Borrowed Time

Cry not for me when clods fall down;

My cold, cold hands return at last

The earth, but borrowed for the task

Of every year I’ve lived and grown.

Then to my LORD who sits in might –

I’ll give account of borrowed light,

Exchange my interest for a crown.

I, My Brother’s Keeper?

Strong and handsome, bronzed and bold,

Cain killed Abel, so it’s told.

When God found him lying cold,

Drew He words made manifold:

“Am I my brother’s keeper?”


These millennia now past,

We, who span the world so vast

Read the tale and cry, aghast,

“Wicked Cain!” but quickly ask,

“Am I my brother’s keeper?”


Strange or old or yet unborn

Steal our time – these constant thorns.

Meanwhile, God, while Heaven mourned,

Hung, spread wide for all to scorn,

Answering that quest, age-worn:

“Am I my brother’s keeper?”


Now all my life is dripping down
Like molten lava over wire;
An upward glance views Cross and Crown
Set on a hill unscorched by fire
That, as I fall, looks ever higher.
Oh Christ! Be now my life and breath –
So lift me from this pressing death.

A Poem for Mothering

In your eyes, oh my child, I see Heaven
Waging war with the earth for your will,
Sense beneath each defiance and triumph
Ancient battles of skill against skill.

And I, as your mother, stand praying,
While watching your endless delight,
That God will be King of your choosing,
And you will hate wrong and love right.

Oh my son, if you hear my instruction,
May you turn your smooth feet to walk wise.
Then the Lord, your Good King, would reclaim them:
The desires bound up in your eyes.