Tuesday, January 14, 2014

This Thing...part four





Where is this crooning ether-gilded Thing?
It mocks and keens our quiet coveting
A shadow or an echo cannot cloy
Or stuff the searching spirit with its joy
The sorrow-blooms of longing and despair
Have flung their broken petals to the air
And by the heath of laughter’s giddy youth
Time’s disrobed past exhales her somber truth
And still the heart wails with its wondering
Where is this crooning, ether-gilded Thing?

Where is The Thing that heals our innermost
Bereavement with a kind, quickening host
Of softer-sweet forget-ance; ere the bell
Of mourning tolls our long and last farewell
And ever-more its desperation stills
Beneath cold, folded hands and silent wills
Our vainest boast and paltry pittance then
The footfalls in a vale where mighty men
Repose as one with lowliest and weak
The Equalizer leaves nothing to seek

Pale shroud of skin veils thin the screaming heart
And where we fall and crawl, the minor part
Of our existence; hope’s immortal spring
Increases our cry, where is This Thing?
As every now and then vague glimpses of
Something not earthy stuns us; is it Love?
Confession pleads, vain farce; clanging edicts
Without This Thing which comforts and convicts
And still we strive in earnest pursuing
Where is this crooning, ether-gilded Thing?

To be loved once by Love, the great I AM
Fulfills our deepest need; lust’s wretched sham
Distracts, confusion paints a paper smile
Where disappointment lines its plaster guile
Yet we would be calloused, sadly remiss
To count our wants and shake a thankless fist
…the blood-stained God of Calvary implores
Alpha-Omega Love swings wide the doors
Of its inheritance; his Offering
Replies to our cries, Behold This Thing

…and though our shame and wretchedness is great
To call upon His name is not too late
Unless we turn our backs and stop our ears
Until that Great and Awful Day appears
…Another morning tunes our sigh and cry
On season-spangled highways to the sky
Across this sun-sod orb of suffering
We press toward the promise of This Thing
Perfected; not the cloy of ether-gild
But then, the hope of heaven’s joy fulfilled…


© Janet Martin


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