Tuesday, July 10, 2012

The Garden Patch

Within the sore lies a burden, a weight
Of sorrow and more, a bitter spate made
For the darkness that surrounds us, the hate
Of the enemy abounds; for we staid
The hand of God by idle limbs, stayed long
The growth, our laud, of song, of praise and song.
Yet beats the heart with this festering pain,
False hope, this insincere love, a vein of
Pride by which we maintain ourselves in vain;
But called are we still to the feast of love,
This heavenly call from above, and can
We make due by ourselves? Walk in old gloves
Tattered and worn from this youthful spar? Man
May seek in the darkest places for God
Rather than live in the light of day, plods
On in a torrential downpour to say
Forth the inner depths of his reach, to pray
Out in the cries of anger and rage's hand,
And all that men may his song understand;
For within the sore lies sorrow's despair,
Of which no man is more keenly aware
Than the one who seeks for God with his heart,
Who travels through night, proclaims in his art
The growth he has seen from violent boy,
That showed him that life he could sill enjoy.
Thus in the heat of the day we find joy,
In the heart of winter there we employ
A song that warms our hearts and weary limbs;
And in autumn we rejoice in the death
Of the old, that which is soon born anew
In perpetual spring; from which we grew.

                    The Garden Patch, (c) Luke Bennette, July 2012

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