I drift through the loose talk of liberation, realization,
seven planes, the imminent golden age
of the new humanity. Eternally benevolent,
(the prayer goes) God is. Eternity’s a long time.
Surely His benevolence gets stretched mighty thin.
Cresting the hill, I view the next lonely stretch of highway.
Whoever makes it to those distant mountains won’t be me.
I don’t know who he will be but I wish him well.
It takes a blind, penetrating sorrow to hope for more –
in the long view – from our Creator than His ultimate,
unconcerned benevolence; the Creator of this intricate,
unfathomable, ever-unfolding, tear-and-blood-soaked game.
O child of God, a glint in the current’s flow;
a spark from the blacksmith’s hammer.