No garb of pomp or power He wore,
  A servant’s form, like mine, He bore,
  To lead the devil captive.

  To me He spake: Hold fast to Me,
  I am thy Rock and Castle;
  Thy Ransom I Myself will be,
  For thee I strive and wrestle;
  For I am with thee, I am thine,
  And evermore thou shalt be Mine;
  The Foe shall not divide us.

  The Foe shall shed My precious blood,
  Me of My life bereaving.
  All this I suffer for thy good;
  Be steadfast and believing.
  Life shall from death the victory win,
  My innocence shall bear thy sin;
  So art thou blest forever.

  Now to My Father I depart,
  The Holy Spirit sending
  And, heavenly wisdom to impart,
  My help to thee extending.
  He shall in trouble comfort thee,
  Teach thee to know and follow Me,
  And in all truth shall guide thee.

  What I have done and taught, teach thou,
  My ways forsake thou never;
  So shall My kingdom flourish now
  And God be praised forever.
  Take heed lest men with base alloy
  The heavenly treasure should destroy;
  This counsel I bequeath thee.

  Martin Luther (1483―1546) inadvertently started the Protestant Reformation when he posted 95 theses on the door of the Wittenberg Castle Church for debate. This hymn, translated by Richard Massie, relates to many scriptures, including Ephesians 1: 7-10; consider the hymn’s fifth and sixth verses, which fit well, too, with our celebrations of Christmas.

  Posted: 18 December 2019

• Before Creation by Joanne Newbery

  Before Creation

  We are the fruit of ancient longing;
  before night and day were created
  the founding father had a cunning plan:
  His Word would love into being
  the very image of the lover
  made afresh and free in every soul.

  My womb felt the unfolding
  of sons before their earthly birth,
  the aching of making after love;
  God chose the cherishing
  to bubble along for billions of years
  before I appeared in history.

  After such a long gestation
  am I doing it right,
  am I what you hoped,
  when you sent the Son
  to blaze a path home?

  Carved from the great yearning
  we recently populated the world;
  it was a free entry.
  We can walk away to death,
  fall as woodshavings to the sculptor’s floor,
  but I scramble towards life,
  to seize the crown of the truly known
  in the humble place made for me,
  who was thought of so long ago,
  before star dust ever blew into God’s eye.

  

  Joanne Newbery is a Creative Writing student at Australia’s Southern Cross University. Her work has appeared in such Australian journals as Quadrant and Verity La. “Before Creation” was inspired by Ephesians 1:4, 5 and 11.

  Posted: 11 December 2019

• Ephesus by John Newton

  Ephesus

  Thus saith the Lord to Ephesus,
  And thus he speaks to some of us;
  Amidst my churches, lo, I stand,
  And hold the pastors in my hand.

  Thy works, to me, are fully known,
  Thy patience, and thy toil, I own;
  Thy views of gospel truth are clear,
  Nor canst thou other doctrine bear.

  Yet I must blame while I approve,
  Where is thy first, thy fervent love?
  Dost thou forget my love to thee,
  That thine is grown so faint to me?

  Recall to mind the happy days
  When thou wast filled with joy and praise;
  Repent, thy former works renew,
  Then I’ll restore thy comforts too.

  Return at once, when I reprove,
  Lest I thy candlestick remove;
  And thou, too late, thy loss lament;
  I warn before I strike, Repent.

  Hearken to what the Spirit saith,
  To him that overcomes by faith;
  The fruit of life’s unfading tree,
  In paradise his food shall be.

  John Newton (1725—1807) is the author of perhaps the best-known hymn in English — “Amazing Grace”. This poem is based on Revelation 2:1-7, where John is instructed to write these things to the angel of the church in Ephesus.

  Posted: 04 December 2019

• Sonnet of Thanksgiving by Andrew Lansdown

  Sonnet of Thanksgiving

  giving thanks always and for everything to God the Father – Ephesians 5:20

  I wake, draw the curtains and am suddenly aware
  that He is profligate, our God, giving us more
  than we need, more than we ever dream to ask for.
  Through the window on this winter morning, there

  beside my house, the forest is faint with mist.
  The white trees are like women standing half-seen
  in a sauna. The bushes where the spiders have been
  are strewn with ornaments for throat and wrist:

  necklaces, bracelets, strung with diamonds. A stark
  and startling wealth, this jewellery the women
  have put off. They stand in silent communion:
  unadorned, white, bar the occasional birthmark.

  And then in the stillness, the whiteness, the swirl,
  a lone bird call: it hangs on the ear like a pearl.

  

  Andrew Lansdown was called Australia’s greatest Christian poet, by the late Les Murray. He has published more than a dozen poetry collections, including Far from Home: poems of faith, grief and gladness (2010, Wombat Books) from which this poem is taken. His poetry has appeared in the McMaster Journal of Theology & Ministry and in The Turning Aside: The Kingdom Poets Book of Contemporary Christian Poetry.

  Posted: 27 November 2019

• Person by Margaret Avison

  Person

  Sheepfold and hill lie
  under open sky.

  This door that is ‘I AM’
  seemed to seal my tomb
  my ceilinged cell
  (not enclosed earth, or hill)

  there was no knob, or hinge.
  A skied stonehenge
  unroofed the prison?
  and lo its walls uprising,
  very stone drawing breath?

  They closed again. Beneath
  steel tiers, all walled, I lay
  barred every way.

  ‘I am.’ The door
  was flesh; was there.

  No hinges swing, no latch
  lifts. Nothing moves. But such
  is love, the captive may
  in blindness find the way:

  In all his heaviness, he passes through.

  So drenched with Being and created new
  the flock is folded close, and free
  to feed ― His cropping clay, His earth ―
  and to the woolly, willing bunt-head, forth
  shining, unseen, draws near
  the Morning Star.

  

  Margaret Avison (1918―2007) is a Toronto poet, an officer of the Order of Canada, and a two-time winner of the Governor General’s Award. This poem relates primarily to John 10, but also includes the thought of the “captive” only being able to be rescued by Christ (Ephesians 2: 8 & 9; 4:8; etc).

  Posted: 20 November 2019

• St. Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians, Lent by Anya Krugovoy Silver

  St. Paul’s Letter to the Ephesians, Lent

  At the word fornicators, I roll my eyes.
  Not to live in the passions of the flesh―
  how grim and arid the light we’re promised,
  as if all the earth were bleak midwinter.
  Meanwhile, Paul, plum trees are bruising
  the church parking lot, cherry trees readying
  their exuberant and joyful climax of pink,
  the palest pink, nipple pink, pink of my dry
  (I licked them) lips, of my amoral animal body.
  Not easily have I obeyed the commandments.
  For I love that keen, painful twisting of desire,
  the tight bud of it straining against its husk.

  

  Anya Krugovoy Silver (1968―2018) is the author of four poetry collections, including Second Bloom (2017, Poiema/Cascade) and from nothing (2016, LSU Press) from which this poem is taken. She taught English at Mercer University in Macon, Georgia. The honest, wrestling response in this poem is to a perceived judgemental tone in Ephesians 5:5.

  Posted: 13 November 2019

• Poem for November by Jill Peláez Baumgaertner

  Poem for November

  ———-Ephesians 5: 8-20.

  Many trees are mere stencils now,
  but some still dazzle, those with light
  in their yellow leaves, this even
  as November skies stretch mute
  and somber.

  It is easy this time of year
  to dwell on losses and the world
  so shattered, even watching this translucent
  yellow tree, whose light one could read by,
  this blaze against the dimming season.

  And we are gathered, each one of us,
  in this autumn dilemma,
  both anchored and adrift.

  Like Eve reaching for Adam’s hand
  as they stand, stunned,
  outside the gates.

  Or that child, Mary, who in the silence
  after Gabriel’s startling news,
  wonders, “Should I say yes?”

  Or Paul, the persecutor, eyes scaled,
  his mouth a thin, straight
  line, his heart in its first
  ever motion of turning over.

  Or two thousand years later
  those rabbis at Auschwitz
  who put God on trial,
  convicted him,
  then turned to evening prayer.

  Or the aging professor
  who said that when he cannot
  forgive, he simply acts as if he had.

  These images may seem splinters,
  fragments scattered and aimless.
  But we are not so twisted
  that we cannot see the cross’s
  change from torture into bliss,
  from blood and slivers
  into the gleam of polished
  planks for Christ, arms
  raised in victory.

  So here we gather
  in all of our imperfections,
  waiting for song to blaze into the dark
  corners, as this year races
  toward both finalés and preludes.

  Listen. Soon one clear voice will blend
  with another. Anchored by the rush
  of melody we will catch hold
  of the whole breath and timbre
  of the moment and together
  in this world so prone to drift,
  we will see by the cross,
  the tree of light, pure music.

  

  Jill Peláez Baumgaertner is the Poetry Editor for Christian Century. Her most-recent poetry collection What Cannot Be Fixed appears as part of the Poiema Poetry Series from Cascade Books. She is Professor of English Emerita at Wheaton College.

  Posted: 06 November 2019

• Believe Not Those Who Say by Anne Brontë

  Believe Not Those Who Say

  Believe not those who say
  The upward path is smooth,
  Lest thou should stumble in the way,
  And faint before the truth.

  It is the only road
  Unto the realms of joy;
  But he who seeks that blest abode
  Must all his powers employ.

  To labour and to love,
  To pardon and endure,
  To lift thy heart to God above,
  And keep thy conscience pure.

  Be this thy constant aim,
  Thy hope, thy chief delight,
  What matter who should whisper blame
  Or who should scorn or slight.

