The village road
As I walked along the village road,
Past ploughed fields and shady green,
My hopes and heart above soared
When I saw the smile of a child so lean;
In her hands was a little branch of a tree
To guide the goats to their shelter and home ,
From the fields where the buffaloes graze free,
And the little goats with their mothers roam;
Barefoot she ran with her little brother beside ,
As gossiping women on the roadside sat,
The little boy with his eyes so wide,
Saw the world in a haze somewhat;
Children joined and ran along,
She smiled her carefree , shining smile,
The goats pranced, as if dancing to a song,
The village elders gazed all the while;
Far from the mansioned rich she lives and plays,
In rustic lands where sunshine is free,
Her shabby dress is rich in life always ,
Her village the abode of freedom be;
O village road , lead me there
Where humans share with creatures all ,
Poverty melts in the heart so fair;
And blessings of Nature arrive at every call.
What is heaven like?
This question, framing heaven to the eye,
leads inquirer’s mind astray.
But why?
No,
heaven’s please is not the place,
not multiplied terrestrial joys, celestial virgins,
girls and boys to serve reclining quests,
unending muse and harpist plays,
and minions there to serve the best with sweetest vintage wine
in golden mansioned airy rests.
As if touch and sight and sound and taste
could satisfy the soul.
Yes,
the glassy sea is still.
No more restless pounding of the shore
no ebb and flow of cleansing tide,
no storm disturbs still beating hearts.
The glass no longer dark is clean to see inside,
and to be seen.
It’s not the place that makes for heaven’s rest
but who is dwelling there.
Remember one soul’s final words?
‘Lord, please remember me.’
Not the saint or sainted life but thief's last anguished cry.
And what was our I AM’s reply?
‘Truly you will be with me, with ME
in Paradise.’
Heaven’s rest is where He is, no other place besides.