In the beginning was the word.
And the word was with God and the word was God.
Let this simple timeless truth be our watchword.
Let this be the path through life which we have trod.

On these holy mountains.
Has our mind if not our feet walked.
Here we have heard good news pouring forth in limitless spiritual foundations.
Here I wonder, is our heart locked.

Can the whole universe really pause.
In wonder at one small baby’s coming.
Are whole galaxies sustained by his command, bound to his cause.
Is all time to this moment rushing.

Yes, for all creation must have a point.
This is all creation’s universal joint.

For He has visited His people, He has come to their rescue.
And He has raised up for us a power for salvation.
Every winter solstice salvation comes on cue.
Freeing us from doubt’s questioning temptation.

In my dream I saw a horrible structure built in the valley.
I wanted this to be a dream so that this ugliness would be a mirage.
Now the little stream was a mighty river, the dream was merely a sally.
Thankfully a fantasy at large.

Fear is but a dream.
Doubt but a chimera.
It really is as it might seem.
This is real, fantasy is for the cinema.

The truth is not some ancient legend.
It is coming now, on hand is God’s errand.

O Emmanuel Rex et legifer noster.
Exspectatio gentium et Salvator earum veni et Salvandum nos, dominus deus noster.
O Immanuel, you are our king and our judge, our father.
The one whom the peoples await and their saviour, O come and save us, our God, brother.

The ‘O’ antiphons, the first letter of each of the titles given to Jesus from last to first spell.
O.C.R.A.S., Ero Cras, I will be tomorrow.
They ask us to ring out a hymn to tell.
O come Emmanuel, they prefigure the end to sorrow.

I was dreaming a dark depression.
All seem afflicted, cut off, a dead end.
Then in my dream I imagined this rising sun, symbol of body and soul’s reunion.
This scarcely perceived glow in the winter lightening room, was this a message to send.

You may be our David’s key.
Pray that I may see.

O Rex gentium et desideratus earum lapisque angularis.
Qui facis utraque unum veni et salve hominem quem de limo formasti.
O king of the peoples whom they long for the cornerstone; such bliss.
Who make the two into one, come and save man, whom you made from clay; ever so nasty.

I dreamt I was walking where I grew up, happiness my brother.
I was walking along the high street.
I knew this was a dream, if only I could stay asleep, I would see once again my mother.
What disappointment to wake up just as I reached our old front door, now no more to meet.

Every day and night there is disappointment.
But there is an immutable cornerstone.
We are the clay, he the moulder coming with love from his tent.
With him we can always atone.

One day I will make two into one.
One day with my mother and father I will be one.

O oriens, splendor lucis aeterne et sol iustitie.
Veni et illumina sedentes in tenebris et umbra mortis.
O rising sun , you are the splendour of eternal light and the son of justice and always will be.
Come and enlighten those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, that was and is.

I lay awake during the longest night.
I dreamt I had an appointment with my old chief.
There she was clear and bright.
But my mind went dumb, my words taken by a thief.

And then I recalled the prayer, O God come to my assistance.
O Lord make haste to help me.
I realised there was another more hopeful country, I let go all resistance.
Now I could see.

The prayer worked.
The dream was a chimera well corked.

O Clavis David et sceptrum dumus Israel.
Qui aperis et nemo Claudit Claudis st nemo aperit.
O key of David and sceptre of Israel.
You who open and nobody then can close, who close and nobody then can open our spirit.

Veni te educ vinctum de domo carceris.
Sedentem in tenebris et umbra mortis.
Come and lead the captive from prison, thus it is.
Free those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, we know this.

According to orthodox tradition, drawing water from the well.
According to Latin tradition, in her home.
No matter where, for universally she said yes, this we can tell.
For the glorious tale of Annunciation is told in every time and home.

Come, I beg, free me from the prison of doubt.
You alone have the key to water my mind’s drought.

O Radix Iesse.
Qui stas in signum populorum super quem continebunt Reges os suum.
O stock of Jessie.
Who stand as a sign for the nations, before whom kings fall silent as the tomb.

Quem gentes deprecabuntur.
Veni ad liberandum nos iam noli tadare.
Whom the peoples acclaim to their core.
Come come to deliver us, do not delay any more, determined they are.

Last night I dreamt I had been having a row.
I was walking in the Oratory following a priest carrying a candle.
Immediately I felt quieter, it was back to the plough.
There was hope of gripping calm’s candle.

A shoot springs from the stock of Jesse, a scion thrusts from his roots.
That day the root of Jesse shall stand as a signal to the peoples from these roots.

The Virgin will conceive and give birth to a son.
And they shall call him Emmanuel.
Hope I shall not shun.
He is a life’s work manual.

I really does mean God is with us.
It was not just then but now.
It has always been thus.
This despite every doubt I will not disavow.

