The Vanishing God
Go home, old man, turn to your bed
and draw the covers to your eyes;
there is no papa in the skies
to hear your prayers,
were you to dare to frame them.
No spirit hovering?...to flood your mind
with golden streets? No harps
employed by pretty messengers
with sunbeam hair?...no enemies
to tread beneath your feet?
Go home.
Our censers do not swing for you;
our choristers sing out of tune,
our crowns, bereft of stars,
are tawdry bibelot
to weigh you down. Ironically,
your heaven just passed you by
and left your saving Lord to die
alone.
All you have left is the unknown,
a bit of awe, perhaps,
a sense of mystery
and cries to an eternity of silence
unaware that you are even there.
Your peace, your rest
is not in sacrifice or penitence
but listening, never mindful
of reply.
Old fellow, what have you to say?
"My children, how I wish
that you might understand
that I am merely blessed--
despite my failure to express
the swirl of the ineffable
around my head...confounded
only by an adversary,
too hard pressed
to speak of anything
but love."
~
Copyright © Robert Ludden | Year Posted 2013
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