|
Post by MIRIAM JACOB on Feb 19, 2008 22:49:48 GMT -5
The Weathervane Twelve days into Lent, Christ bids us think of him, Refusing the stone-ground bread Of easy fame. And the follower is seen, Poised on a weathervane That’s pointing world-wards. The arrow, straining on a steel rope Of manhandled theology, Groans in the breeze but Cannot swing, Spirit-wind-wards. The rope, woven of studied source and Rational conjecture holds the truth Captive and the arrow seized up In man-proud certainty. Suddenly, the Word bites through The steel and the wind whips the Arrow round to God-wards The mists are cleared, The smouldering of proud man’s Burning-glass scrutiny Counts for nothing In the white heat of God’s Eternal truth.
© Pauline Griffiths
|
|