  What matters—if God approve,
  And if within thy breast,
  Thou feel the comfort of His love,
  The earnest of His rest?

  Anne Brontë (1820―1849) was the youngest of the famous Brontë sisters. This poem, written in 1848, was called “The Narrow Way” by Charlotte in her 1850 edition. The final line echoes the King James translation of Ephesians 1:14, where the Holy Spirit is referred to as “…the earnest [that is the pledge] of our inheritance.”

  Posted: 30 October 2019

• Gary by William J. Danaher Jr

  Gary

  holding the lifeless boy
  i tell his mother
  he is
  beautiful

  his large hands promised
  greatness
  the mention of which
  is a mystery
  but with it
  peace
  enters the
  room

  unfulfilled promise is better
  remembered
  than none
  at all

  his tiny body deceivingly heavy
  wiggling makes
  living things
  lighter

  cold to the touch
  the warmth
  has left his
  blanket

  dressed in blue
  his body lovingly washed
  nurtured
  from
  day one

  loved from the beginning
  she loves him
  to the end

  you will help me let him go
  she said
  but when I arrive
  it is
  too late

  I cradle his body
  dead to the world
  he is alive
  to God

  and in that moment
  my own life
  leaves
  me

  

  The Rev. Dr. William J. Danaher Jr. is an Episcopal Priest serving as Rector of Christ Church Cranbrook in Metro Detroit. He received his PhD from Yale University. He and his wife, Claire, have two daughters, Phoebe and Rose. This poem connects Ephesians 2:14 to an experience he had as a hospital chaplain in Washington, D.C.

  Posted: 23 October 2019

• Looking for Mt. Monadnock by Robert Siegel

  Looking for Mt. Monadnock

  ———-She flowed into a foaming wave;
  ———-She stood Monadnoc’s head.
  ———-―Emerson, “The Sphinx”

  We see the sign, “Monadnock State Park”
  as it flashes by, after a mile or two

  decide to go back, “We can’t pass by Monadnock
  without seeing it,” I say, turning around.

  We head down the side road―“Monadnock Realty,”
  “Monadnock Pottery,” “Monadnock Designs,”

  but no Monadnock. Then the signs fall away―
  nothing but trees and the darkening afternoon.

  We don’t speak, pass a clearing, and you say,
  “I think I saw it, or part of it―a bald rock?”

  Miles and miles more. Finally, I pull over
  and we consult a map. “Monadnock’s right there.”

  “Or just back a bit there.” “But we should see it―we’re
  practically on top of it.” And driving back

  we look―trees, a flash of clearing, purple rock―
  but we are, it seems, too close to see it:

  It is here. We are on it. It is under us.

  

  Robert Siegel (1939―2012) shared this poem with Eugene Peterson, when it was first written. In a chapter on Ephesians 1 in Practice Resurrection, Peterson shares the poem and says, “This practice-resurrection life, this growing-up-in-Christ life…is a Mt. Monadnock kind of life. We read the words, we see the signs…pray the prayers…But we never see what we expect to see.” This poem appears in Robert Siegel’s final collection ― Within This Tree of Bones: New & Selected Poems (2013, Poiema Poetry Series/Cascade Books).

  Posted: 16 October 2019

• To My Dear and Loving Husband by Anne Bradstreet

  To My Dear and Loving Husband

  If ever two were one, then surely we.
  If ever man were loved by wife, then thee;
  If ever wife was happy in a man,
  Compare with me ye women if you can.
  I prize thy love more than whole mines of gold,
  Or all the riches that the East doth hold.
  My love is such that rivers cannot quench,
  Nor ought but love from thee give recompense.
  Thy love is such I can no way repay;
  The heavens reward thee manifold, I pray.
  Then while we live, in love let’s so persever,
  That when we live no more we may live ever.

  Anne Bradstreet (1612—1672) was a Puritan who emigrated to America in 1630, along with her parents and her husband — whom she had married when she was just sixteen. She was the first American woman to have a book published, and is considered by many to be America’s first poet. The opening sentence in this poem references Ephesians 5:31.

  Posted: 09 October 2019

• Drawn by Laura Reece Hogan

  Drawn

  ———-Ephesians 2:4-5

  Even when we were dead you reached
  us with your fiery fingers even deep in the dark

  nether landscape, the flame at last catching, etching.
  Not an easy thing to awaken to this burning, yet we turn

  into the blistering luster of it, eager for the mistakes
  to erase in smoke. Twice I have seen the walls of my home

  glow orange. The first, an inferno of wildfire reflected
  its destructive image there, an unnatural midnight sun flickering

  over a drawing of you (a penciled desire of a drawing of you),
  your eyes closed in prayer. The second, persimmons alight

  in the dying autumn rays tinted the whole interior, a seeming
  pastoral until I considered the still life of a body letting go

  in bright-dappled yield. Both blazes revealed your consuming
  mercy. Our wings home to it, our antennae prick

  to the warm swelling updraft of it, the scoring and scorching
  of the terrible approach, the blood-red falling away

  of our transgressions. The likeness inside leaps to greet,
  rushes to be brought to life, moths trembling into your

  magnetic heat as you render us in love.

  

  Laura Reece Hogan is the award-winning author of the poetry chapbook O, Garden Dweller (2017, Finishing Line) and the nonfiction book I Live, No Longer I: Paul’s Spirituality of Suffering, Transformation, and Joy (2017, Wipf & Stock). She is one of the poets featured in the new collection In A Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (2019, Cascade). Her poems have appeared in such publications as America, Christian Century and Anglican Theological Review. She lives with her family in Southern California.

  Posted: 02 October 2019

• Width, Length, Height, Depth by Tania Runyan

  Width, Length, Height, Depth

  ———-—Jenny’s Canyon, Snow Canyon State Park, Utah
  ———-—Eph. 3:18

  There is something small
  about the love of God.

  I clamber up a few rocks,
  walk a hundred yards

  through pink sand,
  then feel the canyon walls

  converge on my shoulders.
  Just skin, hawk song,

  my blood pounding
  against fossils in the dark,

  my only movements my hands
  channeling the marrow

  of sandstone. I can look nowhere
  but up the sheer red walls

  pocked and hallowed
  by chronicles of rain,

  forever closing
  but never touching,

  in the gap
  the whole sky caught.

  

  Poems For Ephesians has now accumulated a year’s worth of weekly poems. Like the inaugural Ephesians poem of one year ago, this poem is by Tania Runyan and is from her poetry collection Second Sky (2013, Poiema Poetry Series). This poem first appeared in The Other Journal. She and her family live in northern Illinois.

  Posted: 25 September 2019

• The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser

  from The Faerie Queene — Book I, Canto I

  i
  A Gentle Knight was pricking on the plaine,
  Y cladd in mightie armes and silver shielde,
  Wherein old dints of deepe wounds did remaine,
  The cruell markes of many a bloudy fielde;
  Yet armes till that time did he never wield:
  His angry steede did chide his foming bitt,
  As much disdayning to the curbe to yield:
  Full jolly knight he seemd, and faire did sitt,
  As one for knightly giusts and fierce encounters fitt.

  ii
  But on his brest a bloudie Crosse he bore,
  The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
  For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore,
  And dead as living ever him ador’d:
  Upon his shield the like was also scor’d,
  For soveraine hope, which in his helpe he had:
  Right faithfull true he was in deede and word,
  But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad;
  Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.

  The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser (c.1552—1599) is one of the longest poems in the English language. Here Spenser writes of knights, as a way of speaking allegorically of different virtues. Paul’s description of “the armour of God” is clearly an influence for the poem.

  Posted: 18 September 2019

• Feet Shod by Mark D. Bennion

  Feet Shod

  ———-Ephesians 6:15

  Shoes laced up as if it’s the first time you’ve done so,
  leather and synthetics suffering your soles.

  Toes wiggle around to see what room is available
  and then a quick securing of knots—

  twins yawn in their blankets, ancestral phrases whispered
  in morning light, shades of quiet anticipate breeze or storm.

  Just a moment of balance, then ballast settles in
  against the barbs that may or may not come

  to knock you sidelong or push you off such a narrow,
  level path, even when you speak armistice,

  goodwill, peace, the kind that offers a coat
  to the soldier accusing you of heresy, the kind

  that bids serene elation—silent and jubilant—
  causing you to rise amid threats

  wheeling about your helmet, breastplate, and shield. No fear,
  now, even though you know what it means to stand.

  

  Mark D. Bennion is professor of English at BYU-Idaho. His poetry collections include Psalm & Selah (2009, Bentley Enterprises) and Forsythia (2013, Aldrich Press). His poems have appeared in The Cresset, Dappled Things, The Penwood Review, Spiritus, Windhover, and other literary journals. He lives with his wife and their five children in the Upper Snake River Valley.

  Posted: 10 September 2019

• Conductor by Mike Bonikowsky

  Conductor

  When it comes down, it comes down
  Out of the dark heart of the nimbus
  I can never see it coming,
  Until I can see nothing else.

  It finds my outstretched fingers
  Travels down my reaching arms
  To turn my bones to filaments
  And makes my heart to burn.

  I should be obliterated
  Made so mortal a conductor
  Of so furious a light
  But he grounded me before he struck

  And being struck, I glow.

  

  Mike Bonikowsky is a professional caregiver and unprofessional stay-at-home dad. His poems have appeared in Love Is Moving, Ekstasis, Nations Magazine, and the Journal of Disability and Religion. In 2017 he released his chapbook Cormorant Lord and Other Poems. He lives in Melancthon Township, Ontario, with his wife and two small children. “Conductor” comes from Ephesians 3:17-19.

