THE ANGEL'S SHARE (For Season Of Creation)

Margie 1

Today (September 1, 2022) sees the beginning of the Season Of Creation when, once a year, the Christian family unites for a worldwide celebration of prayer and action to protect our common home.

This summer we have watched the climate crisis encroach with temperatures rising beyond prediction. 

This is the art of the God that we call abba Father in the Lord's Prayer.

If anyone should care about the wondrous creation it is those who believe such. 

I wrote this poem as a kind of Psalm of praise to the God of Creation for Ballycastle, where we spend so much of our leisure time.  

The first verse is standing where the river meets the sea in Ballycastle.

The second verse was written as I showed a few American friends around Dunluce castle. I was looking out the gap of an old window and some of the stones of the castle ruins was the same shape as the Giant’s Causeway, sitting round the coast in the direction that I was looking.

The Angel’s Share is the aroma that wafts off the vats at the Bushmills’ whiskey distillery. I saw this evening time by the north Antrim coast as the leftover beauty of the day for those same angels.

Rich Mullins’ song Colour Green inspired the idea for the last verse and then we get to that moment where Jesus dies in the face of all of the world's injustice... including the justice for the earth ravaged for selfish gain. 


The moon is walking on the water

From her home above Fair Head

Like a light bulb lit up in heaven

Much more beautiful without a lamp shade

Like a ballerina she shimmers across

Just gently skimming off the dance floor

Gliding on the waves in her yellow dress

Before waltzing up along the seashore

And two gulls shooting the evening breeze

How they spent there day and where

And alone I stand in epiphany

Breathing in the angel’s share.


I’m gazing out the eastern window

To these ancient walls rich seam

Born in a clash of volcano and sea

Erupting from the sculptor of heaven’s dreams

And west, I see a painting hangs

Of eternal colour and deepest mystery

Six short days to set up the canvas

Then sketching on by the numbers of history

And friends are taking photographs

Faded imitations of what is there

And alone I stand in epiphany

Breathing in the angel’s share.


From where in your imagination came waves caressing

Where in eternity did you think blue sea

From where the depth and breadth of ocean

And where did you come up with me

From where in your imagination came the sun descending

Where in eternity did you think red sky

From where did you conjure the dream of love

And the idea that you’d have to die

The idea that you’d have to die

The idea that God would have to die.


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