The incense spires in their upward rise Into the heavens bordering earth's skies Are buffeted and blown by the faintest breeze, And our ascension may be likened to these
Wisps of fragrance burned as offering To One known only by an inner seeing. Few are they who tread the sunlit way Unconstrained by karma and the grey
Inheritance of death, the body's pain, Unfulfilled desires and the strain Of sorrow running through our earthly songs, The debt we owe for our compounded wrongs,
And human longings beautiful and sweet Still tie us down and rapidly deplete The spirit's aspirations, but the Grace Still keeps at the table of God our special place.
For Mary Helen
Poems Undated (1727)
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