I must think of you only once a week.
Once only weekly may I love you back.
Though all the world will tell me to be meek,
will tell me to seek humbly, I must lack.
For lack is better worship—just for now.
The time will come when we will have our way.
Soon, every hour and every thought will bow
each other-ward, but that is not today.
I long for it. But only once a week.
I cannot let my yearning own my will.
But know that all I do is meant to seek
the day you shall, my mind and my time, fill.
Though now I leave my love for once a week,
and give my smiter, God, my other cheek.
~~~
Not thee, Lord. I should not have accused thee
when bruised, tho thou art he who owns my cross.
It is a complex band that bruises me—
not just the serpent—legion is my loss.
Tho thou dost administrate all these things,
I, too, have cast my lot, and wilfully.
To own not what I’ve drawn from fate’s trappings
serves only to bruise further bruiséd me.
Thy hand is on the agent, and will bless
what man will do with what he has been given.
It will forgive all faults, and will caress
the dying for what darts have in them driven.
No dart has flown from thee, but thou dost see;
and ask not but what thou hast borne from me.