A poem for a gray Monday night in Virginia when all is in flux and spin:
God is less God when men must mercy beg;
What father wants his children on their knees,
Hands mendicant in supplication, pegged
With nails of shame, souls dark as troubled seas?
What God wants piteous wails? Does God want eyes
Like anguished auditors of pain or tongue
That do in terror twist the air with cries
From maddened hearts heaped high with ash and dung?
What good father would manufacture doom
To bring his children to such mean estate?
Did God not seed with love our hearts to bloom,
Graft faith to hope to bear our worldly weights?
By our own lights do we diminish God.
He points to stars; we shrinking cling to sod.
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