The child of God
Gazes upwards, neck cricked,
At heaven.
Small, but a worm,
Under the pale
Vast grandness of the All-Knowing.
The voice inside,
The prick of conscience,
The invention of guilt.
Trainers and rucksacks
Treading the marble beneath;
More worms of the years
Forgotten now as to dust returned,
Unworthy even those crumbs to gather.
An enforced gratitude
For a birthright of meaningless, beautiful life.
Retain it not
For it is not yours to own,
Absolved
Of your meaning,
Of the salt of yourself.
Not taken but given freely
In obedience
To your elders, wisers,
To the Father
Who knows better
That place between your ears
You call home.
No. Close the drawbridge,
Gather your thoughts close
And huddle, safe.
For the cricked-neck vaults
Are but stones
The worms climbed upon,
Dreamed up
And made
And hauled aloft
By man’s endeavour,
Not by God’s.
Counsel kept,
Own mind restored;
Cast not your ‘burden’ upon the Lord.
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