“You never go away from us, yet we have difficulty in returning to You. Come, Lord, stir us up and call us back. Kindle and seize us. Be our fire and our sweetness. Let us love. Let us run.” -St. Augustine
Humanity starves for substance.
Souls roam aisles of things for rest, craving weight with the shelves,
And glory with the ground.
But still we settle for the saccharine.
Today we’ll toss on the sickly bed of ease –
We’ll run and make our hearts pulse tomorrow, we say. Again.
They’re running. Those sons of my generation –
And their arms are airplane wings in the library room
While the already-burdened almost-grown-up
Drowns his sighs by turning up the music and turning down his mind in one fell slump.
Am I like one? I must say that I’m both.
Running seems glorious, but aren’t my affections too weak? I’ve heard it takes pain.
So I lose sight of glory, and I want to slump again.
But my sighs can’t stay in the sickbed –
Love is drawing them to health through making them
Take flesh: in words, in weepings, in wading this human mess
With the bravery of grace and eternity’s glimmer in his eye.
“Take my hand, let us run.
Glory is waiting.”