That wet cool air which comes over mountain stones-as Gideon gazes over the fields
Of the enemy,
Was it as this Irish hillside in rain
in these forgotten spaces where G-d calls a man into
Threshing. This one was the self proclaimed least-from the lowest clan on earth.
Or so it seemed. As was Jeremiah; as was David; as was Benjamin-but this one
Gideon,
A man who needed a sign to know, so
Here appears the Angel of The Lord to bring fire from stone
And fire comes as on the ones scattered in the sun
Even their bones in disbelief
To which Ezekiel saw and spoke
Words of life to noone.
I am the son of noone
And we are marching to Zion
(a mountain, not unlike this)
The place where He is-any place where He is-
The celts call sacred.
But we have come to know that only He
Is Holy-that Pure is where He is.
And we worship after
the placement of His Foot-we remember that
Where He is moving we are
And I was named before my birth, called
Like this cool passing Irish hillside
Where once a man like Gideon stood
And believed.
The fleece went wet then dry
He wanted to be sure it was God
chasing off the marauders
Of His promised spaces.
So He asked, and blew his trumpet
And unified his people, and broke jars
With the stones of this hillside.
A great man not mentioned in faith’s list of fame
A thresher from the start
Who couldn’t believe
God had forgotten
What He said.
Nearby
Was it Patrick who, placing on his bejeweled belt
Leaned out over this valley as if
Over the mouth of a great dragon, saying
“I felt His Presence in these stones.”
And so we trace each twig back to Him
Each face becomes a friend
Each hillside a recollection
Each conversation turns towards Him
As each stone inherits a name
Which waits like this hillside to be
Spoken
This day, I will not stop tracing each thing
To its core, until I hear it-until the enemy scatters
And we know
Who is faithful to sustain.
Jesus, already the rocks tremble
And this hillside remembers
Whose it is.
