Balm of Eucharist
We blind Bartaemus we have heard about the temple gate
But have seen no road, nor map for getting there
We only day after day hear the direction the footsteps wears away
And wait injudiciously for the balm of our impediment,
For the seeming joy of crowds coming back
More jubilant than the haste that past our darkness
Tucked away in ouurselves. And we longing
For sight and healing and splendour of the light
From steeple frolicking into adoring eyes and heart,
Yes, we with palms outstretched and ritual of crying,
We come. Here by this gate, the very entrance
To a bolder paradigm of self, and fresh beginning
More than morning dew showering dusty feet
More than mnemonic counting of sound and day's receipt
More than the abundant paradox of divine grace
And feel no difference in the coming and going
But hear the same irreverent haste
Without a native context of meaning for shadowed goals
Without strategic management of dreamers dream
Without wisdom to make the talent multiply
The birds cry above the temple roof all day in arid air
And find no crumb of bread or latent faith of vision
But we blind Bartaemus wait. There is a distant rumbling
A different shuffling of the feet, a better coming of hope
Light, light, light those footsteps fall
Without the weight and bagage of false history
Silver and gold they have not provided for
But we have authority to walk
From these cobbled stones like prisons of his vision crippled
So our cripleness blind feel our legs independence
And tongue the praise of eucharist
And with olympian effort set our jubilee at the finish line
In hedonistic glee.
Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2012
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