Saturday, January 05, 2008

The Prayer Chair

An old, out-of-style
chair.
Given long ago.
Not antique, just worn out.

There for sitting, reading, thinking.
There for praying--
sitting or
kneeling--head buried in thinning fabric.

Alone.
Mouthed or unmouthed,
one sad, but hoping
part of earth brought to heaven.

Again and again.
Heaven hears--it must!
Often silent, wordless.

How Long?
When?
Why?

The chair is worn.
The prayers are worn
and worn out.

Wailing and Waiting...
Waiting and Wailing...

Kneeling is harder now.
The knees, older,
the back, more brittle, more aching.

Arising is harder, slower.
Prayer is heftier.
More desperate. More frequent.
More of earth cries before
all of heaven.

When will heaven move
this part of earth
again?

Psalm 27!
Psalm 35!
Psalm 86!

The prayer chair.
Unmoved for years, old .
Where I am moved.
Where heaven is remote,
and comes close.

2 comments:

Beitler said...

Good poem. I don't know what the prayers are about, but in my experience it's when the prayers are the most worn out that we're getting closest to a breakthrough!

Singing Owl said...

Thank you. In an odd way, this was very encouraging.