aaronmerrick.com

Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau:
Mock on, Mock on; ’tis all in vain!
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.

And every sand becomes a Gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back they blind the mocking Eye,
But still in Israel’s paths they shine.

The Atoms of Democritus
And Newton’s Particles of light
Are sands upon the Red sea shore,
Where Israel’s tents do shine so bright.

-William Blake (1757-1827), The Essential Blake Selected by Stanley Kunitz, (Hopewell, NJ: The Ecco Press), 50.

They are still mocking today. It’s just that their names are Dawkins, Hitchins, Armstrong, et. al.

After this I looked, and, behold, a door was opened in heaven: and the first voice which I heard was as it were of a trumpet talking with me; which said, “Come up hither, and I will shew thee things which must be hereafter”. And immediately I was in the spirit: and, behold:

A throne was set in heaven, and One sat on the throne. And he that sat was to look upon like a jasper and a sardine stone: and there was a rainbow round about the throne, in sight like unto an emerald.

-Revelation 4:1-3

Of the Father’s love begotten,
Ere the worlds began to be,
He is Alpha and Omega,
He the source, the ending He,
Of the things that are, that have been,
And that future years shall see.

Oh, that Birth forever blessed!
When the Virgin, full of grace,
By the Holy Ghost conceiving,
Bare the Saviour of our race,
And the Babe, the world’s Redeemer,
First revealed His sacred Face.

O ye heights of heaven adore Him;
Angel-hosts, His praises sing;
Powers, dominions, bow before Him,
And extol our God and King;
Let no tongue on earth be silent,
Every voice in concert ring.

Aurelius Clemens Prudentius, d. 413
Translated by J. M. Neale, 1854
From the Common Service Book of the Lutheran Church, Philadelphia, 1919,
The Hymnal, No. 20
Chant line of ‘Evermore and evermore’ left off each verse.

“You told me, I remember, glory built
On selfish principles, is shame and guilt;
The deeds that men admire as half divine,
Stark naught, because corrupt in their design.
Strange doctrine this! that without scruple tears
The laurel that the very lightning spares;
Brings down the warrior’s trophy to the dust,
And eats into his bloody sword like rust.”

William Cowper, from Table Talk, in The Poetical Works of William Cowper, (London: Oxford University Press), 40.
written in 1781

Translated from Dies irae, dies illa

The day of wrath, that dreadful day,
Shall the whole world in ashes lay,
As David and the Sibyls say.

What horror will invade the mind,
When the strict Judge, who would be kind,
Shall have few venial faults to find?

The last loud trumpet’s wondrous sound,
Shall through the rending tombs rebound,
And wake the nations underground.

Nature and Death shall, with surprise,
Behold the pale offender rise,
And view the Judge with conscious eyes.

Then shall, with universal dread,
The sacred mystic book be read,
To try the living and the dead.

The Judge ascends his awful throne,
He makes each secret sin be known,
And all with shame confess their own.

O then! what interest shall I make,
To save my last important stake,
When the most just have cause to quake?

Thou mighty formidable King,
Thou mercy’s unexhausted spring,
Some comfortable pity bring!

Forget not what my ransom cost,
Nor let my dear-bought soul be lost,
In storms of guilty terror toss’d.

Thou who for me didst feel such pain,
Whose precious blood the cross did stain,
Let not those agonies be vain.

Thou whom avenging powers obey,
Cancel my debt, too great to pay,
Before the sad accounting day.

Surrounded with amazing fears,
Whose load my soul with anguish bears,
I sigh, I weep; accept my tears.

Thou who wert moved with Mary’s grief,
And, by absolving of the thief,
Hast given me hope, now give relief.

Reject not my unworthy prayer,
Preserve me from that dangerous snare,
Which Death and gaping Hell prepare.

Give my exalted soul a place
Among thy chosen right-hand race,
The sons of God and heirs of grace.

From that insatiable abyss,
Where flames devour and serpents hiss,
Promote me to thy seat of bliss.

Prostrate, my contrite heart I rend,
My God, my Father, and my Friend;
Do not forsake me in my end!

Well may they curse their second breath,
Who rise to a reviving death,
Thou great Creator of mankind,
Let guilty man compassion find.

-Translated by Wentworth Dillon, Earl of Roscommon (1633-1685)
from The Cambridge Book of Lesser Poets, compiled by J. C. Squire (New York: MCMXXVII)

I thought this appropriate since we are studying the letters to the seven churches in Revelation:

“Write to Sardis, saith the Lord,
And write what he declares;
He whose Spirit, and whose word,
Upholds the seven stars:
All thy works and ways I search,
Find thy zeal and love decay’d;
Thou art call’d a living church,
But thou art cold and dead.

