What Happens to All the Mayhem

March 07, 2017

Cantor and Mentor; what becomes of sin

After your hand, O holy Christ, has entered in?

After a grimy board is wiped, and pristine once again

When Love triumphant burnishes a savage soul.

How might that load of ugliness be shent, or go

Down to the devils contemplating spitefulness below

Or turns it over a new leaf, that better ends might grow

From our iniquities, and confidence follow?

My Lord, how should in custody the world be held

Remanded for its crimes, awaiting trial:

Regardless pantomimes jaunt on their errant paths the while

You give us room; and we interpret madcap anarchy

Like Capital embraces waste, that choice and liberty

Escape conditionals and absent inhibitions,

Your heavenly-made oeconomy allows alike permissions

Whereby our temperamental faculties approve

Such broad arrangements, ample cable is paid

To tangle ourselves up in, suffering escape no ways

Bar supplicating the only One who bears the living clout

Of salient goodness; He uncompromises

Our threaded mazes

His competency blazes radiance from another realm

A place inferred though hardly scanned through ego-centred eyes

Turned-inwards, light shut down, heat-seeking an earthly prize;

Our occulars attainted feed the vaunting Prince of Lies

Melange-mush plain perception cannot make it out

This station of a Presence hovering over

Those waters, skies and lands He made, appointed there still brooding

On care for His Creation, for we sparrow chicks

Flown from a nest of regent reason; tempted, frayed,

Scattered, confused among sown tares are panic strays

Ourselves mere rattle-bags assaulted by impressions;

Whilst life for living real stands waiting counting sands,

Contriving that was flasely done by mercy comes undone

Esteeming wastage from our Fall incalculable in sum

He harbours, countermands it;

Palavas, perturbations, the inconsequential scrum

Contending powers clash for - pole position number one

And yet He turns us as He turns, majestic, unbeknown,

Howso? but yet we’re turned, and evils scathely strown

Supply less woe upon a world intrepid to work its doom,

Become its own worst ragamuffin carnival buffoon.

This poem is also posted at steemit.