  Posted: 04 September 2019

• At Table by Brad Davis

  At Table

  Infinitesimal and of no consequence
  but for the daft valuation of divine love —

  by whom a body is made no larger,
  no more visible from the ridge opposite,

  yet through whom a body is seated
  in the heavenlies, where — this, a mystery —

  it offers no service at that high table.
  And so a body is free of need to set for itself

  a place at any earthly table, free indeed
  to stand aside and, in the grace of

  such a love, wait on all reclined around it.
  Which is, of course, absurd — the very

  idea of transcending value — even desperate.
  To the praise of God: a body, nonsensical.

  

  Brad Davis is the author of eight collections, including Still Working It Out (Poiema Poetry Series) and is the Poetry Editor for The Mockingbird. He and his wife now live in Putnam, Connecticut. His poems have appeared in such journals as Poetry, Image, Paris Review, Ruminate, Connecticut Review, and Spiritus, and online at VerseDaily and Kingdom Poets. This poem was inspired by Ephesians 2:6.

  Posted: 28 August 2019

• Longsuffering by John Poch

  Longsuffering

  The prisoner wants the only window’s
  horizontal iron bars to rust, the raindrops
  strung before the gray day after rain,
  these unspendable coins purchasing
  light and air, these upside-down opals
  lined up like the pure eyes of guards
  who have never witnessed battle.
  The sun comes through, and his mind drifts
  to some painter studying, tracing shadows
  of outdoor plants on a piece of paper.

  Outside, little piles of dirt or ash
  may seem the only audience, but leaves
  break forth from them in time, little proverbs
  with their green and silver sides.
  For example—The fear of the Lord
  is the beginning of wisdom.
  On a bench near the wall listening
  for the beauty in slow truth, a book
  open to a beautiful sentence
  almost sings of freedom
  the same way the prisoner used to gentle
  his horse, repeating her name, stroking
  her silky ears because, after all,
  he made her who she is, didn’t he?

  

  John Poch is the author six collections of poetry, two which were published this year: Texases (WordFarm) and Between Two Rivers (TTU Press—with photographer Jerod Foster). His work has been published in Poetry, Paris Review, the Nation, Yale Review, and other journals. He teaches at Texas Tech University in Lubbock. This poem first appeared in Image.

  Posted: 21 August 2019

• The Ephesians Declaration by Emmanuel Chukwuebuka Akaolisa

  The Ephesians Declaration

  To the divine family
  Bonded by love’s gracious eternal power and wisdom
  How blessed are you, shall you ask why

  See how you are drawn (out) by grace
  From darkness and doom
  Because you hold it at appearance, at sight
  Hold it still
  Hold it in meekness and reverence
  By the voiceful tide of the precious blood
  You will never sink

  By the mystery of the lamb
  You are brought into the fold
  Look on and live
  The kingdom is not for you alone
  Love!
  Don’t grope and groan in the selfish dark
  Let us keep on the light of charity

  And for battles without,
  Your king is the greatest
  Stay and walk with him
  You will not go down forever

  

  Emmanuel Chukwuebuka Akaolisa, is an Igbo by tribe who resides in Kaduna state in northern Nigeria. He has a BSc in political science and a Masters in International Affairs and Diplomacy, both from Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, Kaduna. Although he wants to resume his studies, local violence has been a problem — including having his place of business burned. He self-published Sometimes a Poet and the Peace of Wisdom in 2015.

  Posted: 14 August 2019

• Morning Liturgy by Dan Baker

  Morning Liturgy

  Good morning again,
  child of God.
  Beloved of the Father,
  as in the Son.
  Wholly lived in holy hope,
  weariness undone.
  Unfinished, re-created,
  crushed, crashed-crimson,
  affliction abated.
  Sustained assuagement,
  inspirited allayment,
  trust-sown: persuaded.
  Worship-rested,
  wreck-ready yet washed
  in dawn’s drawn animation.

  Good morning, good morning.
  Let light lay large upon your face.
  May failure focus the works
  of your hands-feet-heart-mind.
  Little children, dear friends,
  the last hour is here.
  Escape the choke-hold of night.
  Hold fast terminal healing,
  cling to love incomprehensible, unyielding.
  Lowly transcendence,
  sordid modesty,
  redeemed incitement
  of radiant coronation.

  Consecrated illumination!
  Sanctified sunrise in
  abject approbation!
  Daybreak fulfills
  twilight’s renunciation.
  Night recedent.
  Silent lands baptised in gold.
  Awaken, forebear sleep, rise up.
  Good morning, again.
  

  Dan Baker’s poetry has appeared in Altarwork, Portage Magazine, and Tipton Poetry Journal. He is a regular contributor to the film criticism site CinemaFaith.com. He grew up among the cornfields of rural Wisconsin, but now lives with his family in Milwaukee’s Walker’s Point neighbourhood. This poem was inspired by Ephesians 5:8-14.

  Posted: 07 August 2019

• The Showing by Margo Swiss

  The Showing

  ———-Ephesians 5:14

  From a dead sleep—-I turned
  at three o’clock—-when

  You showed me—-your manly heart
  how bold—-how brave—-it beat

  amorous as any other
  lover’s—-its rise and fall

  that swelling surge of—-Love-
  blood pumped—-burning clean through

  arteries and veins—-till
  every cell sang—-breathlessly

  exposed—-I asked You—-then aloud
  come Lord

  and you came—-so sharply
  I cried out—-in praise

  to You
  in me.

  

  Margo Swiss teaches English and Creative Writing at York University. Her books include: The Hatching of the Heart (2015, Poiema Poetry Series) and the anthology, Poetry As Liturgy (2007, The St, Thomas Poetry Series). She and her husband, David Kent, live in Toronto.

  Posted: 31 July 2019

• As Kingfishers Catch Fire by Gerard Manley Hopkins

  As Kingfishers Catch Fire

  As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
  As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
  Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
  Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
  Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
  Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
  Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
  Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

  I say móre: the just man justices;
  Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
  Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —
  Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
  Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
  To the Father through the features of men’s faces.

  Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844—1889) is one of the 19th century’s most influential poets. In this sonnet, Hopkins reflects on how creation lives according to God’s desire, but that God works out his justice and grace in redeemed people as their wills merge with God’s will. Two of the passages Hopkins had been reflecting on in this are Ephesians 3:16-19, and Ephesians 2:10.

  Posted: 24 July 2019

• By Grace Are Ye Saved by Paul J. Willis

  By Grace Are Ye Saved

  It’s a Saturday. I am practicing scales on the piano
  when the doorbell rings—and I’m glad
  to have a reason to stop. A huddle of strangers,
  all in black, looms through the panel of wavy glass.

  “Mom?” I call. She limps from the kitchen,
  opens the door, stands firm. “Good morning,”
  they say, chorus-like, men and women—skirts, ties.
  “Are you sure of your salvation when the end cometh?”

  says one of the men. He holds out what looks to me
  like a comic book. The Watchtower. My mother recoils.
  “May we come inside?” says one of the women.
  My mother keeps hold of the door. “I’m sorry,” she says.

  And then, like the girl she was in Sunday School,
  rattling off her memory verse: “For by grace are ye saved
  through faith: and that not of yourselves: it is the gift of God:
  Not of works, lest any man should boast.” Her face has gone

  a little red. “Ephesians 2:8-9,” she adds apologetically.
  And she quietly shuts the door in their faces. She turns
  to me then—me, watching from the piano bench. She is
  trembling. And I know that, somehow, I have been saved.

  

  Paul J. Willis is the author of six poetry collections, including Say This Prayer Into The Past (2013, Poiema Poetry Series) and Little Rhymes For Lowly Plants (2019, White Violet Press). He has been a professor at Westmont College for thirty years, and is the former Poet Laureate of Santa Barbara, California.

  Posted: 17 July 2019

• Where Is Ephesus? Where, the Ephesians? by Maryanne Hannan

  Where Is Ephesus? Where, the Ephesians?

  (To ‘αγιοις, sanctis, the Holy Ones at Ephesus)

  Keep in mind always the riches of glory
  ———-his inheritance among the holy ones

  Things to know before you go
  How hot it is—–How little shade—–Challenging
  For the differently abled—–Watch uneven stone surfaces

  For he is our peace making all peoples one
  ———-breaking down the walls of enmity

  A must-see for history and archaeology buffs
  UNESCO wonder—–World Heritage site
  Rise and demise of cultures—–Diorama in real time

  When the plan of mystery is brought to light
  ———-that which has been hidden from ages past

  Here, one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World
  Temple of Artemis—–Even pillaging Xerxes had mercy
  Look for the single column which remains—–Rubble

  With the armor of God, hold your ground, stand fast
  ———-your feet shod in readiness for peace

  A city century-challenged to save its silt-filled harbor
  Dredging—–Building—–Moving
  A non-city now—–Eight kilometers to the sea

  

  Maryanne Hannan has published poems in many journals and anthologies, including Windhover, Cresset, Christianity and Literature, and The World Is Charged: Poetic Engagements with Gerard Manley Hopkins. A former Latin teacher, she lives in upstate New York. “Where Is Ephesus? Where, the Ephesians?” emerged from a tourist visit to Ephesus many years ago. Her book Rocking like It’s All Intermezzo: 21st Century Psalms Responsorials will soon appear from Resource Publications.

