For all who wait in hope for the coming Light. Blessings, Rosemary
For I, the Lord your God, hold your right hand; it is I who say to you, “Do not fear. I will help you.” Isaiah 41:13
O, Isaiah, ancient prophet of doom, prophet of ancient hope,
your proclamations resound like cymbals
jarring this still and frozen December heart,
this frozen and still December world.
Like your own people, we are waiting
in this season of ancient hope, waiting
through each shortening hour
waiting while our divisions grow wider
than the separate waters
of the Red Sea.
We wait for your promise that the lion
will lie down with the lamb.
We wait for the winds of your words
to blow injustices away like chaff,
for the threshing sledge to make even
the high and mighty palaces of the
blind and powerful.
Even as sunlight fades into shadows
we wait in the darkness for your springs
of water to wash over the dry land
of poverty, for war to be
We wait for the fragrance of the cedar and myrtle,
the fruit of the olive, to inhabit
the deserts of our wilderness
where anger, fear, and hate take root.
We wait for the open rivers on the barest
of heights to pour down and bathe us,
to wash us clean, to make us new.
O, Isaiah, ancient prophet of doom,
prophet of ancient hope,
like your people we wait
in this ancient season of hope,
lifting our prayers,
lighting our simple candles–
the flames as old as God–
our single act of resistance against the night, our right hand
clasping your promise.
© Rosemary McMahan