I dreamt last night that I aimed too high.
And I came tumbling down in ignominy.
Be true to yourself, do not lie.
This is the only true testimony.

Like Joseph accept fate.
Listen before it is too late.

A genealogy of Jesus Christ son of David, son of Abraham.
Abraham was the father of Isaac.
Not all in this genealogy acted like a lamb.
Of virtue in some there was certainly a lack.

Is faith taught.
Does it come through wisdom.
Or is faith caught.
A gift undeserved of his kingdom.

How lucky those to whom faith comes naturally.
With me it is a never ending struggle.
I try, I fail dismally.
But I do not resent the trouble.

I will keep trying.
And not perpetually to be resisting.

Apart from me all is nothing.
I am the Lord unrivalled.
But we often think the World we see is everything.
For many God has been cancelled.

What forms the light.
Who creates the dark.
Is it the Lord’s might.
Or that immutable unseeing laws have merely left their mark.

What if a prime mover is reality.
And what we see is utterly dependent.
What if the unseen is reality, the seen unreality.
What if all this is not a machine but cast in his light resplendent.

Help me to believe in a saviour’s will.
Not fear chaos in a grinding conscienceless mill.

From beyond the banks of the rivers of Ethiopia my supplicants.
Will bring me offerings.
We are surely recipients.
Of joy and hope’s renderings.

Despite present tiered tribulations.
Comes joy in the Lord.
Nothing in this life brings true security, only tribulations.
But hope comes with the promise of the adored.

I like to remember the forgotten ones.
Last night I prayed to Richard blessed and I hope future saint.
Perhaps in five hundred years very few have remembered this one of his sons.
His echo like so many is real if very faint.

What shame it is to leave so small a footprint.
For everyone is etched in eternity’s blueprint.

Then Balaam declaimed his poem again.
The oracle of the man with far seeing eyes.
How doggedly we wish to wipe away the stain.
How wearily we stumble from our lies.

My dream last night was terrifyingly dark.
To survive I had to lose all attaining.
But out of this pain rose hope like a lark.
At dawn a new dream came, losing is and was and will be actually gaining.

I do not know your ways.
I stumble from your path.
I cannot see the sun’s fitful rays.
I fear your wrath.

But so often a new dream comes.
Dimly drawn from receding memory, an echo of hope like distant drums.

As a garden makes seeds grow up so will the Lord make both integrity and praise.
Spring up in the sight of the nations.
Our eyes look up, our hands we raise.
Giving gladly our oblations.

In the socially distanced Cathedral today, in praise of the one and only.
How sad to see people for the most part on their own.
So many people are lonely.
They need these services, it’s not enough to live stream phone.

But the nations remain blind from the start.
Intent on rules.
Driving people apart.
Making us into fools.

But if just two or three are gathered together.
From life’s cares we can for a moment cut the tether.

Happy shall be they who see you.
And those who have fallen asleep in love.
I dose in front of the winter fire, the wood burning through and through.
There is only a memory now of Summer’s bell shaped flowered foxglove.

I was trying to moor the boat.
I could not lift the anchor buoy, it’s chain under water I could not see.
It tangled in the propeller, disaster, at least I was still afloat.
All life it seemed is wasted effort to me.

My heart, with the effort, hurt.
Perhaps the digitalis in that foxglove might have helped.
Can I ever hope with hope to be less curt.
But how I inwardly cursed and yelped.

I recall now those words of Isaiah, fall asleep in love.
And rest like the peaceful dove.

If only you had been alert to my commandments.
Your happiness would have been like a river.
It’s not alertness that is my problem, it’s my contrary sentiments.
It’s because my faith is the merest sliver.

I look at Sickert’s painting, L’Ennui.
Two figures not looking at each other.
It’s boredom and apathy that I see.
Effort, communication and love, all too much of a bother.

How often do I sit in my comfortable armchair.
Musing on the present, turning my back on eternity.
When really everything is so clear.
Through that window casting its light on me is God’s city.

But deep down I know this me is not really I.
The real me is somewhere else, I just have to look with an inner eye.

I will make rivers well up on barren heights.
And fountains in the midst of valleys.
Today after mass in my mind’s eye I seemed to see distant sights.
There was no need for verbal sallies.

The priest sat quietly for a time, all was still and silent.
I love this moment.
A great well of joy wells up in the atmosphere of content.
Even quiet merriment.

In Bonnard’s painting the Bowl of Milk.
All is still, Mediterranean light streams in.
Meligny stands alone unmoving, her dress as restful as silk.
The cat waits, perhaps for his milk, with a little grin.

The priest’s meditation was a moment in service time.
The painting is just such a moment of quiet after wartime.

Lift your eyes and look, who made these stars.
If not who drills them like an army.
Bright Venus, ringed Saturn, red Mars.
Look up all is eternal and quiet whilst here all is ephemeral and stormy.

