For all those tired and weak
made bitter by hope and reason,
every season winter,
grey, glazed, pale, bleak;
For those, for now, in health and peace
not needing a thing,
Spring! (though still some weeding)
hearts gladdened by (eternal) increase;
For the boy huddled in a ditch.
A gun. A blade. His terrored face
shows not a trace of sun,
not grey but thickest pitch;
For the Tall Summiting Speaker,
Promise-Making (more, or less)
the blessed giving (or is that taking?)
Growing Stronger (perhaps, or weaker);
For lawn-mowers, sport-cheerers,
jittery-flyers heading home,
nose-in-tome while groundless tyres,
For those who see, and feel, a groaning earth,
coastline that disappears
with tears while I drink wine
and analyse my net worth;
For new things wide eyed with wonder
and things old, nearing the end,
not a friend, only cold,
but who have made life their plunder;
For and on all souls and things,
every power and place,
every trace, every hour,
what moves, loves, smiles, sings—
A light! A burning brightness,
searing hot incender of pain
and stain and all that is not,
a blinding, terrifying whiteness.
A light. Beauty, warmth, love,
a story so fierce and tender
the splendour of your glory,
Father, Son, descending dove.
Ah, is this true, such sweet relief?
If so then joy and laughter
ever after is all I know.
I believe, Lord; help my unbelief.