In the Wheat ~ Songs in your Presence


We ached to be monks in white cowls
and contemplate,
unaware that
then and there
You were treating us
to favors
that seasoned monks
had never tasted.


And time ran straight down
through our days
like a gurgling brook
through a lush green glade.


Where is
that shiny little tuning fork
they used
to launch us on
our charted course
to distant depths
on tidy swells of flowing chant?

They said Gregorian
was sound on beaded threads
floating on waves of fervor
to surge into the presence of Him
to Whom our song attended.


Remember how I thought
a proper goal for me would be
to be a saint,
"to Your greater glory"?

Even then I felt You chiding me
conniving with words
while praying to You
from my semantic subterfuge.
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