To Pleasures Unseen

Look at the baseball field. The poet’s words, a sword to wield. To these pleasures I consistently yield. But heavenly joys I often neglect. Where are the heavenly spires? The bosom that protects against the eternal fires. Where in worship no one tires. And the holy one’s face is clearly seen. What is the reward that is beyond our sight? How are we to navigate through the night, With an invisible joy as our guiding light? How can wicked hearts love one who is perfect? And this thought perplexes me: The one weeping in Gethsemane. For his alienation from the holy trinity. A fellowship not known by mortal men. And yet my heart tends to go, Towards the summer, and to the snow. My love is for things that I know. But the holy fellowship I‘ve never seen. I can boast of the poet’s words. I can admire the fish and the birds. I can point to harmonies written in thirds. But the Holy one’s face I cannot describe. Man in his mind’s eye. Can conjure up griffins and fairies that fly. As well as fraudulent gods in the sky. But a true deity he cannot draw a picture. For the company of friends we are grateful. In our camaraderies we are playful. But we don’t desire to sit at the trinity’s roundtable. Of that friendship we are alien. And if there is a heavenly hymn able to touch my ear. My eardrum may never again resound, I fear. The face of the savior unclear, To a mere golem returning to the mud.