Here in the city I am blinded by light pollution.
But in the Wolds I can see thousands of stars and galaxies.
Here is all present, there I look back to creation.
Here is reality, there I can indulge in fantasies.

Am I looking at random chance.
Or just immutable laws of physics.
This I believe at first glance.
Are we not now all cynics.

But a voice calls, who was the first mover.
It is his will that is eternal, the rest is just left over.

Before the world was made.
He chose us to be holy and spotless and live with love in his presence.
Innumerable ages ago our own individual future was laid.
We always were and always will be, that is our essence.

But is there one born spotless.
With no vestige of original sin.
I wonder about the ancient doctrine of our goddess.
But proclaimed only in 1853, is this really faith’s lynchpin.

Happy those who do not doubt.
Weary are we who do.
Our scepticism is a last redoubt.
We do not, we will not, we never knew.

But consider this, would God come to a womb.
That was not immaculate from conception to empty tom .

Let the wasteland rejoice and bloom.
Let it bring forth flowers like the jonquil.
Joy comes forth even out of the tomb.
Even in this life we can be tranquil.

St Ambrose just wanted to resolve disputes with the Arian heresy.
Not yet baptised, he never wanted to be a priest let alone Bishop or saviour.
But forced by the people, he spoke with clarity and never carelessly.
He gave all his money to the poor.

Unafraid of power.
He forced the Emperor to do public penance.
He was not prepared to cower.
He thought nothing of his own convenience.

Before St Augustine met him he was unimpressed with Catholicism.
Perhaps we too should be more open to criticism.

Let every valley be filled in.
Every mountain and hill laid low.
To try and fail and fall into the depths is no sin.
We may own few seeds but still we can sow.

I dreamt I had left undone something vital.
My mobile was broken, I was desperate, there was something to prove.
I could just have walked a few steps and done it myself and earned requital.
But I would or could not move.

That deep valley is in our hearts, fear.
That mountain we cannot climb is within us.
This wilderness is here.
Yet we can still win.

We can emerge from this desolate plain.
We can with his help wipe away every stain.

He will be gracious to you when he hears your cry.
When he hears he will answer.
He hears us, we hope, we sigh.
Yet we do not try to listen, we are the dancer.

I dreamt that there was great excitement for a game.
I was setting up, I hoped a popular cricket match.
But only one child and one other came.
And there was only one stump, there was no one even to a catch.

The bowling was underarm, I woke with a dread feeling of disappointment.
So many ventures in my life.
So many failures, never being content.
So many projects that just splutter, ending up short is rife.

But I read in Isaiah that on every high mountain there will be streams and watercourses.
And somehow with every new dream and every new day comes new resources.

The deaf that day will hear the words of a book.
And after shadow and darkness the eyes of the blind will see.
The book is open, we only have to look.
From our doubts we need only flee.

I was reading St Benedict’s rule.
Speak the truth with heart and tongue.
Do I view speaking the entire truth as argument’s only tool.
Or for that am I too high strung.

In that poem yesterday.
I said I dreamt of the rain.
But I only said that to rhyme with plain on that sad day.
I should have said in a good rhyme too that the traffic forced me into a choked lane.

So I am like everyone else , subject to passing emotion.
Truth is, I fear, a multifaceted notion.

We have a strong city.
To guard us he has set around us wall and rampart.
Above all we need pity.
Faithfulness will be a start.

I dreamt that I was driving in a city in the rain.
Suddenly I turned aside to avoid a jam , now I could see far.
But I was now in an empty, flat featureless blasted plain.
And as I drove all power left my car.

And all seemed hopeless and I ground to a halt.
And then suddenly I was in a happy crowded wedding banquet in a church.
All doubt vanished , with nothing could I find fault.
I was free now , while before I had been left in the lurch.

It was as if the gates had been opened.
And the righteous had been allowed in, happy if chastened.

On this mountain he will remove the morning veil.
Covering all peoples.
I will follow Isaiah’s tale.
His voice sings from the steeples.

I dreamt last night that I saw a boat.
It was right at the end of an endless pier, moored.
The sea was jet black, the boat barely afloat.
As I sat on I felt lonely and tired.

I remembered these words, the lord will wipe away.
The tears from every cheek.
So hope can hold sway.
I can continue to seek.

It is too soon to exult and rejoice.
But soon enough to listen to his voice.

Integrity is the loincloth around his waist.
Faithfulness the belt around his hips.
The poetry of Isaiah during Advent is sweet to the taste.
The cup comes easily to the lips.

This voice from the eighth century BC.
We who walk in darkness can see his great light.
In the light we stand in his shadow’s lea.
After nearly three thousand years his verse glows bright.

The wolf lies down with the lamb.
The panther lies down with the kid.
When we read these his words how can we say we don’t give a damn.
He inspires, does not forbid.

So we return to that word integrity.
What do we personally want to leave to posterity.