(This column first appeared in the September issue of the Anglican Journal.)
For this edition’s column, I wanted to, once again, share a poem from my friend, Fr. Ewan MacPherson:
Bishop Lydia Mamakwa
The wind speaks an old language we can hear,
When our hearts are still and there is peace.
Our ancestors heard it. The raven sits
In a pine tree. Below is the cool earth,
Scented and fertile. Above is the sky.
Raven knows them both. There are no borders.
Only the word that our Creator said
When it began.
The people have pain in their memory,
Like the ferns growing up through the floor boards
Of a deserted house.
The life they made for themselves before the world
Fell off its tracks; askew in the dark night.
Who will Creator give the holy words?
Who will Creator send to sing the song?
Who will Creator give the name Migwan?
Who will build a fire with the wounded Christ,
Where all the broken-hearted people come?
They will know the fresh scent of the pine tree.
They will gaze at each other in wonder,
No longer disfigured by hatred,
Watching the geese fly south; daring to hope.
Silent beyond any words; only the joy;
And a new song only Creator knows.
–Ewan A. MacPherson
June 5, 2014
