Ash Wednesday at Mount Angel Abbey

Have a holy Lent.


Ash Wednesday at Mount Angel Abbey

Alight, as lancing shadows line
the cedar-stippled field,
cross-cutting dells of foggy wine
decanted from a yield
of water sifted from the brine
and ocean waves. The mountain spine
has split the sky and steeled

the stony face of Benedict
as, from the tower, sounds
a brazen chorus, chanting strict
and antiquated rounds.
The brume may dull the derelict
before it spreads its interdict
across the lowland grounds,

but we are near the narthex wall,
and nearer, so, to God.
No mist can mute the solemn call,
nor check its ring abroad.
The carillon will conquer all
in claps and volleys from the tall
and eminent facade.

Yet, this is not an endless hymn;
the monks may only pull
as long as morning light is dim
and dew is on the wool.
So, clapper rests against the rim
and we proceed, subdued and grim,
until the nave is full.

The service is a whispered chant
the brethren barely pace,
and organ music drowns the cant.
The abbot's even face
regards us in the dawning slant
of tinted light. That God may grant
us forty days of grace

is on his lips. An ashen brand
is on each earth-bound head.
The host is elevated and
the sacred words are said.
This Lent, as soon begun as spanned,
no more, nor less, a holy hand
to lift us, ever longing, from the dead.