  Posted: 10 July 2019

• The Word by Bill McCloud

  The Word

  My father was one of just a
  few white ministers in northern
  Oklahoma in the sixties willing
  to preach in Black churches to
  even go inside Black churches

  It gave him joy on top of joy
  The Word he said The Word
  is what we need wherever we
  are and whoever we’re with
  The Word is all we need

  His funeral in the mid-eighties
  was one of the largest in our town’s
  history and it was a diverse group of
  people who merged into a line of
  mourners and The Word was there

  

  Bill McCloud finds many connections between his poem and Ephesians (1:10; 2:14; 4:5; 4:25; and 6:24). In 2017 The Smell of the Light, his poetry collection dealing with his own first-hand experience of the Vietnam War, appeared from Balkan Press. He teaches U.S. History at Rogers State University and lives in Pryor, Oklahoma.

  Posted: 03 July 2019

• Ephesians with Coffee by Emma Kemp

  Ephesians with Coffee

  The unsearchable riches of Christ… Ephesians 3:8

  This letter; this truth packed fine and tight
  like a new brick of coffee in the morning.
  A pause on the edge. A deep, pacifying breath.

  A decision. To move in
  an incision, an awkward tear,
  grit showered in every direction.

  Such truth, such depth, such wild,
  uncountable grains; such unruly
  shower of sparks to set us reeling.

  This is truth unsearchable. Though
  we are swimming in it, we cannot grasp it;
  it eludes us and slips through our fingers.

  Yet. Everything that is illuminated
  becomes a light. Pause again,
  regather scattered grains to a heap,

  pack down. Let crystal clear water
  filter through, cup the perfumed stream.
  It is enough to know there is glory, and breathe.

  

  Emma Kemp lives and writes in Coventry, England, where she is active in the local poetry scene. She won the 2018 Theatre Absolute Pillar Poetry competition with her poem Phoenix, a call to action about the choice between the collapse and redemption of a city. Her work tends to focus on the natural world and finding hope in dark places.

  Posted: 26 June 2019

• Jesus, The Very Thought Of Thee by Bernard of Clairvaux

  Jesus, The Very Thought of Thee

  Jesus, the very thought of thee
  with sweetness fills the breast;
  but sweeter far thy face to see,
  and in thy presence rest.

  O hope of every contrite heart,
  O joy of all the meek,
  to those who fall, how kind thou art!
  How good to those who seek!

  But what to those who find? Ah, this
  nor tongue nor pen can show;
  the love of Jesus, what it is,
  none but his loved ones know.

  Jesus, our only joy be thou,
  as thou our prize wilt be;
  Jesus, be thou our glory now,
  and through eternity.

  This hymn is believed to have been written by Bernard of Clairvaux (1090—1153), and relates to Ephesians 3:19 — “and to know this love that surpasses knowledge — that you may be filled to the measure of all the fullness of God.” The hymn was translated by Edward Caswall. For more information, and a fifteen stanza version of this poem, visit http://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2015/11/bernard-of-clairvaux.html

  Posted: 19 June 2019

• Husbands by Michael Stalcup

  Husbands

  What if, instead of focusing our thoughts
  upon the speck that’s in our sister’s eye,
  teaching “submit,” we do what Jesus taught?
  Submit ourselves to Scripture—dare to climb
  that Everest: “Husbands, love your wives as Christ
  has loved the church.” Men, stop and linger there
  before his love, before his sacrifice,
  his dreams laid down, his agonizing prayer.
  He, worthy of all worship, washed our feet.
  He, never wrong, yet chose the way of loss.
  He, King of Kings, embraced humility,
  gave up his rights—submitted to the cross.
  He modeled how we men should lead: he died.
  The greatest is a servant to his bride.

  

  Michael Stalcup is a campus missionary in Bangkok, Thailand, who serves with Thai Christian Students. His poems have appeared in Ekstasis Magazine, Faithfully Magazine, Inheritance Magazine, Poets Reading the News, and Visible Poetry Project. You can find more of his poetry at www.michaelstalcup.com. He and his wife have three young children.

  Posted: 12 June 2019

• The Shard Lodged Under A Rib by Susan Cowger

  The Shard Lodged Under A Rib

  Ephesians 2:22 — In whom ye also are builded together for an habitation of God through the Spirit.

  ———-Dear God
  I assume a lodging has been hollowed out
  ———-For you
  Behind breastbone or lung
  ———-A grotto
  ———-Where collarbones meet
  ———-Pointing toward
  An ancient and forgotten chamber of the heart
  ———-A haven for the Ghost himself
  ———-My God
  Could it be
  ———-A boat
  ———-In all this blood
  Riding the torrent that moves to save
  ———-Tendon and gristle
  ———-Gliding guiding the squall
  Of doubt and argument
  ———-Where the two sides of my face leak vowels
  ———-Curdled and peevish
  When I call to you and hear
  ———-Gibberish
  ———-It’s so hard to know
  How you get around
  ———-Emptiness that is full
  ———-Of snot and pride
  You of all things
  ———-Comingling
  ———-Shame and…

  The prayer ends here
  ———-Eyes flicker open
  ———-Then close

  To what can never be known
  ———-Small ripples
  ———-Dance down the spine

  

  Susan Cowger of Cheney, Washington, is the author of the poetry chapbook Scarab Hiding from Finishing Line Press. She also received honorable mention in The MacGuffin 2015 National Poet Hunt Contest. She is one of the founding editors of Rock & Sling. Her poetry has been selected for In A Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (Poiema Poetry Series).

  Posted: 05 June 2019

• Rich in Mercy by Theresa Monteiro

  Rich in Mercy

  The gift of the Son of Man is free.
  Salvation springs up around our feet,
  given without our asking,
  growing though we’re not deserving,
  sprouting like grain from the earth.
  The harvest of every man’s land, this grace,
  pushes up through soil like golden braids—
  bread of life, for you.

  But my brethren:
  You must pick it up.
  You must bend your knees,
  fall to the ground, reap what is free,
  take redemption into your hands,
  thresh it, grind it, bake it, bless it.
  This is heavy work, but it is good work.

  

  Theresa Monteiro is a student in the M.F.A. program at the University of New Hampshire. She has had poems published in Good Fat Poetry and Silver Needle Press. She lives in New Hampshire with her husband and six children. “Rich in Mercy” reflects on Ephesians 2:4.

  Posted: 29 May 2019

• Resuscitation by Glen Soderholm

  Resuscitation

  But God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us even when
  we were dead through our trespasses – made us alive together with Christ (Eph. 2: 4 – 5a)

  It’s difficult when others don’t know you are dead,
  —–for they might treat you differently if they did:
  perhaps a slight easing of the expectations
  —–around lateness and poor attendance,
  ———-not to mention personal grooming;
  a noticeable toning down of sarcasm over
  —–unfinished projects, or misplaced keys.

  And maybe, the admission
  —–your heart has stopped beating,
  is not just a poor excuse
  —–to avoid scraping egg off the plate,
  ———-or practicing minor scales,
  but has freed you to gasp, slack-jawed, at love
  —–surging from the lungs of God.

  

  Glen Soderholm is pastor of Two Rivers Church a church plant in downtown Guelph, Ontario. He is a singer/songwriter/recording artist who also directs Moveable Feast Resources, an organization that offers encouragement to the church in the areas of worship and missional church. He is married to Sharon and has two daughters Danielle and Julia.

  Posted: 22 May 2019

• Full Flower Moon by Julie L. Moore

  Full Flower Moon

  The moon tonight smells like linen,
  clean & pressed, spreading
  its blue fabric over not just May’s fields

  but the willow by the pond,
  the hens in the one-window coop,
  the Lab on the lawn,

  poking her nose into the myrtle.
  The sky tastes like a mug of tea,
  warm & smooth with cream,

  served at a welcoming table.
  Should God suddenly speak,
  the phlox would not be flummoxed

  or the red-tailed fox baffled.
  After all, green already
  pulses through everything,

  its rhythm in sync with this full
  flower moon & the worm
  below, writing a new word in dirt.

  Would it really be so strange
  if the still, small voice broke open
  like a bulb beneath the earth,

  then aired something sensible
  as the strong stem lifting high
  its lit lantern, signaling us

  to join in, do what we were made to do?

  

  Julie L. Moore is Professor of English at Taylor University. “Full Flower Moon” (one of the traditional names for May’s full moon) is from her most recent poetry collection Full Worm Moon (2018, Poiema Poetry Series). It is inspired by Ephesians 2:10 (as is the title of the poetry series!)

