I gotta have my orange juice.

Douglas Wilson, in Angels in the Architecture, writes of the connection between creatureliness and poetry:

Because we men cannot be God, we must learn to be good poets. (181)

And of the limits of precision compared to connotation, imagery and symbolism:

Words do not have decimal places. (191)

It is a little more than one week into 2007. Here is a prayer for the new year:

O Lord,
Length of days does not profit me except the days are passed
        in thy presence, in thy service, to thy glory.
Give me a grace that precedes, follows, guides, sustains,
        sanctifies, aids every hour,
    that I may not be one moment apart from thee,
    but may rely on thy Spirit
        to supply every thought,
        speak in every word,
        direct every step,
        prosper every work,
        build up every mote of faith,
        and give me a desire
            to show forth thy praise,
            testify thy love,
            advance thy kingdom.
I launch my bark on the unknown waters of this year,
        with thee, O Father, as my harbour,
             thee, O Son, at my helm,
             thee, O Holy Spirit, filling my sails.
Guide me to heaven with my loins girt,
                        my lamp burning,
                        my ear open to thy calls,
                        my heart full of love,
                        my soul free.
Give me thy grace to sanctify me,
        thy comforts to cheer,
        thy wisdom to teach,
        thy right hand to guide,
        thy counsel to instruct,
        thy law to judge,
        thy presence to stabilize.
May thy fear be my awe,
        thy triumphs my joy.

This is adapted from historical Puritan prayers by Arthur Bennett in the outstanding book The Valley of Vision.

God moves in a mysterious way
His wonders to perform;
He plants His footsteps in the sea
And rides upon the storm.

Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never failing skill
He treasures up His bright designs
And works His sovereign will.

Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take;
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break
In blessings on your head.

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust Him for His grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.

His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding every hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flower.

Blind unbelief is sure to err
And scan His work in vain;
God is His own interpreter,
And He will make it plain.

— William Cowper

This great poem also serves as a hymn; see the music at the Cyber Hymnal.

Small is the trust when love is green
In sap of early years;
A little thing steps in between
And kisses turn to tears.

Awhile – and see how love be grown
In loveliness and power!
Awhile, it loves the sweets alone,
But next it loves the sour.

A little love is none at all
That wanders or that fears;
A hearty love dwells still at call
To kisses or to tears.

Such then be mine, my love to give,
And such be yours to take:-
A faith to hold, a life to live,
For lovingkindness’ sake:

Should you be sad, should you be gay,
Or should you prove unkind,
A love to hold the growing way
And keep the helping mind:-

A love to turn the laugh on care
When wrinkled care appears,
And, with an equal will, to share
Your losses and your tears.

–Robert Louis Stevenson