Rest. On the throne he sits, replete, His work to buy his own, complete. In peace and vic'try, end to end He calls us now with naught to spend to drink and dine and sing. Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash
The bench rushes back - but in shade; I am frail.
What can I do with a God so great?
Both of my languages falter and fail
I can't map him out, nor conjugate
to describe self-existence. Stripped of my tongue
I stumble on adjectives, things unachievable,
descriptions no creature has ever owned.
For all are from
the source independent, of glory unthievable,
whose name is I AM, rightly enthroned.
And I with my middling eyes going blind
take pandemic a burden with duty, a vast
and great omnipresence, a spacetime in mind;
I fail as a god. "O, help me to cast
off the babbling scurry, the Martha, to kneel
and dwell in your presence, my heart to be light
each day to firm know the sure hope that awaits.
O God, reveal
further knowledge of you and your powerful might
that works in the hills and saves my state."
For the valley between, full of shadows and blinds
is an bringer of Death to a mortal so small.
But the God of Aseity, scaled for mankind
yet holding Jupiter, walks with me all
through the chaos, and joyfully lays on a feast.
Days are no panic for him, no restraints,
for he is their maker: great comfort indeed!
And I the least
at this table surrounded by sinners made saints
will take in the bread and the wine, all I need.
It’s probably a good idea to read this poem too, which came before:
Thank you for reading. I’ll be glad for your comments.