  Posted: 15 May 2019

• I Sang in Darkness by John C. Mannone

  I Sang in Darkness

  —–On the occasion of a special birthday

  The bathroom light
  flickers out. I bathe
  in darkness, hot water
  spraying all over my body,
  my unclean skin. Steam
  engulfs me, my thoughts
  on the inside search
  for holy water. Baptized
  in darkness for so long
  before I felt the slant
  of light lavishly pour
  into my soul—
  but today I remember.

  ~~~

  I’m alone
  in a restaurant booth,
  but you are here
  so my heart
  is not troubled.

  I order a Pinot noir
  to toast to you,
  and the basket
  of bread on the table
  makes me remember
  your holy words.

  I lift my voice
  as I break
  bread, bless wine,
  thank you
  for your sacrifice.
  I sing in the light of praise,
  in shadows of the cross.

  

  John C. Mannone is the author of three poetry collections, including the forthcoming Flux Lines (Linnet’s Wings Press), and is the president of the Chattanooga Writers’ Guild. He is a retired physics professor, living in Tennessee. This poem relates to Paul’s words in Ephesians 5:8.

  Posted: 08 May 2019

• Astrophysics by Patricia L. Hamilton

  Astrophysics

  Eph. 4:10

  When Jesus ascended to heaven —
  his scruffy band staring skyward,
  slack-mouthed, crick-necked —

  did he corkscrew into a wormhole
  and Bigbang out the other end,
  Light in whom we see light,

  Morning Star,
  exploding into Godglory
  to fuse again with the Fatherforce

  with the propulsive power
  of a billion flaring supernovae
  flinging stardust

  across a million galaxies?
  Who says Love cannot be
  both particle and wave?

  

  Patricia L. Hamilton is a professor of English at Union University in Jackson, Tennessee. She won the Rash Award in Poetry in both 2015 and 2017, and has received 3 Pushcart nominations. Her first collection, The Distance to Nightfall, was published by Main Street Rag (2014).

  Posted: 01 May 2019

• God Moves In A Mysterious Way by William Cowper

  God Moves In A Mysterious Way

  God moves in a mysterious way
  His wonders to perform;
  He plants His footsteps in the sea
  And rides upon the storm.

  Deep in unfathomable mines
  Of never-failing skill
  He treasures up His bright designs
  And works His sovereign will.

  Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
  The clouds ye so much dread
  Are big with mercy and shall break
  In blessings on your head.

  Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
  But trust Him for His grace;
  Behind a frowning providence
  He hides a smiling face.

  His purposes will ripen fast,
  Unfolding every hour;
  The bud may have a bitter taste,
  But sweet will be the flower.

  Blind unbelief is sure to err
  And scan His work in vain;
  God is His own interpreter,
  And He will make it plain.

  William Cowper (1731—1800) is best known for the hymns he wrote, such as “There is a Fountain Filled with Blood.” His first poetry collection — Poems by William Cowper, of the Inner Temple — was published in 1782. This poem intertwines well with Ephesians 1:9 “Having made known unto us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure which he hath purposed in himself…”

  Posted: 24 April 2019

• The Plan by Amy L. George

  The Plan

  Ephesians 2:10

  In the beginning,

  his blueprint unfurled across the stars.
  He dreamed, then spoke life into the silence,
  and called it Good.

  His workshop full of fingerprints,
  he scripts names and dates with light,
  dictates plans for minutes and lifetimes.

  His breath calls cells to assemble.
  Each molecule pulsates with possibility.
  He measures the length of our days across his palm.

  He fashions our gifts as his tools,
  in the room of his thoughts of us
  that has no walls and no ceiling.

  As we live, he still crafts.
  He turns the clay within his fingers
  thoughtfully, deliberately,

  until the shape is just so.

  Until our eyes notice others.
  Until the heart can measure choice
  in the scale of the mind.

  Until we realize his work has been placed
  in our palms.

  

  Amy L. George is an English professor at Southwestern Assemblies of God University in Waxahachie, Texas. Her poetry collections include The Stopping Places (2018), and Desideratum (2013) both from Finishing Line Press, and The Fragrance of Memory (2009, Amsterdam Press).

  Posted: 17 April 2019

• Ephesians— To the Glory by Diane Glancy

  Ephesians— To the Glory

  Someone wrote them for me.
  But they are my letters.
  If not hand-writ by me— written by another through me.

  To the praise of the glory of his grace.——————————(Eph. 1:6,12,14)

  A letter to believers—
  that they would succumb to the grace I tell them of—
  that they might know the habitation of God— its breadth,
  length, depth, height.——————————————— ——–(Eph. 3:18)

  Christ descending and ascending————————————(Eph. 4:9)
  ordered with reason.

  A pleading is there— Awake——————————————–(Eph. 5:14)
  An admonition—
  that in the dispensation of the fullness of times
  he might gather together in one
  all things in Christ,
  both which are in heaven, and which are on earth.———–(Eph. 1:10)

  Pray the utterance might be given—
  that I may open my mouth boldly to make known
  the mystery of the gospel———————————————–(Eph. 6:19)
  to the praise of the glory of his grace.

  

  Diane Glancy has written extensively as a poet, novelist, playwright, and nonfiction writer. Her most recent book is the poetry collection The Book of Bearings — the most-recent title in the Poiema Poetry Series from Cascade Books. As a poet she has published twenty titles — including both chapbooks and full-length collections. Glancy has received many awards including a Minnesota Book Award, an American Book Award, the Pablo Neruda Prize for Poetry, and an Oklahoma Book Award.

  Posted: 10 April 2019

• Story of the One Man by Debbie Sawczak

  Story of the One Man (Ephesians 2:11-19)

  When I was a boy of thirteen
  they milled about the gate
  on the wall’s other side,
  their eyes cast down
  by our sidewise gaze
  as we set out for home after worship,
  Abba and me.

  One boy my age dared look me in the eye.
  His father had the lightened face of forgiven penitence
  and his murmured prayer in uncouth Latin syllables
  of caesars and soldiers
  had the earnest ring of reality
  I sometimes heard in my father’s.
  But I knew those lawless and uncircumcised,
  their longing notwithstanding,
  had God’s love less.
  You’ve no business here,
  I felt like saying;
  your unclean idol prayers will not be heard.
  But I only scowled and spit.
  He scuffed dung-flecked dust in our general direction
  with the toe of his sandal.

  No way that wall could fall,
  Abba had said,
  let alone be rebuilt in three days.

  But at thirty, at night on my bed,
  I knew.
  Not all the blood of bulls and turtledoves
  tithes
  recited psalms
  or prayers
  would erase that writ.

  That all seems like another, long-ago life.
  We worship now in a Temple not made by hands
  —One without a wall.
  Gaius and I are forty.
  In pale dawn
  on the Day of Remembering the Rising,
  we sit down side by side,
  sip wine,
  hand round hunks of holy bread
  and sing.

  

  Debbie Sawczak’s poems have appeared in Crux, Writual, the U.C. Review, McMaster Journal of Theology and Ministry, and in the anthology Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse. Debbie’s work as a bookseller and professional editor gives her additional pathways into the beloved and stimulating world of text. She and her husband live in Georgetown, Ontario; they have three adult sons. Her poetry has been selected for In A Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (Poiema Poetry Series).

  Posted: 03 April 2019

• Walking in Love by Martin Willits Jr

  Walking in Love

  (And) walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us… — Ephesians 5:1–2

  What would you do to walk in Christ’s steps?
  So many confront us on the way.
  Knock on doors until someone lets you in.

  What would you give up?
  Shed anger like a snake sheds its skin.
  Whatever remains will be a new song.

  How far would you travel?
  No one will toss palm leaves
  where you walk to cushion your feet.

  Who would you not love?
  Be a fisherman casting a net
  to find new friends.

  Are you ready to prostrate yourself?
  It is hard to walk in love.

  

  Martin Willitts Jr is the author of 24 chapbooks and 14 full-length collections including The Uncertain Lover (Dos Madres Press, 2018), and Home Coming Celebration (FutureCycle Press, 2019). He has won such awards as the 2014 Dylan Thomas International Poetry Award, and the Stephen A. DiBiase Poetry Prize, 2018. He is a poetry editor for Comstock Review.

  Posted: 27 March 2019

• Detail of a Peacock by Jen Stewart Fueston

  Detail of a Peacock

  Nestling in the niche between the chapel’s crumbling
  arches, his long blue neck plucks nibbles of tessera.

  He wanders through mosaic parables like something risen
  out of time, wearing fashion all wrong for Byzantium—

  a jaunty tri-plume hat in an age of halos. You presume
  at first this must have been a gold-leaf sermon contra

  vanity, or like those tapestry-arrested unicorns, an
  attempt to tame our lusts of flesh. His sumptuous blue

  feathers with their knowing eyes seem destined
  for a harem girl’s accessory, so what are they doing here?

  What Augustine wrote at Carthage, though, unveils
  the peacock’s changing reputation, that before

  its current turn as vain pretender, or the empty suit,
  the Church discovered peacock flesh does not decay.

  So poke at any early Christian tomb and there
  they preen, depictions of life that does not die, the

  incorruption of brief bodies made eternal. How every
  year a feather’s molt returns brighter and more beautiful.

  This long-necked fellow settles into tessellation,
  his plumage not quite all unfurled

  so not to draw too much attention, but whispers that
  he’s hiding here for now, a creature caught

  in colored bits of glass, waiting till these ruins
  are restored to make his move.

  

  Jen Stewart Fueston has taught writing at the University of Colorado, Boulder, and in Hungary, Turkey, and Lithuania. “Detail of a Peacock,” which first appeared in The Cresset, draws on early church imagery, and echoes Ephesians 1:18, and 2:6 & 7. Her two chapbooks are: Visitations (2015) and Latch (2019, River Glass Books). Her poetry has been selected for In A Strange Land: Introducing Ten Kingdom Poets (Poiema Poetry Series).

