I’ve heard of those on milk and honey fed
But when I set about to eat
I found instead
Of heavenly bread
The food of earth surpassing sweet.
My hunger cried for pungent nourishment
Yet ached still more in satiety
For one more bite
Of tart delight
From dainties that beguiled the eye.
I wanted to sing praises to the Lamb
But in my heart the sound I heard
Was not I-Am
But chiseled sham,
A wrought idolatry of word.
Ambition radiated its own light
And pushed the rhymes away from You,
A lust for night
Safe from Your sight
But blazing in the world’s view.
So make my final songs, O, to ring true
That no broken distance lies
Between, Lord, You
And my own view
Until at evening singing dies.
©1985 New Oxford Review. All Rights Reserved.
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Borne up by priestly hands beyond the dark
The clean oblation of the harvest moon…
The sleeping bells, the stolid sounds
Locked in the iron tower
O Lord, what notion of hyperbole.
What willed and wild imagining was born