Today is the day.
How grateful am I
For every cloud of gray
Every drop of rain or icy flake,
Every breath that flew away
In dirge, or praise, or revelry.
Intricately, my wings unfurled,
My story unfolded against the air
In ascension and dive, song and twirl:
Before my Maker, I migrated
Searching this world
Finding it from cavern to summit
In my Maker’s hand-
Taking wing to the wind of trumpets
To soar through blue
Or else to plummet
And sleep though winter
One day, to finish my flight,
To be in the ground
Is no less than working the sky
All things complete, as they should be.
After all, You alone made me to fly;
There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow,
Even one such as I.
I use to imagine Heaven
as a Get-out-of-Earth-Free card
in which my seventy-times-seven
is forgotten inside a pardon
And the days between gardens forever disappear
Every blighted moment, sullied by sin,
Stained and sore from grief and fear
In a twinkling, erased from the recollection of men.
Somehow sloughing off the mud and drudge
Of human epochs, human decisions,
Never again to acknowledge
Our blinded imprecisions
All the days of man, the way of all flesh,
Consumed by fog and night
The mortal moments threshed,
Discarded, ever out of sight-
But He isn’t like that, is He?
He redeems the time, each breath unseen
Inhabits our deepest miseries
Collecting the in-betweens
Beauty from ashes, all things worked together,
Let nothing be wasted.
Maybe we aren’t completely severed
From the bitter days we’ve tasted
Maybe we get to remember instead
the stories we’re now too blind to tell:
Recalling only the heaven from the lives we’ve led,
Forever unstained by our hells.