  Posted: 20 March 2019

• Prison by David C. Brown

  Prison

  They put Paul in a prison
  ———-And they clapped him in a chain;
  The devil thought, “I’ve got him,
  ———-And he’ll never serve again”.
  Did Paul become despondent
  ———-Or did he make a fuss?
  He just sat and wrote the epistle
  ———-To the saints in Ephesus.

  

  David C. Brown was born in Edinburgh, Scotland, and has lived there or in its neighbourhood most of his life. He has published privately through www.lulu.com, and on his blog, https://dcbverse.blogspot.com/ . He has been writing verse in varying styles for about fifty years now, while working as a minor civil servant, trusting it is to the glory of God. He is fond of stravaiging in the Scottish hills.

  Posted: 13 March 2019

• Sonnet XVI by John Donne

  Sonnet XVI

  Father, part of his double interest
  Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me,
  His jointure in the knotty Trinity
  He keeps, and gives to me his death’s conquest.
  This Lamb, whose death, with life the world hath blessed,
  Was from the world’s beginning slain, and he
  Hath made two wills, which with the legacy
  Of his and thy kingdom, do thy sons invest.
  Yet such are thy laws, that men argue yet
  Whether a man those statutes can fulfill;
  None doth, but thy all-healing grace and Spirit
  Revive again what law and letter kill.
  Thy law’s abridgement, and thy last command
  Is all but love; oh let that last will stand!

  John Donne (1572—1631) is perhaps the most influential Christian poet of the 17 century. He was dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London for the last decade of his life. This poem — one of his Holy Sonnets — rejoices in the central Biblical truth, that God gives us all things; every spiritual blessing in Christ (Romans 8:32; Ephesians 1:3).

  Posted: 06 March 2019

• Dawning by Peter Kazmaier

  Dawning

  He came into my home
  Not as a storm
  Beating open doors and shutters
  But as gentle light
  Filtering around door frames
  ———-Piercing cracks
  ———-Lighting thinning curtains
  Illuminating my deep darkness
  Somber shadows stabbed
  With gentle light.

  Where light touched
  ———-Boards became boughs
  ———-Lintels leaves
  ———-Cellar posts rooted the earth
  New limbs reached for the sun
  ———-Upward, upward, upward.

  The Tree of Life.

  

  Peter Kazmaier of Mississauga, Ontario is primarily known as a novelist of Speculative Fiction – particularly as the author of The Halcyon Dislocation (2012) and its sequels. The third instalment in the cycle, Descent into Abaddon, is soon to appear in 2019. “Dawning” arose from his reading of Ephesians 3:14-19.

  Posted: 27 February 2019

• A Poem About the Body of Christ by Zach Czaia

  A Poem About the Body of Christ

  My steps up the carpeted aisle
  feel like another man’s steps.
  The soft amen
  when the gentle old lady holds up the host
  feels like another man’s amen.
  The tongue is mine, though.
  I lay the host atop it.
  What I mean is that didn’t have to be me.
  It didn’t have to be me held and loved by my mother and father as a baby.
  It didn’t have to be me held and loved by Cristina next to me in the pew.
  But it was. It is.
  I thank you, God. I don’t understand.

  Cristina’s dark brown hair is tinged with red.
  When I watch it shot through with sunlight
  I can see the auburn glow.
  As she sleeps I touch her beautiful, broad nose.
  I lay the thoughts in my mind
  on the bed beside us. They sing softly
  for the breaking of the day.

  

  Zach Czaia is a poet, editor, and playwright living and working in Chicago. His first collection of poetry, Saint Paul Lives Here (In Minnesota) was published in 2015 with Wipf & Stock. His poems have appeared in such places as The Other Journal and Sojourners. This poem is drawn from reflections upon Ephesians 4:1-16.

  Posted: 20 February 2019

• Voices Raised by Marjorie Maddox

  Voices Raised

  —–Ephesians 2:19

  No longer strangers and foreigners,
  we’re fellow citizens with the saints—

  native and naturalized jointly
  inhabitants of the ethereal,

  mercy in perpetuity—
  a claim so strange it rewrites

  all requirements of residency,
  every psyche’s by-laws.

  No longer partitioned off
  by sin, by regret, by self-righteousness;

  on reservations, on street corners;
  behind walls; behind barbed wire;

  behind preconceived Hallelujahs & Amens;
  flat blessings and fat curses

  of who, what, where, when, why
  we are; behind and for all, yes

  we sing acapella & instrumental,
  harmony & melody;

  we sing citizenship & pledge;
  throughout the holy household,

  with our off-key, shrill, and wobbly
  human notes, by God we sing!

  

  Marjorie Maddox is a professor of English at Loch Haven University in Pennsylvania, and director of the Creative Writing Program there. She is the author of several poetry collections — including most-recently True, False, None of the Above (Poiema Poetry Series) which is an Illumination Book Award Medalist.

  Posted: 13 February 2019

• Tychicus by Jean Schreur

  Tychicus

  “Tychicus, dear brother, will tell you everything. I am sending him.” Ephesians 6:21

  I am the messenger
  He remembers the disciples
  The misty walk down Harbor Street
  The baptisms by the river
  “Grasp the width of the love”

  Paul the Apostle
  He knows by heart
  The columns of the lecture hall
  The miracle of handkerchief healing
  “Grasp the length of the love”

  To the saints
  His closed eyes and chained arms
  Still know the form of Artemis
  The shouts from the theater
  “Grasp the height of the love”

  Grace and peace
  He keeps in his heart
  The farewell by the ship
  The elders weeping and praying
  “Grasp the depth of the love”

  I am the messenger
  Paul the apostle
  To the saints
  Grace and peace
  “Grasp and know the love to be filled to fullness”

  

  Jean Schreur of Hudsonville, Michigan, enjoys writing about Biblical characters and places. Several poems were published in the recent anthology Adam, Eve, and the Riders of the Apocalypse (Poiema Poetry Series). She is a retired nurse and lives with her husband on the family celery farm.

  Posted: 06 February 2019

• Dirty Jeans on a Kid in Ephesus by Bugg Davis

  Dirty Jeans on a Kid in Ephesus

  As a college student, did you learn to do laundry
  before you left home?

  As a college student did you realize you’d need
  a roll of quarters to get the job done?

  But quarters are hard to come by, so
  jeans are worn two, three, or a pressing four times.

  And by the fifth, going home is a better option
  than walking around smelling like ramen

  Spilled, stirred with sweat from your pick up
  basketball game, where you ripped a hole

  In the knee and bled a little. As a college student
  did you forget that there are people who

  Really do want to help you succeed; who
  want to help sew those holes in your

  Armor; bandage you;
  Feed you some meat and potatoes; and

  Help you wash that laundry?
  Just show up on Sunday and find out.

  

  Bugg Davis is originally from Mississippi where she completed a degree in English with a concentration in Philosophy. She has been published in a number of literary journals in the Southern United States. Recently, she moved to Hamilton, Ontario, to pursue a degree in Business and Marketing and is working as a Barista.

  Posted: 30 January 2019

• Ephesians 4:30. Grieve Not the Holy Spirit, Etc. by George Herbert

  Ephesians 4:30. Grieve Not the Holy Spirit, Etc.

  And art thou grieved, sweet and sacred Dove,
  —————When I am sour,
  —————And cross thy love?
  Grieved for me? the God of strength and power
  —————Grieved for a worm, which when I tread,
  —————I pass away and leave it dead?

  Then weep mine eyes, the God of love doth grieve:
  —————Weep foolish heart,
  —————And weeping live:
  For death is dry as dust. Yet if ye part,
  —————End as the night, whose sable hue
  —————Your sins express; melt into dew.

  When saucy mirth shall knock or call at door,
  —————Cry out, Get hence,
  —————Or cry no more.
  Almighty God doth grieve, he puts on sense:
  —————I sin not to my grief alone,
  —————But to my God’s too; he doth groan.

  O take thy lute, and tune it to a strain,
  —————Which may with thee
  —————All day complain.
  There can no discord but in ceasing be.
  —————Marbles can weep; and surely strings
  —————More bowels have, than such hard things.

  Lord, I adjudge myself to tears and grief,
  —————Ev’n endless tears
  —————Without relief.
  If a clear spring for me no time forbears,
  —————But runs, although I be not dry;
  —————I am no Crystal, what shall I?

  Yet if I wail not still, since still to wail
  —————Nature denies;
  —————And flesh would fail,
  If my deserts were masters of mine eyes:
  —————Lord, pardon, for thy son makes good
  —————My want of tears with store of blood.

  George Herbert (1593—1633) is famous for his devotional poetry which was posthumously published in his book The Temple. He served as an Anglican Priest, rector of the small parish of St Andrews Church, Lower Bemerton, Salisbury. In 1632 he also wrote A Priest to the Temple, which expresses his ideals of what a pastor should be.

  Posted: 23 January 2019

• The Unvoiceable Ever by Laurie Klein

  The Unvoiceable Ever

  Ephesians 2: 3-7

  Mercy, please note
  —every ragged corona
  ——our prayers generate: the lone
  —blue eye of a pilot light,
  the bonfire crowning a hill.

  Help us welcome the kindly
  —eclipse and crumble of ego,
  ——knowing the planet of self
  —winks out, only
  to rally. On again. Off . . .

  a pulse like the tide,
  —prone to turn, the stoic
  ——glacier, called to calve—
  —each tipping point seen, loved,
  unvoiceably nudged.

  Amid the long seam of night
  —our desires are rogue stars,
  ——riddled with black holes,
  —laden with dark matter,
  still unexplained.

  O Mercy with colored dust,
  —re-belt us, all our hopes
  ——fixed anew, within your realm
  —where nothing is lost,
  but all is covered.

  

  Laurie Klein of Deer Park, Washington, is the author of the poetry collection Where The Sky Opens (2015, Poiema Poetry Series). She calls herself, “a contemplative writer, musician and artist, who helps distracted, heart-weary people refocus on God in creative ways that spark hope and wholeness.”

