The winding week is done, its work is over
The veiling night draws near, now dim the light
Its time to take account of all its triumphs
And put its problems prayerfully aside
Once ready, rest awhile and rediscover
That peaceful place that every person needs
Recall your core, your heart, your cornerstone
And gladly let the God of grace within
It’s Friday night!
(23.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Giorgio Trovato on Unsplash
A delicate beauty,
This life is prone and fragile.
Like sheets of golden leaf it’s
Capable of invoking awe
Before crumbling under
The weight of our passing breath.
Caring for my parents has reminded me of the preciousness and fragility of life.
(20.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Patrick Hendry on Unsplash
Hope, the belief that things can change,
that just as night turns into day
these troubled paths can be rearranged.
Hope, the belief in a better way
than we experienced yesterday.
Hope, the belief that despite the past,
there’s more to life than fickle chance.
I wasn’t sure what to write tonight and so picked out a form I hadn’t tried before, a Chaucerian Stanza, which uses an ABABBCC rhyming pattern.
(18.01.26)
Amidst the chaos there lies a line.
It weaves a way, a golden thread
of grace, not chalk or string, through life’s
varied and unpredictable maze.
A fragile thing, at first it seems
too fine, invisible and prone,
and yet, persistent, it somehow snakes
through life’s ragged ups and downs.
A golden thread that is not precious,
that rolls up its well worn sleeves,
knows life in all its care and messiness,
that dares to tread the dangerous street.
It does not force, or bend, or break,
it simply finds a way for feet to trace
when eyes are dark, imagination
spent. This path is known as love.
It’s been a week of trying to find a way through some tricky pastoral situations.
(09.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Vasilica Ciocan on Unsplash
To the tune of Hark the Herald…
Father God we thank you for:
Family that comes from all over,
Children and grandchildren that bring us joy,
New friends, old friends, good friends getting older,
Dogs and goldfish, don’t forget the guinea pigs,
Health and healing, sunshine and the rain,
180 thousand raised so far
and lots of guests on our Alpha.
Father God we thank you for
Mercy and forgiveness that on us you pour!
Last Sunday, we drew up a list of things we were grateful for from the year that was just finishing. It was suggested that perhaps we could make a song out of them, so here they are, slightly adapted, as used in our service today to the tune of a well-known Christmas carol.
(04.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Wilhelm Gunkel on Unsplash
The winter’s sky, the bitter pale,
Bites our faces and bleaches soil,
Its cutting sun burns scars in our sight,
With crispness of air and blinding light.
The iron ground and crinkling step,
That crunches under frozen foot,
Is joined above by a piercing breeze,
Whipping shivering birds and naked trees.
And we, caressed by dying sun,
In melancholy are undone,
And looking forward count the cost,
Mourning the things that aren’t yet lost.
Inspired by a chilly walk and a line I read today.
(02.01.26)
© Ben Quant 2026
Photo by Polina Kuzovkova on Unsplash
The Lee is grey, reflecting the winter sky.
The piercing wind penetrates my coat,
and sharply flutters around my ears and collar.
The heat drains from my fingers. I start to shiver.
Along the bank the swans stick out no more;
today their feathers blend with the monochrome. We stop to feed them. Guzzling eagerly,
they have their fill, stretching their necks for more.
We walk on by the boats, bouyed on by hope,
as Christmas lights break through the gathered gloom.
A winter walk along the River Lee with the family.
(28.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Boxes, a family joke at Christmas:
an unwrapped box may not contain
the items on the cover, so don’t
be fooled or disappointed by them.
A WiFi router may in fact be
a cafetiere, a bulb some undies,
a clock a disguised set of tools.
So set your face against surprise
and open cautiously with imagination!
Boxing day and we’re surrounded by the wreckage of unwrapping from the day before…
(26.12.25)
The dying chords of our final carol ring,
A pilgrimage around the busy motorway,
Percussive rattle of the brown concrete surface,
No star to follow for us this Christmas Day.
The King speaks on journeys as a nation eats,
The rustle of our golden paper crowns,
Alcohol doused, to cheers the pudding burns,
Now Santa Claus has finally come to town.
Shirt sleeves rolled up and dirty dishes stacked,
Hot water bubbles as cooking pans are scoured,
Cautiously, old vegetable water is drained away,
No doubt the brussel sprouts will linger for hours.
With belts let out we sit, the mood relaxes,
Our daily lives for now are put aside,
And as our sleepy senses fade we hear,
The ancient echoes of Mary’s baby cry.
It’s been a lovely Christmas Day, full of sights, sounds and senses. Merry Christmas all!
(25.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by freestocks on Unsplash
Christmas Eve is done
Full of wonderful surprise
One more service left
Speaks for itself.
(24.12.25)
© Ben Quant 2025
Ode for the Day 