Primitive religion is not believed, it is danced!

Arthur Darby Nock

Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Browning

Wednesday, June 12, 2013


It lay in the grass
Silent and still

It had been taught well-meaning lessons
Never talk
Lay low
And all will be well

Across the waving grass its mother stood
The runner
Hoping to not only move away from danger
But move the danger away

In the midst of life
Troubles come
Troubles big and frightening
That tramp through our world
And transform it in thundering chaos

Hooves pound like the horses of the apocalypse

Some hide
Some run

But trouble will trample
Through the field

And hiding or running
is futile

hiding we are frozen into immobility
running we of leave
treasures behind
we are dependent
love and grace

And not so divine

grace abound

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