760 and 766

I saw a cross upon the ground, and said:

it hasn’t done enough for me. I can’t,

with all by which I am already led,

be led to this cross, and, my own, recant.

I saw The Cross upon the page I read,

and said it’s done what my best cannot do—

goes farther than my weary feet can tread,

goes unto all, to me and unto you.

I said, I’ll help to bear that Cross. It’s done

more than I can repay. Its Bearer said:

look down—I saw the first I’d overrun,

and bore in me an all-too conscious dread.

The Savior’s cross I yearn to bear is not:

but shows up, shattered, where I have not sought.

~~~

The other room teems with unfettered toil,

while I, a very fettered toil attempt.

My heart has met its match—its fullest foil—

as I write quietly, and seethe contempt.

As part of me can recognize this mood

from ones that I have read. What youthful joy

I listen to, and upon which I brood,

that I once worshipped when I was a boy?

And how do I repay that worship now?

As if it were a heathen god of yore,

who I know better now than to allow

my reverence, preferring quiet more.

But quiet never was a synonym

with goodness. Loud has never been a sin.