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The Realm of Work

I had not yet been buffeted

As I was on that flight--we turned

and turned again--the plane kept tight

Those rivets, very snug. That flight

Was short and now thoughts briefly churned

By turns were settled, quieted.

The job would never be for me.

Before the man could offer it,

The board removed both it and him.

But things do not remain so grim.

Here come some other trips, I sit

On other planes. I carefully

Have planned to be presentable,

And so God will direct. And now

I finally have work--spent years

Along this river--sometimes tears

I washed away. And surely how

Much time has passed--restorable,

Remade, no surface faded here

In this fine building--riverside

And railroad side--they wreck and build

A fresh design--a floor is filled

With new workspace I never eyed

Before. It all becomes a pier

When waters rise, but gentler flow

Prevails now. No torrential flood

Has swept this building, swirled around

Its fine stones, boards, and formed a mound

Of trash embedded in the mud.

And so to present job I go.

Yes! All these things can break--I work

With them while they do not! How goes

The atheist about these things

Without some dread? My cell phone rings;

Wrong number. I have stress that grows.

Control it, do not go berserk.

That river flows most quietly.

It bids me settle in my mind

That God's world flows in constant ways,

While it conceals a constant maze

Of shallows and of deep, dark kind

of bottom that is deeply free.

And yet a world designed for me

Continues on its way. And I

Go on, remarkably preserved.

Some places may be closed, reserved,

Rebuilding going on. Reply

To nothing--look, someday you'll see

The finished rooms they will have made,

Cascades of nouveau furnishing.

But now I want to peek before

They lift the veil. Let's strive for more

Prosperity. Look! Flourishing

In such a place—that sound of talk

Of friends. Impossible the quest

Appears while I sit in my seat

Alone within my cubicle.

The work that's given me, a tool

For publishing, my eyes are beat,

While I sit in this angled nest.

And what about the future? I

Know naught but precious promises

To hold me up. The Bible's words

Are golden, sparkling, while great herds

Of chatter run; man's wisdom says,

"I'm coming on, don't stop to cry,

The conquest will be final. See

What power I command." But no!

God's word I must believe. Those words

Of promise will outlast the sherds

That natural men proclaim to sew

And then accept--a tapestry

For their fine magazines--select

Fine clothes and books they say define

The gifted mind. But this will not

Prevail--they'll say they stirred the pot--

But He who sits in heaven laughs--

And this triumphant God is mine.

And now that we, remote at home,

Both dwell and work, I walk by faith.

So carry on, believer. Know

God's Word--it's true--and you will see

The end of all chastisements soon.

This life will end with sun and moon

Dimmed by God's glory in His City.

They, and Man's wisdom, soon will go.

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