you are an arm
maybe a hand or finger
as important as a toe
or rib
but not God.
you have a place, a role, a duty
crafted from God’s own hands
you must
sense it, love it, keep it
and remember that it takes more
than a pinky to flourish.
you are an arm
maybe a hand or finger
as important as a toe
or rib
but not God.
you have a place, a role, a duty
crafted from God’s own hands
you must
sense it, love it, keep it
and remember that it takes more
than a pinky to flourish.
the sign of a doer rests not in the mind
nor bound shelves or desirable degrees
social provocation or party destinations
checks cut or figured salaries
worn crucifixes or alter calls
the sign of a doer rests on the feet
grass stained and torn
blistered and cracked
dirty from toil
cut from strife
tired from pursuit
laced from posture
doers rest on bended knees
while others nod and clap
the weight of anticipation forces
itself on the silt-filled feet of doers
who have done what needed done
for kingdom come.
pray
without ceasing
they said
but
there is
life to live
people to love
places to go
books to read
music to hear
flowers to smell
rivers to see
mountains to climb
the well
runs
dry
there
in
the days
with no numbers
amongst
the morning breaths
and enemies
the city fights
and bad harmonies
the unmade beds
and crying babies
the poisoned streams
and wet tent memories
pray
without
ceasing
WAKE
From the soil, they rose, in the footsteps of the King.
The fruit hung low, trees ripe, birds sing.
Flesh, emboldened, and pure in form.
The days before the veil need torn.
TOIL
The sea, it spread, the rocks were thrown.
A harp, the wars, an exile bemoaned.
He’ll come one day, they cried out below.
The vines sat ripe, seeds to be sown.
REST
For a moment, they sit, they stare in awe.
The walls knocked down, so too, the law.
A dove flies near, with watchful eyes.
Sins of the world, gone with a sigh.
KNEEL
Hands held, head down, a state of prayer.
It makes no sense — not just, nor fair.
That He shall die, so I shall live.
On bended knees, my life I give.
-David Ray
Yesterday, washed with the shore. Today, risen with the doves.
Hot mugs, torn bindings — a compelling start.
Whisking worries, precious prayers, distant dreams.
A new sun brings light. Creates promise. Drives creation.
There is hope in the world, when the rooster crows.
Elevators and handshakes and the Times and screens.
Pulled from here to there: the goal? Stay true.
But the collar pulls tight and the walls ring blank.
The clock ticks leisurely and the coffee is cold.
There is profit in the world, when the coat drapes shoulders.
There’s the sun, again. It’s been too long, old friend.
The plates are on the table and the six o’ clock news is on the set.
Would you stay awhile? Kick up your feet and wet your lips?
Tomorrow, it will come. Tonight, we dance.
There is love in the world, when the table is full.
The stars waltz, the moon hangs, the sky awakens.
The trees whisper bedtime tales of the days of long ago.
She’s asleep, the sun, there’s peace beneath the pines.
For a moment, there is silence. There is tranquility. There is stillness.
There is peace in the world, when the owl makes its bed.
— David Ray
Take courage, it is I.
It is finished.
The stars, the sun, the moon, they scream your name.
The wind, the rain, the trees, they block it out.
Against all odds, I love you all the same.
My heart, for you, it burns just like a flame.
I cannot hold it back, I scream and shout.
The stars, the sun, the moon, they scream your name.
You pity me, and give yourself the blame.
I want to find your heart, at least the route.
The wind, the rain, the trees, they block it out.
Your beauty, it deserves the sweetest fame.
I look at you, amazed, there is no doubt.
The stars, the sun, the moon, they scream your name.
No longer will my heart let me stay tame.
I must profess my love, to you, all out.
The wind, the rain, the trees, they block it out.
Funny, is it? To you, it’s just a game.
I bleed, I hurt, I ache, I throb, I pout.
The stars, the sun, the moon, they scream your name.
The wind, the rain, the trees, they block it out.
DA