I know of no debate,
No topic so traversed, or verse that
Breaks apart or mars entropically;
No stalking pox that's
Capable of mocking
What this Grace can make;
No fable fraught with darkness
That can lock it up,
No saber that can rattle battle cries,
And so deny,
The magic in its walks and wake.
Though tragedy and malice may
Conspire to deride and try the
Light within its chalice;
Though they with eyes might cry,
And solemn sighing may depart my heart,
Embarking towards the heavens,
Seeking healing from the heavy heft
That all these dreaded lessons can impart,
I find a harkening that greets this mustard seed,
Departing sorrow and remarking:
There is nothing more that I could ever need,
And ever shall it be.
Ever shall I sew the seeds which grow to grain
That no explaining can encompass:
I am, free.
No danger in the rage of raucous ruckus
Running rampage.
No sword can slay its Word
Or whisk its wings away.
I wish, only, to stay within it;
Lose my lonely bloviations, sins, and stains;
Embrace what's whole again;
Train my soul to sing in glorious elations;
Taste the Grace that's given to us all
By answering the call
So long awaited.
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