Is he? A withering ghostly gray
Washed out by the chills, the grip of numbers and gear?
The leaps and bounds of these do not surpass Him.
Must he be a unicorn glistening in all colors
So the people may ride stupor upon his back?
The imagination of those cannot begin to perceive Him.
What can he be then
When creatures most clever raise shelter from Him
Haunted by the past, uneasy for the future
Cursing his name, Whom they wish were erased forever?
He is He
The God of wrath
Who works His justice, as with regret
As a father who whips his child
For reviling his love and his rule.
He brings Himself to our brittle minds
The very fiber of our untouched spirit
Which is ravenous, yet bites the hand Who feeds.
In our self torment He opens the gold gate.
His Son draws wide the bridge
To lead us from a dark struggle
And we wish to trample it.
The God of grace
Who but still tends His care
Concedes none to whim nor to doubt.
He is never erased once
And has always been
Will ever be.
We may too - open our gate
And live for Eternity.