Psalm 2 I kiss the son – an unexpected spark, warm after the weary watching of this barren night. Dead men and women stand on their heads in the pews around us, indexes outstretched, rigorous, unyielding. Whose son is this? Not mine (I am a dry tree), but still filial joy shimmers in the air, the wind, the breath from his mouth. Wild light laughs above us, a stained-glass uproar. The brazen bowl is cracked, is cracked. The barren shall sing: “Look, the lofty are laid low, princes meet the dust.” Come now, we will talk things over, iron out our differences. We view the dead forms with compassion. Pieces of earth, good will come to men.
This is a Christmas poem, I guess.
The second psalm of David has been circling my mind for the last couple of months: its paradoxes of despair and triumph, of violence and peace. Its dogmatic Messianism.
What does it mean to kiss the Son who receives nations as his heritage? How have you done it?
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