  Posted: 16 January 2019

• To Do More Than Hide by David Busuttil

  To Do More Than Hide

  Ephesians 4:24

  They
  Made coverings of leaves
  To sheath the bloody weapons they made of their bodies
  The garments hardly holding
  To soft skin
  Scraped ‘til red
  Ashamed of the defiled image they now carried in their carcasses
  Unable to cover it
  They hide
  Their father comes and finds
  And covers their skin in skin
  And they begin
  To be able to do more than hide
  Seed of Eve

  Second Adam
  Comes to me while I cower
  While naked
  Pathetically making insufficient coverings
  And he hands me my new self
  Made of himself
  And I put him on like wedding white
  And I am made able
  To do more than hide

  

  David J. Busuttil lives with his loving wife Katie in Hornby, Ontario. He won the 2017 In The Beginning Award from The Word Guild. His poetry regularly appears in the magazines Love Is Moving and Ekstasis. David is active in poetry performances in the Greater Toronto Area. His original play Within a Play launched at Georgetown Little Theatre in June of 2018.

  Posted: 09 January 2019

• Epistle to the Ostensible Church by Scott Cairns

  Epistle to the Ostensible Church

  Isaak, latecomer to the way, sometime
  schmoozer among the diverse and sundry
  heretics, and admittedly a little judge-y,
  a little cranky concerning the ubiquitous,
  blithe, and widespread ignorance unduly
  tolerated among slacker Xians whose glib
  disinterest in the actual fullness of their
  own inheritance leaves me blinking, open
  mouthed—and increasingly cranky—as each
  week seems to bring yet another earnest
  attempt to reinvent the wheel. I write
  to all y’all who labor in your separate
  enclaves to puzzle out why your long-pared
  faith so seldom satisfies the enormity
  of your God-obsessive hunger. Peace.

  That we are all of us adopted and appallingly
  co-opted into the holiness of Jesus is a simple
  given, and a certainty. So relax. His good
  pleasure will surely accommodate at some
  future end of time our patent sloth and habitual
  dim wittedness. Meantime, have a stretch.
  The faith you hold is not so much a grip
  of propositions—nor even, nor especially
  that queer array of anxious propositions you
  have preferred to what the fathers taught; such
  a paring keeps the body blind, and deaf, more
  than a little dumb. A far more efficacious grip
  would be the one that gathers at the supper
  of the Body and the Blood. The cup is not
  so much a good idea, but is your living portion
  poured into your hungry gut, the animating
  spirit joined unto an elemental, and a bright
  reconstitution, joining your sad persons
  to the joy investing all and everything
  with theanthropic agency. Remember
  to love one another, and please forgive
  your cranky Isaak, whose love for you
  may yet prove—please God—incorruptible.

  

  Scott Cairns is the author of eight poetry collections, including: Slow Pilgrim: The Collected Poems (2015, Paraclete Press). He is Professor of Poetry and Director of the MFA in Creative Writing at Seattle Pacific University. His poems have appeared in The Atlantic, Poetry, and The McMaster Review of Theology and Ministry.

  Posted: 02 January 2019

• God’s Lavishness by Sandra Duguid

  God’s Lavishness

  the unexpected snow
  clusters weighting
  the small evergreen branches
  like multiple hands extended, pressed
  organ keyboards, Bach Cantatas—
  with orchestra, choir, rich-voiced
  soloists—a triplesauce on an entrée in a French
  restaurant on play-full
  Broadway, local bookstores,
  cafes, all manner
  of things—like melons;
  the return of health,
  a friend’s assisting
  lepers in Uganda, the churches’ gathered
  shoe boxes of gifts delivered
  to children around the world,
  children themselves, parents’ love, the iconic
  snow-covered car in the driveway—
  and she, of all days, minus a brush—
  mysteriously cleaned off,
  a day’s dawn,
  a birth in dark Bethlehem,
  sheep afoot on a hillside, their tangled
  wool, Angel voice upon voice,
  the soft arrival
  of gold, myrrh, and frankincense,
  the Christ Child in a makeshift cradle
  asleep in his own Bright Nursery—
  Grace.

  

  Sandra Duguid is the author of Pails Scrubbed Silver (2013, North Star Press). Her poems have also appeared in the recent anthology Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse (Poiema Poetry Series). She and her husband live in New Jersey. This poem is drawn from several passages, including Ephesians 1:7-10.

  Posted: 26 December 2018

• Daily Grace by Bonnie Beldan-Thomson

  Daily Grace

  Theologically and philosophically
  I rejoice in my salvation. But,
  practically speaking,
  I am carried
  by little salvations
  that buffer my bumps
  and colour my days…
  offer of a lift in driving rain,
  patch of shade in smothering sun,
  a ticket for Handel’s Messiah, reminder
  of a bountiful gift that gives anew,
  groceries on sale when I need them,
  sunset display, exuberant from my window
  is subdued the next street over, my private showing,
  the extra dimension of a thin place after
  a long time of walking by faith alone,
  flat back tire in my driveway, not on the highway,
  words of a Celtic prayer make
  translucent and malleable
  the granite wall of my cave,
  comfort of flame
  on a bitter winter night.

  Ears to hear,
  eyes to see,
  a heart to receive
  and give
  love.

  

  Bonnie Beldan-Thomson of Pickering, Ontario, wrote this poem in response to the opening verses of Ephesians. She is part of Adonai Creative Arts, through Forest Brook Community Church, where she helps facilitate The Writing Room — a place of spiritual care and creativity. She received the E.J. Pratt Medal in Poetry from the University of Toronto.

  Posted: 19 December 2018

• My Father's Place by Vilma Blenman

  My Father’s Place

  Forgive me if I behave as if I’ve lived
  somewhere else, was someone else.
  I was
  an orphan at the gate, waiting, wondering
  until he came and chose this unlikely child
  gave me a new name, gave me gifts in profusion:
  hope to hold, peace to pass on, grace to grow
  See this signature?
  It’s his insignia, inheritance guaranteed.

  So now I live here, where largesse is norm
  where rooms open into other rooms,
  where colours celebrate shame’s downfall
  and hues of blue blanket grey:
  indigo, cobalt, azure
  reassure,
  a palette of reds speaks bold words:
  scarlet, crimson, carmine,
  all call, “No fear!”

  Yet, l do confess,
  love like this frightens me.
  How difficult to fathom its dimensions:
  the length, the breath, the depth, the height,
  it takes a lifetime to fill a fatherless heart
  full,
  to displace doubts, to replace the broken seal.
  How fortunate that we have forever…

  

  Vilma Blenman has published a poetry chapbook First Flight, plus stories and poems in the Canadian Hot Apple Cider anthology series. She lives with her family in Pickering, Ontario. “My Father’s Place” is influenced by Ephesians 3:18, but also Ephesians 1:13 and 14.

  Posted: 12 December 2018

• Sundown by Ryan Apple

  Sundown

  Ephesians 4:26

  In pre-marriage counseling they told us to never
  let the sun go down on our anger.
  Whimsy notwithstanding,

  the warning seemed quaint
  since electricity has deemed our clocks
  the arbiters of time,

  and sailors now watch weather.com,
  having jettisoned their nursery rhymes
  about red skies.

  But in the wake of our disagreement,
  with the sky so overcast
  (I circled the same point;

  turning, you drifted off),
  I just stared into the clouded night, wondering
  how we might navigate to common ground.

  

  Ryan Apple is a Music Professor at Great Lakes Christian College in Lansing, Michigan — where he and his wife live with their six children. His guitar music is available at: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/go/606553867. His poetry has appeared in the anthology Adam, Eve, & the Riders of the Apocalypse (2017, Cascade Books).

  Posted: 05 December 2018

• The Architecture of Prayer by Mary Willis

  The Architecture of Prayer

  I hardly recall now the place, the view:
  stars burning light years off
  like tongues of fire snapping softly
  in a vacant house,
  winter branches with their hieroglyphs,
  birds clenched on twigs like frozen buds—
  all that language of the dispossessed.

  I know I’d picked up fuzzy suns
  of peaches, late glowing apples
  and shelved them in my darkest closet—
  seasoned proofs, potential food for afterthought?
  And long before of course
  I hunted out the spring,
  stored earliest recorded light,
  his words, which I drew on
  interceding for family or friends,
  but not too often, pulling back
  from draining the source
  with appeals for anything specific or routine . . .

  until I stumbled on a promise
  hidden there boldly in plain sight:
  exceeding abundantly above all that we ask or think.
  Extravagantly upsized, straining
  our reasonable dimensions of space and time?

  Not according to the blueprint of the mystery.
  Translated by the working hand,
  it clearly says our house is,
  its foundation laid,
  saving us from lostness.
  Windows, though yet to be set,
  are framed and open for intimate speech,
  silent music between ear and Ear.

  

  Mary Willis lives in London, Ontario. Her poems have appeared in Canadian Literature and other journals and anthologies. She has also published three chapbooks through Fiddlehead Poetry Books, including: Earth’s Only Light. “The Architecture of Prayer” is built on Ephesians 3:20.

  Posted: 28 November 2018

• Sonnet From The Ephesians by Barbara Crooker

  Sonnet From The Ephesians

  ——-Ephesians 1:16

  I do not cease to give thanks, especially in November
  even as we lose an hour of light, drawing
  the curtains at 4:30 to keep out the cold. To remember
  you are dust seems appropriate now. Crows are cawing

  black elegies in the bare trees. Just past the Day of the Dead,
  and I’m thankful for every friend who has blessed
  my life, gold coins in a wooden chest. Who said
  no man is an island? We’re all peninsulas, I guess,

  joined to the mainland, part of the shore. We’re the sticks
  in the bundle that can’t be broken. Even if
  it doesn’t seem that way, the bickering of politics,
