Encolpion xi.


If I thought your slavery could stay My Heart and serve
I would stand on your neck; I see your joy, I know what you adore.
To hear Me is tyranny, but you run to your captors.
I am only as strong as the cautions of My hurt.

My small, swirled dust, what kind of God am I?
There was a summer that, like a child, I had come
with all the stars their water down to Sodom
and gave them flowers and broke no dying.

Yet you for all your consequence can sell your crown
for a love you want now, far beyond what now can give,
and burn its violent kingdom to the ground

with no message to the forward towns
who I will have to hear in prayer and My own work forgive
and be through My grave the harrow and the sound.
 

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                           © Habley Mouse, a Private Press, 2011.  All rights reserved.  (Poetry by William Frank)
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