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At Paradise Aloft, Above The Demons Watching
Truth rises up while our false riddles lie.
It struts about while we rest, idly, by;
and shakes our chains, like trinkets, from each arm:
they fall like ticks or trifles with no harm
done to the truth. That which will come to pass,
will come despite the way that we harass;
despite relentless effort, as each sucks
a soul's joy down. We are like limping ducks
that flap long-broken wings, and quack a noise---
loud, squawking, but yet no annoyance to Him.
Look there---the raptured, pristine paradise
aloft, borne up on wings of cherubim,
to thrive and grow, now, at the old Home Place,
His Heaven, infinite beyond the skies---
there to receive the first with faith in Grace.
