Though the fig tree does not blossom,
nor fruit be on the vine,
the yield of the olive fail,
and the fields produce no food,
the flock be cut off from the fold,
and there be no cattle in the stalls,
yet I will rejoice in the Lord,
take joy in the God of my salvation.

The Lord God is my strength;
he makes my feet as light as a doe’s;
he sets my steps on high places.

(Habakkuk 3: 17-19,
NASB, ESV, The Jerusalem Bible)

Meditative seeker, your quiet voice
louder than the roar of ignorance,

your open hand sowing seeds
falling on soil thirsting for sun and rain,

your mind of windows
opening wider each day dawning

to that word waiting to be
made new in those who believe

the empowering of music,
its crest and flow, the sweep

of history, sacred parables
of symbolic Truth, spirit-revealed

to those with ears to hear
the sustaining joy of language,

its poetry lifting the eyes
of those who stand in line,

palms open to receive
the new word illuminating

the corner that once was dark.