Subtotal: $
Checkout
-
Poem: “Winter”
-
Editors’ Picks: “Demon Copperhead”
-
Editors’ Picks: “How to Inhabit Time”
-
Editors’ Picks: “Faith, Hope and Carnage”
-
The Gift of Palliative Care
-
Transforming Food
-
On Planting Sugar Maples
-
Letters from Readers
-
Covering the Cover: Pain and Passion
-
Oberammergau’s Broken Vow
-
The Unutterable Silence of God
-
The Mind in Pain
-
In Search of Solace
-
Where Are the Churches in Canada’s Euthanasia Experiment?
-
Letters from a Vanishing Friend
-
The Dust on All the Faces
-
Two Thousand Years of Christian Strangeness
-
God’s Purpose in Your Pain
-
Saving Friends: What I’ve Learned from Insufferable Patients
-
The Speaking Tree
-
The Way of the Passion
-
Chinese Christians’ Costly Allegiance
-
Baptism Means Leaving Home to Find It
-
Felix Manz: The Making of a Young Radical
-
The Return of the Bison
-
The Communion of Empty Hands
Next Article:
Explore Other Articles:
0
Comments
0
Comments
Post a Comment
Oh, to imagine I’m shielding You, when You’re
secure as a chant in a red hymnal,
hope of our eyes. You step away on sure
voices, in a child’s throat made for canticle.
Oh, to dream I’m some ardent sentinel
bearing the moon on my watch, between a church
and a fire, when it’s You who lifts the torch,
clears the tares, so that we might see the stones
pointing home. You pick Your way through the scorch,
calling stragglers— Oh, those dallying bones.
Edvard Munch, Moonlight on the Shore, oil on canvas, 1892
