(1) After Psalm 97
Joy will be the earth’s when,
if you come.
And if you come with clouds about you,
still you come. Beyond our hearing
almost is your name, with all the fire,
all the swords that came before you here.
And yet we’ve heard of you.
A flash has broken through the earth to us:
of you. It had to do with longing:
that you were not contented
with your height: you longed for us:
for even me you longed,
your joy was stronger even than my fear.
A flash, a joy
has been enkindled here:
my little lamp of thankfulness
to light your way through darkness
if you come.
(2) After Psalm 98
What could I say that would be new for you?
if ever I really knew of you, I’d be.
What’s an earth, an ocean?
What are the rivers, serpent-like
arising from their beds and falling back?
What is a mountain rising into snow,
melting again in wind?
Not water, not stone –
I would be the new thing
if I knew of you.
(3) After Psalm 99
Where you rest on high’s
too high for me to see.
It’s here in print I see your name
and read aloud: say he.
Higher than I can read they say
you seemed to your seekers –
your Moseses, your Aarons.
They wrote us,
wrought us what you seemed to say
on high, high on a mountain
in a cloud of do’s and don’ts.
That they said was you.
(4) After Psalm 100
Look for Whose face where joy is:
wherever, whenever you can sing –
there are the eyes
that open as the heart,
as gates,
as portals almost opening
from here.
--Lloyd Haft
