Waiting for Grace
We sit, we stand, we kneel.
Furtive glances and distant gazes
All afflicted by his traces.
Aligned as a motley jumble,
Our group dissimilarly humble.
Some are bent over perturbed and queasy,
Others calm, with facile faces,
And more still with patience dwindling,
tap their toes, with peace or time suspending
Here he is! Godot, our friend!
Easily striding, smiling,
The physician of absolution has arrived.
All together. All asunder.
We wait
With strange solidarity.
"I wonder what he did?"
The thoughts creep in,
But alas, it is no matter.
For all have known the good and wandered.
All together, prodigal.
All together, killing Christ, and ourselves.
All together begging, wishing, hoping,
To return to the well and drink.
To return from the slop of pigs.
To return to solace, self, and senses.
Entering the small nook, partitioned,
Each of us convalescing, as the phlebotomist goes about his work.
Hydration, from each the spring,
Refreshes
Those parts most destressing.
Outward appearances mean little,
The medicine is prescribed. We all emerge from our physician
Freshly revived from our affliction.
Slowly, surely, ease returning.
Gathering strength to keep the journey.
Gathered again with sweetest savor,
Returning together, pruned sheep, at the shepherd's table.
