Spirituality

Poem 756 – The Way

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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

Poem 751 – Psalm of Thanksgiving

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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

Poem 749 – Under January Skies

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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

Poem 744 – December Walk

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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

Poem 742 – Boxing Day

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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)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Hert Niks on Unsplash

Poem 741 – Christmas ’25

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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

Poem 737 – Ten Lines, Ten Minutes

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I only had ten minutes to trace the journey
from heaven to earth, the Word to flesh descending.
The Son becoming one with us for love
takes on our form, enters fragility,
and there is shunned. Pursued they flee,
the holy family, to Egypt’s bosom.
Asylum sought, by strangers saved, until
at last they can return. Can time compress
this sacrifice? Ten minutes can’t suffice,
but asks us if we’d welcome them today.

I had the privilege of preaching at a local church’s carol service today, and the challenge of compressing the awe and challenge of Christmas into just ten minutes. I thought I’d try again in ten lines.
(21.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Kevin Bückert on Unsplash

Poem 735 – Abracadabra?

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A card trick?
In front of a school of children?
What could possibly go wrong?
In fact it turns out quite a lot…

They say that if at first you don’t
succeed, that you should try, try, try
again? But after that? Press on?

Eventually it worked, I think,
a prize for my resilience but
I think they may have noticed…

And so I waved my magic wand
and wished myself away. Alas,
I failed to manage that as well!

Every year I do the school Christingle service on the last day of term. It has become a tradition that I do a Christmas magic trick. Usually it works…
(19.12.25)

© Ben Quant 2025
Photo by Clifford Photography on Unsplash