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