A Different Ending
And Longing for That End
As an antidote to the generally morose tone of the previous post, I offer you two other poems, both about the longing for heaven. This life is often a bitter struggle against circumstances and personalities, including our own. We strive to do our best but often fail. Yet within us, there is a voice that says, “Is this all there is? We are born, we struggle and we die?”
C.S. Lewis described this longing for something more as a piercing call from a distance to each of us that says, “There is more.” For each of us, different experiences will activate that longing. For Lewis, it was Norse tales. For others, it may be an exquisite work of art, a splendid scene from nature, a haunting melody, or the soft kiss of a child’s lashes against your neck as it snuggles in your arms. I do not speak of comfort or happiness, because this longing is an ache in the heart, a deep desire like the longing of a lover for his beloved. Nothing but the beloved can ease the ache.
I long for the heavenly city, the New Jerusalem. Jesus is my beloved. I see His handiwork in nature, and music moves me most when it recalls me to Him. I hear that far-off call in the words of the Beatitudes. Blessed are the poor…blessed are those who mourn… blessed are those who hunger and thirst after holiness… blessed are the pure in heart….I have often tried to capture that longing in words, to put it on paper, or into music.
The best I have done so far are the two poems I copy here. Please accept them for what they are—not Dante, John Donne, or George Herbert. I have not their art. Only their desire.
These poems were originally published in Unexpected Journal, September 7, 2022.
The Plains of Heaven, John Martin, c.1851-3. © Tate, Photo © Tate. Image released under Creative Commons CC-BY-NC-ND (3.0 Unported).
Home At Last Homesick hungry weary lonely Hearts beleaguered, yet unbowed. Still we seek thee ancient beauty Shining prospect glimpsed through cloud. Bright horizon, distant city Where our joy cries out, “Receive!” Where our hearts are stilled and gentled, Love the atmosphere We breathe. Hearts that long for such a morning Find no ease in emptiness— Ancient beauty sate our yearning, Slake our thirst for holiness. For with thee the new day dawning, Soft and sweet all dread now ceasing, Peace and righteousness shall kiss And joy will ring out love’s Great Feast.
Song of Songs, 2022 I. I am a window shopper Leaning against the window Of the world, broke and hopeless In the lonely city at midnight. I wander wastelands of Facebook, Twitter, and Tumblr, hoping that someone Might speak my name and say Yes, I know you, He was here. Instead, they turn and beat me. A ceaseless ache drives me out. To seek you in empty streets, O daughters of the city, I cry, Have you seen him? Has he passed this way? Do not awaken love until it please, they say. This love is dry and hidden I say, Like dust in my mouth, I cannot taste it. I am parched--I cannot speak. Grit rasps my throat. The desert wind taunts me: “You only croak his name. He will not hear. He will pass by.” I am forsaken. O daughters of the city Give me hope! Our sister is a hidden garden. Though she knows it not The king desires her beauty. Do not waken love until it please. A time and times and a time, Still broke and leaning on windows, I wait in darkness, until it please. II. From summit to city he leaps-- Life surges up, wakes from sleep Blind eyes turn upward The deaf hear, the lame walk. His seal he sets on the waters To mark his redeemed, root and branch, . Joy wells up, burning bright, The weight of his gaze Takes my breath. How shall I bear This day of all days? His voice enfolds me: I have formed you, Walked beside you, Never left you. You are all fair, my love, So have I greatly desired this day. See, a wedding dress jeweled, decked in gold. I shall make you a tower of ivory, You shall be as one who brings peace. I say,”Amen.” And the weight of glory Prostrates me. My love is a stag on the heights He comes, he goes, we know not the hour His path he has made where none else have gone His patience and mercy outlast the stars. He waits ‘til it please, O citizens, A time and times and a time For he knows at his coming all things rise.
Wow! Well, the others are a little dense reading compared to mine
I like them better than Dante, John Donne, or George Herbert.