Be Renewed, Weary Traveler

"Drink in, brother, this sweet wine of your Father’s hand..."

‘The Glory’

By Ian Samuel Helton (2023)

Oh, these strange buds sing,
And blooming, I fall beneath and
Beside, like hands of God
Reaching for sacred intimacy.

The sharp breath of the dog, breath
Of machine, somewhere
Torturing the air, staining
It’s sanctuary.

And twinkling of birdsong, like
Silver chimes, cutting gently through
The stillness, the monotony
Of suburban life; great
Splotches on the page.

The creek is still as the
Coffee in my cup, and only
So much colder. In obedient
Harmony, it sits, it runs,

It whispers.
What a discipline I envy.

The dead leaves fall to their graves,
The living earth their only
Salvation.
There is mercy for the
Pecking warbler, the crusted earth;
The toiling man and the drifting dust.

Mercy in life, mercy in death.

Renewal singing all across these
Moist morning hills and far
Into the unseen fields and meadows.
“Be renewed, weary traveler!”

Great veins pulsating unseen
Beneath the soil and flesh, like one
Unspoken language, perpetually harmonious
And ever conversing. 

Drink in, brother, this sweet wine
Of your Father’s hand; revel in
The dust of the page, the

Cornucopia of that which grows now
Within you, before you; for it is one.
The shade, the cool green, the
Fruit of His labour
To invite the fruit of our own.

The seed that falls without reward
Of man or beast, the tree that
Sprouts in favor and glory.

A fluid skeleton beneath the surface,
Unchanging but ever present,
Always tying together what we

Ruthlessly exile and separate for
Some phantom comfort; some
Security of life that blindly leads

To hell's dull courts. In spite of
It, the Divine Heart compromises
Not for man or machine.

Now, a walking altar,
Now, a vessel of light,
Goes strolling into
The gardens,
The trenches,
The churches,
The grave.

~ Ian Samuel Helton, July, 2023