New given every morning is the gold
of treasures, blessings, grace foretold,
when burning light shows so bright
that it destroys the depths of night.
Planks of Midas’ walk are laid wide; high
above the world to show there in the sky
that He who claims all things as His own
does not neglect a single morning to show
that no dark or troubled times forever last.
He will come and break our heaven-fast!
Just as each night brings golden hours
and even thorned bushes produce sweet flowers,
so shall there come a final chord ringing
from silver trumpets triumphantly singing:
“All ye redeemed – come up to me!
Out from those graves! Out from the sea!
Meet me now on this gold-winged dawn
where I have for countless eons
proclaimed this day would certainly come.
Did you not know the truth of my sun?
Each night’s dark strength, which seemed so deep
and marred many a heart too sweet
or robbed your loved one fast away,
each one unavoidably yielded to day.
With every rising, bright-yellow sun
my unwavering declaration
was that my triumph was complete!
No nightly terror could defeat
the King who called light into being,
and from it banished dark by drinking
the cup of all night’s foulest filth.
Now sin is dead, and I bring wealth!
So come, all children; precious flock,
and meet me quickly here atop
the world, where daily promises billed
might on this day be ripe: fulfilled!”
The Mighty reigns! Oh glorious King!
He will return on dawn-laden wings!
Rippling waves distort the world;
are as constant as the sun.
The calm brutality is like pre-meditated murder;
like a lion who does not leave his den
but waits for those who wander by;
like an endless fire which does not rage,
but calmly, effortlessly destroys just the same.
To drown in these waves would be altogether unlike the kindness of water.
In fact, the mind would beg for such a thing.
Do not believe the calm, nor the quiet.
It is only the unconcern of far-superior strength.
Waves of death blast haze and silent grey
out over the endless salt flat deserts.
Thunder is best enjoyed alone
so that the safety (and pretense) of numbers
might leave one to truly see.
When ocean breakers crash in upon the cliffs,
the myriad stones absorb the pow’r at once,
and so they lean; rely upon the others.
But one man, solitary and small,
who stands on earth’s shore
in the face of thunderous waves
which crash down upon his single brow;
who has no strength but that which resides
in his own tiny limbs –
this man sees his soul.
The overbearing weight of rumbling thunder
bursts away the façade of culture.
The gaping precipice yawns below
to send back to your heart the frightful echoes
of him who did not know his soul.
What answer can you give to the storm?
Will your fashion quiet the sky?
Will your wit quell the breakers?
Have you any answer to the fury above?
When pretense is broken and wit holds no charm;
when you find all worldly trappings stripped away;
when you sense the depth of your helplessness,
what will sustain you? Will you endure?
Heed the manifold wisdom revealed:
seek the king whose will the storm obeys.
The crickets trill;
yet my eyes are open.
Lamp post light through rainy glass
turns my dark walls into shimmering liquid,
and still my eyes are open.
You are none of these things.
I want to sit in the evenings, haggard but joyful,
and rise in the morning unrested.
There are words not spoken to me.
There is something my eyes do not see,
and yet my eyes are open.
©2011 Daniel Lowry. All rights Reserved.