Empty hands are all I have. The nothing’s all You need:in the valley of my palm, You place a mustard seed. My skin’s no soil

I often try to soften Jesus—he who claims he came to set the world ablaze, set like flint, burning, burning,bearing a sword, a whip of

Surrender sounds romantic, in a way: to fallunder the spell, to let gointo the flood of feelings, to be swept awayand off your feet, relaxing

Jochebed, glory of God,you wove bulrushesinto a floating cradle.With bitumen, pitch, and hope,you sealed the destiny ofa nation. In a time ofviolence, when hope was

Rubied roses and splattered wine, spilling sunsets, bruises, burns, fired iron and ancient rust, edge of danger, passionate love— Gentle yeses and offered palms, tight

Is faith set and certainor is it alive and changing (or is that me)?On one hand, I hold onto adogma that has been passed on,outlawed,

She looks around with calm curiosity,her pink-flavored Dum Dum in her mouth,this little girl with her daybreak eyes and evening skinsitting on the walnut wooden

This bread holds God—is God—hidden Heaven,small and containing the hugeness of time,plain and bursting with each kind of beauty,white and reflecting the one piercing truth,flat