a poem, written in a season now past

There is a golden light, illumining here...

There is a golden light illumining here,

Even if shrouded by trumpeting fears. 

There is a golden thread, taut, so near.

Though stretched thin, tenser o’er years.

  

Insanity’s depths, serenity’s strength.

Melancholy's loneliness, solitude’s joy—mere

living, it seemed, we did in those days.

But an ever-present God-help didst clear

  

Away all my sins, pollution, and hate.

Didst, too, train my passions of late,

Which stole joy from my heart in violent spate.

For all this taking, He re-news a peaceful sate.

  

I trust in Thee, Always Present, seldom sung,

Who for our dread glory upon tree was hung.

Who became for us fruit of Life, of Love,

Ringing out clearer—nearer—the homing Dove.


  

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