Watch, remember, seek and strive,
Exert thy former pains;
Let thy timely care revive,
And strengthen what remains:
Cleanse thine heart, thy works amend,
Former times to mind recall;
Lest my sudden stroke descend,
And smite thee once for all.

Yet I number now, in thee,
A few that are upright;
These my Father’s face shall see,
And walk with me in white:
When in judgment I appear,
They for mine shall be confess’d;
Let my faithful servants hear,
And woe be to the rest.”

William Cowper, The Poetical Works of William Cowper, (London: Oxford University Press), 446.

Jesus, my Truth, my Way, my sure unerring Light,
On Thee my feeble soul I stay, which Thou wilt lead aright.

My Wisdom and my Guide, My Counsellor, Thou art;
O let me never leave Thy side, nor from Thy paths depart.

Thou seest my feebleness; Jesus, be Thou my power,
My help and refuge in distress, my fortress and my tower.

Myself I cannot save, myself I cannot keep;
But strength in Thee I surely have, whose eyelids never sleep.

My soul to Thee alone now, therefore I commend;
Thou Jesus, having loved Thine own, will love me to the end.

-Charles Wesley, 1749
From the Common Service Book of the Lutheran Church, 1919, number 340. Yes, he was a Methodist…it is interesting what one finds where. The greatest hymns seem to transcend at least the Protestant church divisions throughout the centuries.

God’s Work is Not Done

I give my thanks to God for all his love,
When I was lost he sent his only son.
A great gift from our Father up above,
He paid the price, but his work is not done.

Now we must tell the world of Jesus Christ,
If we do not, the human race is lost.
How Jesus paid the wages of sin’s price,
And his precious blood shed for the cost.

So many now will waste their lives in sin,
We must tell of our Savior’s wondrous deed.
Let’s work each day some other life to win,
And save some souls in terribly great need.

What love is this, what sacrifice he made!
This is the story of the price he paid.

-Audrey, November 27, 1997 (age 11)

Thanksgiving Sonnet

Deserving Hell, today I live and love.
Propensities to wrong, my tendency.
The strongest pulls below, not from above;
Attempts to rise subject to gravity.
I want to do the wrong because I am
The sinner; and I am, because I sin;
The life I live respectably’s a sham,
Eternal life’s not possible to win.
Thank God there is a righteousness to own!
An heir of Christ, my one hope to survive–
The consequences of the sin I’ve sown
Ascribed to him, the only perfect man alive;
Destroyed–the proud, rebellious, foolish fraud
And reconciled my wayward heart to God.

-Aaron, November 27, 1997 (age indeterminate)

We’ve gathered for years in some snowy clime
To play in the cold of the winter sublime;
The Merricks, solid folk of Scottish decent
And the Covers boisterous crew of good intent

To ski o’er the snow with the greatest of ease
Or to board at the peril of face and knees.
The children grow and group expands
To meet the needs of the respective clans.

First was Sir Robert way back in the day
Then Shandi, now Trevor, and Laura J?
But the poet gets ahead of himself
And risks getting scolded by ski bunny or elf.

So we won’t speak of Harvey, Harry, or George
Flirting with Audrey or Angela in some snowy gorge,
Or Virginia or Felicity or Helen or Sunshine
Pursuing young Jon or Sir Robert before time.

We all power up with pods, phones, and computers,
Watch bowl games on TV and stop being commuters.
We eat well and sleep well and rub our sore muscles,
And enjoy family and friends without hustles and bustles.
-Mark Cover

We come to Greenville in the sun kissed fall
When the leaves burst with color and begin to fall.
The grass is dry and the nights are crisp,
But the fire is warm and the books are bliss.

First it’s just us with the quiet and peace,
And then comes the family to join the feast.
The children shout and laugh and play
While the parents relax and play ping pong by day.

The grandparents relax and keep a keen eye
To see that young Trevor stays out of the pie
While William and Allen play pass the pigs
And Mom and Dee have tea, but no figs.

Angela cooks her newest concoction
While Jonathan invents a solar monoxion.
Then we all gather ‘round to laugh and tell stories;
To sing of Christ’s birth and His wonderful glories.

Ah, the season must end and we have to get back
So one by one we goodbye and pack
For the various journeys to our respective abodes
Where we press to the future and all it holds.