The Dying Saint: Sacred Poetry
by Cosmic Poet Simon Pole
Trans Solar World Battery image by Joe Haput CC BY-SA
The Dying Saint
This is the counsel I bequeath:
To let the sword rust in its sheath,
And leave the coal upon the grate
And let it not incinerate
The meagre huts where heathens dwell,
We must not carry with us hell.
We bring the water and the care,
And not the disapproving stare
That says you’re wrong and I am right,
And long have you been cloaked in night,
For I too am the height of sin,
But partnered life let us begin.
March we cheerful the double mile,
While singing, praiseful all the while,
And right the stumbler, brace the weak,
By this we show to those who seek
That in His love each day we live,
Who Heaven’s taste on earth can give.
You ask me, children, what of me?
As I look back, what do I see?
I see the peace which healed this land
When each black baron gave his hand
And no more vowed would they run loose,
But law obey, with bar and noose.
I see the church where lay the beds,
And thereupon the fevered heads
Of those without a home or purse,
Where Christ in us became their nurse.
O holy minster, built for love,
Ring out the bells for God above!
And see the books are kept in line,
With names preserved upon the spine,
For those in faith who come to be,
Enthused to read the homily,
The lives, the works, the learnèd lore,
What food their minds will have in store.
And of my bones think not so much
Of reliquaries rich and such,
But let me rest in coffin plain,
Beneath the soil, where soaks the rain,
And there await the trumpet peal,
For who away can safety steal?
But even if this house should fall,
And fighters in the pasture call,
Be not afeard, for mansions great
Await in heaven, your estate,
And of the harvest more shall seed,
To sprout in sheaves when comes the need.
I see the angels, in they crowd,
I hear the voices, praises loud,
Of all the saints, who doff their crowns.
I see the white, unblemished gown
Of Him who rules, I grasp the hem,
Away, away I’m lift to them.
O bright the light, and pure the sound
Where music is the very ground
On which they tread, a worship full,
Who can resist its steady pull?
An endless choir I rise to meet,
O sing me to the judgment seat.
From the Like a Lamb collection.