  the blather on the nightly news. Maybe we speak in hieroglyphs,
  unclear, always missing the mark? So let me be plain.
  I’m grateful for the days of sun. I’m grateful for the rain.

  

  Barbara Crooker is the author of seven poetry collections. Her eighth, The Book of Kells, will appear from the Poiema Poetry Series early in 2019. She and her husband live in Fogelsville, Pennsylvania. Her poems have been featured many times on The Writer’s Almanac as read by Garrison Keillor.

  Posted: 21 November 2018

• Adoption by James Tughan

  Adoption

  Not very many know what it’s like
  to be weightless, cut off from a home,
  any home of familiar welcoming,
  like Cheers, like the court of the Sanhedrin,
  like a synagogue in any Roman outpost,
  and perhaps even with the brothers of the Way
  who cannot let go of the finality
  of the dying cries of Stephen.

  Not many know what it’s like
  to be weightless, grasping for a foothold
  of decency and grace, in a mosh pit of gods
  and goddesses nastily scrambling about
  round and round on the circumference
  of perhaps a Greek vase, or a sad Roman copy
  which can’t really hide the humanness
  of engineered bullying from Rome.

  Not many know what it’s like
  to be weightless, hung out in space
  hung between heaven and earth, sold out
  by friends and foes, orphaned by everything
  that fathered you into this world
  save perhaps for wounds and a thorn
  now woven into certificates of adoption
  for children of immeasurable belonging.

  For Mark

  

  James Tughan has been called “one of the world’s foremost pastel artists.” He has served on the faculty of Tyndale University, Redeemer University, and Sheridan College. Even so, Tughan has immersed himself in course work at McMaster Divinity College. One of the many influences on his poem “Adoption” is Ephesians 1:5.

  Posted: 14 November 2018

• The Misuse of Scripture by Daniel Klawitter

  The Misuse of Scripture

  ——-So then, putting away falsehood, let all of us speak the
  ——-truth to our neighbors,
  ——-for we are members of one another.
  ——-–Ephesians 4:25

  The truth is, neighbor, your lawn is looking rather shabby.
  (I tell you this in a spirit of Christian kindness.)
  And yesterday you seemed a little crabby:
  (Love may be blind, but that’s different than blindness.)

  So, let us shun falsehood and speak the truth:
  I see your sins and…Joshua judges Ruth.
  I stand firm in faith and shall not be budged.
  And if you judge me…ye shall be judged.

  

  Daniel Klawitter of Denver, Colorado has published three full-length poetry collections – most recently Quiet Insurrections (2018, White Violet Press). His children’s poetry chapbook Put On Your Silly Pants received an honourable mention in the 2017 Dragonfly Book Awards for Children’s Poetry.

  Posted: 07 November 2018

• Ephesus by Sarah Klassen

  Ephesus

  ——-To everyone who conquers
  ——-I will give permission to eat from the tree of life
  ——-that is in the paradise of God. Rev.2:7.

  Now as then we are dismayed when business falters,
  baffled when rains fail,
  alarmed when another riot erupts in our city.

  Now as then we have among us the hungry. Also
  the scrupulous. We have those
  who regularly bow and bend and those who don’t.

  We know a house must have a sure foundation,
  a solid cornerstone. We know, though we keep building them,
  dividing walls must fall. How else

  can the stranger and the alien enter? We do not know
  why the lovely bird of peace nests over there
  while here at home the vultures flap their hostile wings.

  Now as then noise streams from the market place,
  applause from the crowded theatre.
  The hungry lions roar. On quiet evenings

  you can hear, above the drone of time,
  the whisper of leaves
  on the tree of life.

  

  Sarah Klassen is a Winnipeg-based writer who’s won numerous awards, including The Canadian Authors Association Award for Poetry for her collection A Curious Beatitude. Her eighth and most-recent collection is Monstrance (2012, Turnstone Press). Her poems have appeared in many journals, including The McMaster Journal of Theology & Ministry.

  Posted: 31 October 2018

• The Ordering of Time by Nicholas Samaras

  The Ordering of Time

  The road to Ephesus was flat and open-aired,
  a lined mixture of blue and earth, mounded cairns
  rising from the open fields, like bee-hives a man

  could walk into and disappear. And why travel there
  but for a heritage of history? Native people still
  tilling the biblical earth, airing their laundry on lines,

  the empty forms of their bodies waving in air.
  Land by itself always appears primitive
  until we encounter on the threaded paths there

  a rise of buildings, an ordering of the times
  when they are complete. We pilgrimage to Ephesus
  to witness the past and measure the present.

  For a place to sense the saints of perseverance,
  we leave our too-civilised countries to experience
  a land, a field, a time in its journey. We leave our lives

  and go to read the earth, to remember any small heritage
  of who came before us and who long brought us here.
  The dusty road to Ephesus was a boat, a bus,

  and walking, was blue hours of water and earth,
  was winding and tiring, but worth the beautiful ruins,
  a true word, a lasting witness, travel the first-fruit

  of our heritage. In the ancient shell of Ephesus,
  beyond the resting amphitheater, the cell of Saint Paul,
  the best building standing remains the whitened library.

  

  Nicholas Samaras is the author of two poetry collections – Hands of the Saddlemaker, which won the Yale Series of Younger Poets Award, and the extensive American Psalm, World Psalm (2014, Ashland Poetry Press) which contains 150 poems to emulate the Biblical psalms. His poetry also appears in The Turning Aside: The Kingdom Poets Book of Contemporary Christian Poetry. He lives with his family in West Nyack, New York.

  Posted: 24 October 2018

• He Also Descended by Laurel Eshelman

  He Also Descended

  On Albrecht Dürer’s woodcut, Christ Descending into Hell, from Ephesians 4

  Dürer’s gouge flings gates from hinges,
  stretches a lean arm to snap prisoners’ chains.
  He tastes pearwood dust,
  cuts a body, blood trickled out
  and stilled on Skull Hill,
  a living man whose standard rides
  the blaze from demon horns.

  We shuffle past the woodcut,
  hear a flapping overhead
  and smell smoke
  but miss the gates
  wide open
  the throng rushing out.

  

  Laurel Eshelman of Elizabeth, Illinois (population 700) works a few blocks from home with her husband at Eshelman Pottery. Her chapbook, The Red Mercy, was a semifinalist in the 2014 Palettes and Quills Chapbook Contest. She was one of the participants in D.S. Martin’s festival circle group at the Festival of Faith & Writing 2018, in Grand Rapids.

  Posted: 17 October 2018

• Seating Plan by Neil Paul

  Seating Plan

  first day of school…
  ———–the bell rings,
  thirty children
  ———–rummage
  to find their seats,
  determined by the teacher’s
  ———–seating plan

  the twinkling of an eye.
  the trumpet sounds!

  and there,
  engraved by lightning laser
  on a clear white stone,
  I find my name
  and gladly take my seat
  among the galaxies.

  

  Neil Paul – of Caledonia, Ontario – is a retired English teacher who has been taking courses at McMaster Divinity College. I met him last year in Gus Konkel’s insightful class on the Psalms. He has self-published two books of verse. This poem was inspired by Ephesians 2:6.

  Posted: 10 October 2018

• A Prisoner of Christ by Philip C. Kolin

  A Prisoner of Christ

  for Father Donald Francis Derivaux
  A Gethsemane monk, psalming
  an honorarium of prayer, work, plainsong,
  he interceded for those who fed
  on empty words from the kingdom of air.

  He shared raven’s bread with Merton
  and letters brined with tears over
  black souls shorn of dignity.
  But the sounds of Trappist silence
  contained too many echoes for him.

  He longed for the life away
  anchored in the most quiet dwelling–himself—
  moment by moment seeking eternity;
  he lived alone with the Alone

  until he was called to be a prisoner of Christ
  in a different kind of hermitage
  salving souls in cells at Parchman Penitentiary
  teaching unschooled monks in striped habits
  to sigh the name of Jesus.

  

  Philip C. Kolin is the Distinguished Professor of English (Emeritus) at the University of Southern Mississippi. The title of this poem alludes to Paul’s reference to himself as the prisoner of (or for) Christ (Eph. 3:1 and 4:1). This poem will be included in Kolin’s forthcoming poetry collection Reaching Forever (Poiema Poetry Series) which is edited by D.S. Martin.

  Posted: 03 October 2018

• Approach With Boldness by Tania Runyan

  Approach With Boldness

                          —Yellowstone National Park
                          —Eph. 3:12

  We creak on boardwalks above geothermal pools—
  Black Opal, Morning Glory, Emerald Spring.
  Clear and bright as cups of Easter dye,
  they sputter and hiss to remind us that we stand
  atop a caldera heaving molten rock.

  Each path begins with the illustrated warning:
  a boy in a baseball cap breaks through the surface,
  parboiling his feet. I hear the story about the 9-year-old
  who lost himself in the steam and plunged into Crested Pool.
  They recovered just eight pounds of his body.

  Or the man who swan-dived into Celestine Pool
  after a yelping dog, emerging with blanched irises.
  That was dumb, he mumbled for his last words,
  skin peeling in sheets. Thousands of years ago
  the first hunter to wander into this basin

  must have thought he discovered a second sky
  breaking through the ground, a miracle of sorts,
  if he knew about those, radiating in the snow.
  He laughed, bent his face over the rising steam,
  and thought nothing of reaching in.

  

  This poem by Tania Runyan is from her poetry collection Second Sky (2013, Poiema Poetry Series), which is a book of poems inspired by the life and writings of the apostle Paul. Her new collection What Will Soon Take Place (2017, Paraclete Press) is inspired by the Book of Revelation. Her poems are also included in the anthology The Turning Aside: The Kingdom Poets Book of Contemporary Christian Poetry. She and her family live in northern Illinois.

  Posted: 26 September 2018