Author Information
The Dying Poet's Nearly Final Moments
The dying poet in the faith at last---
now born again, baptized, part of the church---
thought of some poems, the oldest of his past,
and deemed them virtueless: no need to search
for anything, he thought, that could refine
the giddy sense of blasphemous rebellion,
veiled in each dignified and stately line;
the changeless words of one (once) heathen hellion.
He prayed, "Lord, in Your mercy, You received
"me at the very moment I believed.
"But these poems twist my joy in this Salvation,
"and seem to bear the bent of real damnation."
But then that still, small voice---gentle but sure---
said, "Lay back on your pillow; rest from cares
"like this. Remember, as a carpenter,
"with my stepfather I worked: in repairs
"we specialized---much like words' editor.
"Look forward now. Do not make the past's errors
"giants, like old Goliath---boastful terrors.
"That which, in your opinion, has been bent
"can be pounded right out, a simple dent.
"Trust me. Redemption will have its own way,
"in its own time with neither rush nor hurry.
"Lay back, rest now, not tormented by worry.
"Gladly embrace the closing of the day."
Starward
