Unlike its handlers and ignorers, it cannot pretend.
Bothered by the faithful twice on Sunday
and at least once some other soul-weary night,
It is most sensitive around the iron scroll, where, day in
and day out, hooked fingers brush the arched planks, and
with each touch, lays bare the oak’s softest part.
Surprisingly, the old oak comes alive under the stress:
Not as a hand-crafted, house-beautifying relic,
But as window and release to the bound up soul —
the soul in rags, ropes, or in chains.
The former stem hears from the multitudes,
of the pleasure still found under the sun,
and the regular hunger for heaven’s grace,
For hearts speak through their owners’ hands,
though few are intelligent of it.
Some, like born-agains I’ve known, pull back this door,
creep inside the church and fold themselves neatly into a pew,
seeking deliverance, from a wild nature, or wild market.
Unlike them, I cannot handle that scroll . . .
Can never more than stand near it and stare.
Yet this morning I’ve found
in the seconds after my eyes flicked open,
something like a dream come true; something
that both sinner and saved might glory in.
It was the awareness that Friday was swept away by night,
and Monday’s greedy suck was still two sundowns away.
And with it, joy floated up and about me —
the joy of being, without the weight of doing,
And so I settled back in bed, comforted,
like the unworthy who has known divine favour.