The Sparrow's Prayer

I was talking to Tom after church last Sunday. Well, to be accurate 

he was trying to make sense of my marblefull voice and I was hearing him fine. It's always difficult with all the background buzz of conversation and children's voices in a reverberant hall. Anyway, somehow we still managed to communicate. He told me about the book he'd been reading, Christ in the Wilderness by Bishop Stephen Cottrell. During the week a parcel came through our letter box containing the very book. It's about a series of paintings by Stanley Spencer of Jesus' encounter with the world he'd made before he began his public ministry. Tucked into the book was this poem by the late Lord Hailsham, longest serving Lord Chancellor, and committed Christian. I'd not come across it before.
 
Father, before this sparrow's earthly flight
Ends in the darkness of a winter's night
Father, without whose word no sparrow falls,
Hear this, Thy weary sparrow when he calls.
Mercy, not justice, is his contrite prayer.
Cancel his guilt and drive away despair;
Speak but the word, and make his spirit whole,
Cleanse the dark places of his heart and soul,
Speak but the word, and set his spirit free;
Mercy, not justice, still his constant plea.
So shall Thy sparrow, crumpled wings restored.
Soar like a lark, and glorify his Lord.


Clearly Lord Hailsham's thinking of Portia's "The quality of mercy is not strain'd" speech:
"It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice....
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation; we do pray for mercy...." It's remarkable, or perhaps not, that one of our most senior lawyers should have had such a humble perspective, and have clung so fervently to mercy.

Tomorrow I am celebrating communion for the second time in three years. It is the sacrament of mercy. We come with nothing except crumpled wings, broken lives, and at his table God gives us his own broken body and shed blood, and says, "I love you this much." And we can rise with hope restored. We are not lost causes after all. I find it intensely moving and an amazing privilege to be allowed to share God's love in such a way. I hope I don't cry too much.

PS Sunday afternoon - In the event I didn't weep, though my voice had a wobbly moment! People were very kind with their comments after. Paul, the curate, had been preaching about humility - and I must say that the way my less than fluent delivery seemed to help people connect with God was very humbling.

Sunrise

A friend of mine, just back from another round of cancer treatment, quoted this today: "Life is a constant sunrise, which death cannot interrupt, any more than the night can swallow up the sun." George MacDonald in Annals of a Quiet Neighbourhood. Isn't that good?

By the way, today is the feast day of St Thérèse of Lisieux, from whose journal Story of a Soul I took the title of Jozanne Moss's and my book, "I Choose Everything". I've been reading the entry about her on Catholic Online. She died at the age of 24 in 1897, having been a Carmelite nun for less than ten years. She lost her mother when she was a child. When her father was committed to a mental institution, "Horrified, Therese learned of the humiliation of the father she adored and admired and of the gossip and pity of their so-called friends. As a cloistered nun she couldn't even visit her father. This began a horrible time of suffering when she experienced such dryness in prayer that she stated, 'Jesus isn't doing much to keep the conversation going.' She was so grief-stricken that she often fell asleep in prayer. She consoled herself by saying that mothers loved children when they lie asleep in their arms so that God must love her when she slept during prayer."