Monday, June 24, 2013

Antipathy and Grace

Three times Paul implored The Lord
(in prayers availless to his pain)
to succour his body of its thorn.
Grace God spake and 'twould sustain,
a balm that seemed to ease him, yet
how long ere grace eclipsed his bane?

For I wake and crave comeuppance,
that Babylonian wrath
that whittled a god-king of his substance.
I'm crushed 'twixt fleshy paragnaths,
a body more millstone than machine
drowning me on its graveward path.

Nothing unburdens this lifelong weight,
this thorn metastasizing its bulk
like stone only Heaven can immolate.
In Christ I have joy, and yet I sulk;
heart drug down into the dirt
for all the living refused by this hulk.

So when does grace supplant disdain?
If this weight-enfeebled vessel
is the ship in which I must remain,
I pray that grace would come and nestle
peace's satiety in me...smiling
through the dint of sifting's necessary pestle.

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