Meditation XIII
O God who will not wear the clothes laid out to dress you in your Sunday best, and lest we fail to get the hint, proceeds to shout above our policies that all gods dressed for worship are no gods at all; who brings your wardrobe wholly to our homes, invests us with fine linen while we struggle, sings with words we fail to grasp that calm us still; who burns the tattered robes to which we’d cling; who places mirrors in our homes, until we love how our reflection calls to mind the seamless tunic you laid down, the hill where you revealed your glory to the blind; have mercy. Strip the vesture of old doubt from me—give me garments you’ve designed.
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This poem was generated by the author’s human mind. No AI chatbot was used.
This is beautiful. His righteousness is resplendent, and you take the familiar images and weave them together so we can feel the relief anew.
“O God who will not wear the clothes laid out / to dress you in your Sunday best.” I will admit that personal history got in the way of reading this objectively! As a kid, I was always chastised for what I tried to wear to Mass. Nothing too crazy, usually; just not “appropriate” in the eyes of my folks. I have to admit that I’m still like that to some degree. But I love th idea of reversing the perspective and focusing on being clothed; that’s closer to it, I believe.