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.