One grave truth
We get easily spooked viewing the cold,
shoveled up clods and clumps
of that unadorned hole in the clay.
We rush away down worldly-rutted paths
that lead back only to the stone
with our name on it, flirting uneasily
along the way with the great Rulemaker
and the heaven-or-hell Hereafter –
more a credulous element of denial
than a whole-hearted embrace
of that one grave truth. Most acquire their religion,
or the rejection of it, from fifth-hand,
word-of-mouth pulpits and scripture.
Only a few receive the real Word –
most have no ears for it –
and respond by leaping into the open grave,
to begin their digging there
for the faintly rumored water of life,
a thousand leagues deep in the dust
of innumerable lifetimes yet to come.
O child of God, the eternal wellspring, says Meher,
lies in the graveyard dust at the Master’s feet.