My soul sings praise to God,
who has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
God has brought down the powerful from their thrones,
and lifted up the lowly;
God has filled the hungry with good things,
and sent the rich away empty.
—Luke 1.46, 51-53
This dance is not the wrecking ball it sounds like.
It’s only that we’re startled that it’s love not might.
The blossom bursts the stone we live in.
The Almighty naked and small, always, always.
In our vacancies the overwhelming Presence,
granting what we so firmly withhold,
saving what is beyond hope,
undoing our undoing,
lifting up what you despaired of,
putting to rest your own despotic king.
The righting of our upended minds.
Evil we can’t stop, stopped.
The mending of our grasp, and our failure to grasp.
Looking for love in all the right places.
In darkness thick as stone let there be life.
The truth of what is made of dust, or light.
Tyrants spew nightmares,
throw heavy shadows, heavy sounds,
but the poorest child defeats them.
A woman alive in her body shifts mountains.