canticle 85

once, we sat in the backyard,
telling stories and watching fireflies;
once, you looked past our foolishness
and boxed up our fibs and shipped them away;
you pushed your anger to the back
of the highest shelf, so you couldn't reach it;
you placed your outrage in the bottom
of the freezer, buried under all the summer fruit.

can you do it again, God of our hearts,
look at our faces, not our faults;
cancel the call to the divorce lawyer,
tear the page marked 'judgment'
out of your calendar?
teach us (again!) to take
great gulps of grace
so we have breath to sing.
open that picture folder marked 'love'
so we can remember together.

tell us the old bedtime stories
of peace which never falters,
of people who never break promises,
of mercy as near as our breath,
of wonders just beyond the horizon.

like old classmates at a reunion,
love and faith will run to hug one another;
justice and hope will exchange vows
under the wedding canopy.
from the tiny seeds of faith,
tall trees will reach for the sky,
and the stars of goodness
will twinkle throughout the night.

you offer us sweet corn for dinner,
and fresh peaches out of your orchard.
honesty will run before you,
shouting that you are on the way
to gather us up in your arms

(c) 2019 Thom M. Shuman