"it's very raison d'etre." I get it now. The Ekklesia Life is what CS Lewis meant by ZOE. ZOE is actual Life. BIOS makes us Eat/Sleep/Fuck. It goes away. But ZOE is not achieved. It IS the EKKlesia itself. He DID bequeath himself. All of Him. Of course, THAT BODY is the path.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Wednesday, November 7, 2018
New Day. Strap on your Breastplate
The Lorica
Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.
I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.
Christ with me,
Christ before me,
Christ behind me,
Christ in me,
Christ beneath me,
Christ above me,
Christ on my right,
Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down,
Christ when I sit down,
Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of everyone who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.
I arise today
Through a mighty strength, the invocation of the Trinity,
Through belief in the Threeness,
Through confession of the Oneness
of the Creator of creation.
Just a Simple Little Diddee
What is your song? Within, we each can sing.
But must, we Must follow the good tone. It leads us to the miraculous symphony. The truth you may speak will never be your own. There's nothing to own it, but I know you try...
Does the iron own that hammer which strikes?
He'll let it flow from your being. If Being
Be. Now. See. 'tis He. This is your Song.
But must, we Must follow the good tone. It leads us to the miraculous symphony. The truth you may speak will never be your own. There's nothing to own it, but I know you try...
Does the iron own that hammer which strikes?
He'll let it flow from your being. If Being
Be. Now. See. 'tis He. This is your Song.
That face. the Face. And it looks and it looks and it looks. Only Moscow. Only in Moscow do the boys know his gaze.
It hurts... So, it should.
What can good think about bad?
Maybe not think. My face also, it's not me. I'm not inside even.
I'm more, But not by being there in the first.
His mask then.Then it is His face. Do I talk? It cannot move. Oh! It may cry myrrh, dripping into pools under its visage.
But its face, watching his thoughts. Oh the glory! His thoughts, one day solely, connecting and flowingand going from my mind. Mine? Never. Only his Logical, Logophallic? Logophilogic prose.
How exciting what my God may create!
No, really.
You have that part that thinks, even when you think not. But now? Is it the well of inspiration, bubbling acorns to a delighted Salmon of Knowledge. Fíos ann. Is she still there? But he left.
But now this fountain-wellspring is also the fountain of immortality.
A wellspring of possibility.
It creates gods only tongue, his son. Beauty,
It hurts... So, it should.
What can good think about bad?
Maybe not think. My face also, it's not me. I'm not inside even.
I'm more, But not by being there in the first.
His mask then.Then it is His face. Do I talk? It cannot move. Oh! It may cry myrrh, dripping into pools under its visage.
But its face, watching his thoughts. Oh the glory! His thoughts, one day solely, connecting and flowingand going from my mind. Mine? Never. Only his Logical, Logophallic? Logophilogic prose.
How exciting what my God may create!
No, really.
You have that part that thinks, even when you think not. But now? Is it the well of inspiration, bubbling acorns to a delighted Salmon of Knowledge. Fíos ann. Is she still there? But he left.
But now this fountain-wellspring is also the fountain of immortality.
A wellspring of possibility.
It creates gods only tongue, his son. Beauty,
What Symphonies are Hidden
the petals still fall in a windswept field, Whirling and dancing until they dollop the face of a moss-covered yet wind hewn stone.The drop of flower kind still callExclamation markBeauty they bleedAndIts arrivalThey announce. But, but, but what? This is the unhewn stone, These are the wine dribbles, sanguine droplets of our king's last cup. You can drink. All of creation is the sacrament. The Psalms shout His truth. Each word is spoken by Truth. The clouds breathe out his love, Though only the sharp rapture of the tulip's FLASH pleads for his glory. Oh! ecstasy of the eternal design! Take me! My mouth will use your tones of order for melodious sonnets. Let me sing of my love for You. I'll let the words just slip, slowly, in ecstatic bundles, always praising your Name.
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